Cats, cats, cats.

Our block is owned by a couple dozen friendly cats. Friendly, that is, in that they allow us to buy these cantankerous old houses and keep them warm in the winter and cool in the summer. They allow us to feed them, pet them on occasion, and haul their screaming asses to the vet once a year for shots, peeks into their orifi, and pills. They allow us to have a margin of bed to sleep on. We get to buy designer input from the vet by the 20-pound bag (no grocery store tripe for these prima donnas) and then clean the output from the small plastic box we fill with purchased sand. We wrap the output up in plastic bags and carry out to the larger rolling plastic box, which we pay someone else to come empty. 

We are owned by two cats. Our ndn's are owned by four. Our back door neighbor, who doesn't like cats at all, belongs to three. 

I was running through our BR yesterday and saw through the window the cat who owns the house next door taking a teensy cat nap on our outdoor steps. (The pic is framed by venetian blinds and window panes.) Aww, aren't we glad to be owned by them?

Wow.

I can hardly focus to write this blog; I spent quite a bit of time yesterday filling my brain with all sorts of stimuli. I am living inside my brain, rather than the other way 'round, and I hop up to make a loaf of bread or throw another load of laundry into the dryer, and return to study some more. 

I have always been fascinated by the creative process, and at times have "gone under," filling the house with this or that excursion into creativity. This time I have not been drawing/designing/writing anything myself, but have been studying others who do. 

This bout started Saturday with the pic I shared below by Gustave Courbet. His other art is almost as breathtaking, although some not quite suitable for younger eyes. Google his name and you can see some of his work. He was quite prolific; I guess I have seen over a hundred of his pics. Although the subject matter seems quite timely, he lived in the 19th century and did most of his work in the 1840's. DH says the pic I pasted below looks a lot like Jack Sparrow. That's funny, I said. I thought it looked like Johnny Depp, myself. 

There are several folks around the world who post their own art, whose blogs I follow, and I have been catching up on them, as well, this weekend. 

And my old best friend (only he doesn't know it yet), danny gregory, has some amazing new work up on his blog, a visual autobiography of sorts. Check it out here: you will have to admit he is amazing. He didn't even start to draw until he was in his 30's or so, and he firmly believes we all have this sort of talent lurking around inside of us, if only we will believe and practice. I want to believe him. 

Danny is teaching a FREE class at the Open Center in NYC on 04.Nov. I want to goooooo. It would only cost me the price of an Amtrak ticket; I know someone who lives there who would give me a bed for a night. Or two. Also, I could kiss my grandbabies. Alas, if it weren't voting day. We have "early voting" here; only I do not know if the Presidential vote is available for early voting, as well. Maybe I should call the registrar's office and find out. .......

Gustave Courbet, 'Self-portrait as a desperate man', 1843

Came across this picture in, of all places, Vogue Magazine, today at LO's hairdresser. I am fascinated by this pic and am trying to learn more about the guy.

Bony Protrusion

As some of you know, I read the book, Skinny B**** some months ago, went vegan, and have been losing some parts of myself ever since. Like, the parts that ate cream cheese on a bagel and thought it was healthy. Like, the part that could clean out a container of B&J in 9 minutes flat. Like the part that could wipe a 2-quart casserole dish of homemade macncheese, extra cheddar on top, with my fam.

Nowadays I still make macncheese, only I have a salad and DH and LO eat maybe 1/3 the container. I like to think I did *not* eat the other 2/3, but that we all have cut back. Seriously.

I have been dropping away like the photos in Back to the Future, although lately the weight loss has been moderating a bit as my body has "normalized" to the changes I have made. I am working to increase my aerobic activity in order to shock it back on track.

Meanwhile, I had a bit of a shock this morning as I put on my shoes. There, just above the shoeline, was a bony protrusion. I have seen them before, but have not seen mine in quite some time. It's ... an...... ankle. I have another just like it on the other foot. I had to laugh as I quickly checked to see if it was a set, or a single.

Goin' to the Fair

Last night was the final night of this year's County Fair. Although DH and I have lived here for fifteen years, neither of us had ever been. LO had never been, either. We decided it was time to go. 

The fairground at our little town is not far removed from the center of things. I am sure at one time, this was 'way out of town, but that is no longer the case. We parked in a field (for free, yay!) and hiked over. 

Costs were minimal, as far as costs go, and we got in and purchased an "All You Can Ride" wriststrap for LO. First of all we visited the goats, bunnies, and cows. We saw a llama and an alpaca, a delightful creature with the loveliest hairdo. 

The goat had babies who squawled and mahaha'ed abounds. DH came out with a, "Maha-Maha" (mama in goatspeak) that just made me laugh out loud. 

The midway had such a mix of smells: sawdust, grease, meat, sweat, you name it. It was a heady smell and, unlike most smells, we continued to be highly aware of it throughout our four hour visit. 

The food fare was fascinating. Hot dogs and cotton candy, sure. Candied apples. Corn on the cob.Elephant ears. Sodas. Frozen ices. Lemon iced tea. Fish sandwiches? Ribs? Then there were the gross things: Deep fried Snickers bars and 3-Musketeers. Deep-fried Oreos. Ick. LO had a slice of pepperoni pizza and a Dr. Pepper. DH and I split a bottle of water and a "string fries." They make them by putting a potato in an apple peeler and operating it with a drill. The result is a coil of paper-thin potato, which they promptly dunk in hot oil. A moment later, you have these potato-chip-like fries. (Don't worry, it was a one-time splurge. And we shared them.) 

The gamesters were tired and ready to get rid of their wares. As LO pushed quarters with the bulldozer, the carney gave her extra tokens in an effort to help her win. She didn't. 

The clown in the dunking booth was sharp and offensive. A large fellow walked by in a Hawaiian shirt. The clown started singing hula songs. A slim fellow tried to dunk him. He made skinny wisecracks. A guy with rather large ears tried, too. The clown said, "Hey Darrin, where's Samantha?" and began singing the theme to Bewitched. 

LO's friends finally arrived, WITH their college-freshman brother (double-yay!) and DH and I were free to roam at our will while they had a much cooler chaperone. We met back up with them at 10pm and stayed around til we left at 11. 

The pendulum-like device you see in the film is a huge ride the girls rode, and it swung them in the air, with an arc that took them 60' above the ground on either side. Just watching it gave me the willies. 

The whole fair was probably only 10% the size of my own hometown State fairs, but it was a nice getaway for us all and everyone headed home, tired but happy. All the photos in the film were taken with my telephone, as no one had thought to bring a camera. Enjoy. 

Tennis Woes

LO and her team lost their tennis meet yesterday, to a team from across the county. The tow-headed girls arrived at our school in their white dresses accompanied by 50 or so adoring parents. The parents loudly cheered their girls, insulted our girls, ate food and threw their wrappers, drink cans and bottles on the ground. 

Our girls played gamely (ha), held their heads up, and persisted despite some unsportsmanlike conduct from the opponents. 

Our top two seeded players won both their singles matches and doubles. The rest of the girls lost, and handily.

LO and her opponent battled fiercely for the game. LO would make the point, the opp would. The opp would make a point, LO would. Finally, it was 7-all, deuce, add-out. Meaning, in real-world talk, bottom of the 9th,tied, bases loaded, 2 outs, 2 strikes.  

The opponent hit it short, LO's favorite ploy, and...she did not make it to the net to return. 

Disappointed, LO shook hands and headed for her tennis moms with a tear or two in her eye. They consoled then told her to buck up, doubles time. 

For the doubles game, LO had passed sad and reached mad. She played fiercely but the competition was stronger. With each passing point, she got angrier and angrier. The anger worked against her as she began to hit OOBs and net balls. She was making beautiful hits, strong and straight, but lost her control. She and her partner lost the match. 

After the meet, I suggested she return to the court and just hit balls as hard as she could. Her eyes lit up. Once before we used this ploy to work off anger, and it worked. Her gfs and guy friends accompanied her and they hit until they began to laugh and normalcy returned. We loaded the car with friends to ferry home, then headed to one of her favorite restaurants for a good plate of fettucini alfredo. (ick.) One gf came along for dinner and we made what could have been a disastrous night into pretty much a success.

DH was on night shift. The house was quiet as LO settled down for homework. "I really want to beat them next time we play," she said. (We play them again in 3 weeks.) "I want to practice every single day and do 140 situps a day so we can win." 

She's a good girl. 

Today we got the following email from her coach:

Yesterday was a tough loss, but I can't tell you how proud of the girls T, S, and I were.  It seemed like we started off in a bit of a hole but we didn't give up, and that's all you can ask for.  I want to apologize for any comments you may have heard from opposing parents or coaches.  Also, thank you for helping us pick up the excess trash that was left.  I think that we, as a team, showed much more class in defeat than they did in victory.  We have an open date on Monday, so I'll have a normal practice.  Thank you D and S for the snacks yesterday.  Enjoy the weekend and thanks for all your support, Coach B.

Bio...Again!

Well, in case you missed it, DS2 posted a comment, actually, several, to my bio posting from yesterday. Here is the text of what he said, with my explanations for each!

Maggie's Attic doesn't like throwing away leftover bananas.

I always used to say: "I have 2 words for you: Eat Bananas."

Maggie's Attic is one cool mamma jamma

What can I say? He's my boy.

Maggie's Attic got the memo and is working on it, just back off

Ditto the prior one.

Maggie's Attic still boogies in the kitchen

(embarrassed) Ok. A hundred years ago my kids caught me dancing, really crazy dancing, as I washed dishes, to, um, ok,  THRILLER. 

Maggie's Attic gets doggie kisses
I guess Grandson saw LD kiss me?

Maggie's Attic builds parks
We had a field trip to the park before they left for Japan. They sat on the Maggie bench and saw their brick.  

Maggie's Attic lives in a house of music and love

So true. I'd love to use this one. 

Cool Quote

Sappy, but worth remembering. I saw it on a site somewhere:

One day at a time - this is enough. Do not look back and grieve over the past, for it is gone: and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come. Live in the present, and make it so beautiful that it will be worth remembering. (Ida Scott Taylor, 1820-1915)

Biography

My first article for a glossy magazine runs in December. My deadline was 08.September and in true form I sent it in on 05.September, after having had the assignment for 3 months. Don't ask me why I sat on it for 3 months; I do not know. I wish I understood it, myself. 

Since sending it in we have had a flurry of emails regarding edits, (very minor), photographs, whom to call at the location, and finally today, an email requesting a 1-2 line bio. 

I pulled out an old issue of this magazine; their Christmas issue from last year, in fact, and looked at the bios in there to get an idea of what they might want. 

Mary Poole Smith lives in Bath.

Katherine Jones is a freelance writer who lives in Charlotte. 

Diane Winthrop-Butler lives in Raleigh. 

These are writers, and this is the best they can come up with?

Here is one I really liked:

Award-winning newspaper columnist and freelance writer Jimmy Thompson lives in Greensboro. 

Hmm. I need to self-promote here, but I haven't won any awards, yet, unless we can count junior high school. I don't think we can count junior high school. 

I want to be clever. I want to make the reader smile. I want people to call and beg me to write for them; my article was fine but that bio! was so...clever. 

Maggie's Attic loves to jump on dead leaves and decide what breakfast cereal they sound like.

Maggie's Attic is a freelance writer who still cleans the john and picks drawers up off the floor. 

Maggie's Attic walks for most of her errands but drives an inordinate amount of miles just getting LO from one place to the other. 

Hmm. Still working on it...

Tennis Match

Have you ever developed old-timey photographs? It's such a thrill when the paper is in the solution and the first faint lines of the photograph begin to show. At that point you know that your work, the setting up the shot, the taking it, the light, and the developing, have all worked together and your photo is coming through. We are having that same feeling in a different setting. 

 LO won her tennis match yesterday -- in fact, her team pretty much blotto'ed the other team. The opponents had scores only in the doubles matches, when our coach put in the lower-ranked players to give them some court time. Even then, the scores were 8-0, 8-3 and 8-5, with our doubles players winning. 

LO seemed embarrassed to be defeating her opponent so soundly. At about midway through the game, she began saying such things as, "Nice serve," "Good return" or just, "Nice!" At one point, I believe it was 6-0, a set had just completed, and the girls met at the net to adjust the score and grab a sip of water. LO smiled at the girl and said, "You ought to stop reaching for the ball when it's out of bounds. You could get the point if you'd let it go out." The girl smiled and said thanks, but kept trying to hit the ball. 

After their match, the opponents' coach approached LO and shook her hand. "Thank you for encouraging my player," he said. 

This morning, I was in the school library doing some volunteer work when the principal made the morning announcements. He congratulated the girls' tennis team and announced the scores. Then he announced he had received a call from the opposing coach, complimenting our girls on their good sportsmanship. 

We feel that LO is beginning to "get it." It is a thrill. 

Smart Pets

Have I always had really intelligent pets, or have I only now begun to notice?

Little Dog recognizes several signs that I am about to go outside. At first she noticed when I put my shoes on. She would stand at my feet and act all peppy, as if to say, "WooHoo! We're goin' outside!" Recently she began to realize that sometimes socks precede shoes. Now if I put on socks, even if only to wear them around the house, she thinks a walk is in the offing.

When we start to walk in the mornings, I always stop at the old clock in the DR and wind it. Now, if I happen to wind the clock, regardless of the time of day, she comes running: Are we going on a walk?

Little Dog began to ignore my calls to COME! about a year ago. We often take her outside if we are sitting on the front porch. She loves to lie in the grass and gaze at the squirrels. As we make ready to go inside, I stand up and call, "Come!" As of late she has begun to roll on her back and glance at me as if to say, "Were you speaking to me?" Repeated commands (requests?) of "Come! (clap clap) Come! T---, Come!" are futile as she will totally ignore me.

I decided that due to her advancing age ( she turns 10 this December), she needed a treat for coming promptly. I bought some Bacon Beggin' Strips and began to reward her if she came on the first call. Wow. All I have to say is, "Co--" and she is a little white streak making for my feet. She love, loves the Beggin Strips.

I keep them in the bottom of the wooden jelly cupboard in the kitchen. One of the doors has a teeny squeak, and now, that squeak brings an anxious doggy into the kitchen, ready for a treat, even if I am only fetching a can of Campbell's soup.

The cats are bright, too. Spencie does not sit in the front windows UNLESS one of us goes out for a walk. When we return, there she is, waiting in the window for us. As we open the front door, she jumps down and runs to greet us.

Daniel loves to go in the basement. I am not wild about his going down there as his favorite perch is the roof of my car. When he tires of it he saunters down my windshield, leaving clear footprints all the way.

So I try not to let him down there. He has figured out that if I pick up the clothes hamper, I am going to open the basement door. The willow basket makes a sort of squeaking sound (gee, it seems our house is full of squeaks) and here comes old fat cat -- rushing the basement door. It is sort of amazing.

But then, dear old Francie did turn on a light all by herself one day long ago. DS2 and I looked at each other in absolute shock. I said, "Now turn it off, Francie," AND SHE DID.

Neither of us said a word.

Great How-To

Check it out!

How to Close a Bag without Using A Bag Clip

And While on the Subject

My biggest fan and only reader has taken pleasure in my turning comments back on, so much so that he has commented on each posting I have made since. 

I turned it off when someone commented and called me a racist. I did not have the heart to turn it back on until my dear Reader urged me to do so. 

To the person who said it: It really hurt my feelings when you said it. I forgive you. 

To my dear Reader: you said the other day you like my ordinary blogs, or something to that effect, so here is one that is as ordinary as they might come. 

The latest post, "Throw the Bums Out," by Garrison Keillor, refers to his algebra teacher. This took me down memory lane, a very shady lane these days, bordered on each side by bracken and undergrowth. (Overgrowth? What's the difference?)

My first grade teacher was a horribly strict women, Mrs. Revere. I did not revere her. I was terrified of her and spent well over half my first year in public school on a high stool in the back corner, facing the sink and a window. The faucet drip, dripped as I sat there wondering what I had done so wrong. 

I had a habit in those days of finishing my work early and getting up to show my neighbors how to do it. She must not have done such a great job to begin with or they would all be done like me, so I helped them, not in a cheating way, but in an open and friendly sort of way. Every time I did so, however, I wound up on a high stool listening to that drip, drip. 

My fourth grade teacher was the mother of my vbf, Lana London. It was Lana who broke the Code of Ostracism when I skipped up into another grade. All the girls pushed me in the bathroom and made me sit alone in the lunchroom. No one would play with me on the playground, either. Finally, after I sat for several weeks under a large oak tree on the playground, sticking the stems of Johnson grass down into the holes in the ground to catch Chicken Chokers, it was Lana's turn to hold the end of the rope for jumprope, and she chose ME to hold the other end. From that day forward I was a-okay with everyone else. And-- from that day forward I was beholden and pitifully grateful to Lana.

Mrs. London was an okay teacher, I guess. I can only remember that she was a bit permissive and we had tons of fun at Lana's house every Friday night when I slept over. 

Mrs. Cumbee was fifth grade. I remember two things about her. One, her hair was styled into a French Twist and she had buttons up the back of her hair. 

Two, she was quite Socratic in her teaching, although at the time I did not have a clue what that might be. I only knew she taught us in a way I had never been taught before, and I responded to it well . When we all, (as fifth-graders will) wanted to rearrange the room so that girls all sat on one side and boys on another, she let us. Then we had a discussion as to why we might want it that way, and how we could keep permission to have it divided. She didn't tell us things; she asked us and we actually had to think. 

Sixth grade was Mrs. Knight, whose husband, the Great Orator,  was the principal of my junior high school. I loved Mrs. Knight, although I'm not really sure why anymore. I only remember she got fertile eggs and we hatched them in an incubator. Each day we used colored pencils and drew pictures of the chick's development for that day. I felt attached to them, though they were as yet unseen, and it was my first inkling that I might want to be a vegetarian. TYVM, Mrs. Knight. 

The ensuing years exposed me to teachers who taught because they loved kids, teachers who taught because they had to earn a living somehow and education classes in college were pretty easy, teachers who taught because their parents had been teachers and they had never really felt they had a choice to be anything else. There were good teachers and really, really bad teachers. My 8th grade math teacher was a man with anger issues who broke "The Board" on boys' behinds more times than I care to remember. 

Mrs. Davis taught me Algebra I, and I thought of her when I read GK's article. She taught us well, as evidenced by my ability to resolve quadratic equations to this day. When I was enamored with a fellow who sat beside me, and spent too much time passing notes, she took me on a walk after class and said, "I know he's tall, dark and handsome, but you need to do your work." I was embarassed and hastily rearranged my priorities. 

The only teacher I can tell story after story about was Miss Laura Johnston, who retired the year we graduated. We wore her out. She taught because it was what she was meant to do. She required the highest respect and we gave it to her (a) because she deserved it and (b) we were scared to death not to. We lined up outside the door to her office (none of the other teachers had offices, why did she?) to recite lines upon lines of Shakespeare or Chaucer at 7:00 in the morning. We patiently stood there in the hall, those who had studied up front and those who had not lurking at the end of the line, furiously reading the verses and then looking skyward to repeat them back. For the record, I spent time at both ends of the line for just those reasons, and time right in the middle as well. I loved her. I loved the way it made me feel to succeed in the hardest class in the whole darn school. I made a B in her class only once and kicked myself around the block for it while I was happy to make C's in Spanish II and a D in Econ. Actually I was lucky to make the D in Econ; I probably deserved lower. My average, however, for the semester was a B and I was lucky to get that, too. The teacher was a creepy guy who walked up and down the rows of desks and dropped his pencil in front of any girl wearing a miniskirt, just so he could lean over and pick it up. Ick. 

So I read the homeschooling reports from my sons and thank my lucky stars that CSM and CIA don't have to go through the same experience. 

BTW, if you haven't read the Keillor piece, please stay on and read it -- it's just below, and will certainly make you chuckle. 

Throw the bums out

A girlfriend sent me this article this week and I am in awe of GK's writing abilities. My favorite sentence: 

"The bums have tiptoed out the back door and circled around to the front and started yelling, 'Throw the bums out!'"

Even if you are of the conservative bent, (more than half my family, but they are good folk otherwise) you owe it to yourself to read it just for the pleasure of the great writing. 

George Bush with big hair

The hustling Evangelical with ethics issues and a chip on her shoulder could be our first woman president.

By Garrison Keillor

Sep. 10, 2008 | So the Republicans have decided to run against themselves. The bums have tiptoed out the back door and circled around to the front and started yelling, "Throw the bums out!" They've been running Washington like a well-oiled machine to the point of inviting lobbyists into the back rooms to write the legislation, and now they are anti-establishment reformers dedicated to delivering us from themselves. And Mayor Giuliani is an advocate for small-town America. Bravo.

They are coming out for Small Efficient Government the very week that the feds are taking over Fannie and Freddie, those old cash cows, and in the course of a weekend 20 or 50 (or pick a number) billion go floating out the Treasury door. Hello? Do you see us out here? We are not fruit flies, we are voters, we can read and write, we didn't just fall off the coal truck.

It is a bold move on the Republicans' part -- forget about the past, it's only history, so write a new narrative and be who you want to be -- and if they succeed, I think I might declare myself a 24-year-old virgin named Lance and see what that might lead to. Paste a new face on my Facebook page, maybe become the Dauphin Louie the Thirty-Second, the rightful heir to the Throne of France, put on silk tights and pantaloons and a plumed hat and go on the sawdust circuit and sell souvenir hankies imprinted with the royal fleur-de-lis. They will cure neuralgia and gout and restore marital vigor.

Mr. McCain has decided to run as a former POW and a maverick, a maverick's maverick, rather than Mr. Bush's best friend, and that's understandable, but how can he not address the $3 trillion that got burned up in Iraq so far? It's real money, it could've paid for a lot of windmills, a high-speed rail line in Ohio, some serious R&D. The Chinese, who have avoided foreign wars for 50 years, are taking enormous leaps forward, investing in their economy, and we are falling behind. We're wasting our chances. The Republican culture of corruption in Washington hasn't helped.

And a former mayor of a town of 7,000 who hired a lobbyist to get $26 million in federal earmarks is now running against the old-boy network in Washington who gave her that money to build the teen rec center and other good things so she could keep taxes low in Wasilla. Stunning. And if you question her qualifications to be the leader of the free world, you are an elitist. This is a beautiful maneuver. I wish I had thought of it back in school when I was forced to subject myself to a final exam in higher algebra. I could have told Miss Mortenson, "I am a Christian and when you gave me a D, you only showed your contempt for the Lord and for the godly hardworking people from whom I have sprung, you elitist battle ax you."

In school, you couldn't get away with that garbage because the taxpayers know that if we don't uphold scholastic standards, we will wind up driving on badly designed bridges and go in for a tonsillectomy and come out missing our left lung, so we flunk the losers lest they gain power and hurt us, but in politics we bring forth phonies and love them to death.

I must say, it was fun having the Republicans in St. Paul and to see it all up close and firsthand. Security was, as one might expect, thin-lipped and gimlet-eyed, but once you got through it, you found the folks you went to high school with -- farm kids, jocks, the townies who ran the student council, the cheerleaders, some of the bullies -- and they are as cohesive now as they were back then, dedicated to school spirit, intolerant of outsiders, able to jump up and down and holler for something they don't actually believe. But oh Lord, what they brought forth this year. When you check the actuarial tables on a 72-year-old guy who's had three bouts with cancer, you guess you may be looking at the first woman president, a hustling Evangelical with ethics issues and a chip on her shoulder who, not counting Canada, has set foot outside the country once -- a trip to Germany, Iraq and Kuwait in 2007 to visit Alaskans in the armed service. And who listed a refueling stop in Ireland as a fourth country visited. She's like the Current Occupant but with big hair. If you want inexperience, there were better choices.

(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)

© 2008 by Garrison Keillor. All rights reserved. Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc.

-- By Garrison Keillor

Women Against Sarah Palin

I was surprised to find this blog today and even more surprised (and pleased) to read entries from some of the zillion disenchanted conservatives, including Republicans who have re-registered as Democrats. 

Friday Night Football

LO goes to high school next year. The high school is about 6 blocks from the house; we can hear the band practicing from our backyard, and can also hear home games. 

To ready her for next year, we have instituted Taco Dinner on Friday nights. She may invite 1 or 2 or 3 friends for tacos at the house, and then we walk to the ball game. Friends arrive at 6; we prepare and eat tacos, and walk to the game, which starts at 7.

Two weeks ago was our first Taco Dinner. When I picked her up from tennis practice at 5:30, I was surprised to learn it had gone to her head and she had invited 7 friends for tacos. And, they were arriving in a half hour. I dropped her at the house for a shower and zoomed to the market for more fixin's. 

We all handled it with a sense of humor and LO promised to reign it in, in the future. I do have to admit it was fun to walk to and from the game with a huge gaggle of middle schoolers. We hear the most interesting things at times like this. 

Last week was an away game so we fast forward to tonight. She invited two gf's, twins, and we had tacos. I get the shells that you make by building a little pentagonally-shaped box, then draping a tamale over the box on a baking pan, then put it in a 350 oven for 6 to 10 minutes. They are great!

I brown Morningstar Crumbles, a ground-beef-lookalike, and add Taco Seasoning by McCormick. Instead of paying a dollar for a little envelope, I paid a few bucks for a large container of the stuff. It lasts forever. No one complains that the meat tastes funny, so I imagine the taco seasoning masks any difference in taste.

We have a large sectioned platter into which I put salsa, guacamole (Wholly Guacamole rocks!), sour cream, the "meat," and shredded lettuce. A few years ago I quit preparing tomatoes for tacos as they are in the salsa and it seems redundant. 

I have everything ready when the kids arrive except the shells, which we like warm. I get the kids to help build the little boxes, then we lay the tamales over them and bake them. They (the kids) listen to music, gossip, or play on the piano while they (the shells) bake. 

The walk to the school is so pleasant. The sun is beginning to set, the birds are having their dinnertime conversations, and everyone is relaxed and chatty. 

At the game our gaggle of MS'ers meets up with other gaggles of MS'ers and they form a huge gaggle, which stands at the concession stand through the entire game. LO is not allowed to travel to the opponents' stands, but must stay between the two concession stands, which are situated roughly behind each goalpost. 

I glance over to check on her every now and then, and call a couple of times during a game. 

DH and I sit and watch the game. We have lovely stadium seats, which clip onto the bleachers and have sturdy backs, to support our backs. The sun sets across the way, the birds swoop in the giant lights, the players play, the cheerleaders cheer, and all is right with the world. Tonight I just looked over at DH and said, "Isn't this wonderful?" He smiled and nodded. 

The walk home is slower than the earlier walk. The MS'ers have been standing throughout the entire game, and I imagine they are tired. The gf's call their dad as we walk home and he arrives shortly after we get home. 

LO is content and, although she doesn't swamp us with thank you for taco night, thank you for this and that, seems quite appreciative. 

Life is good.

High Fructose Corn Syrup

There is a series of new commercials swamping the media -- magazine ads, TV, newspaper -- about the innocent and oft-maligned sweetener, high-fructose corn syrup.

It is paid for by the corn growers' association.

Recognize propoganda for what it is, folks.

Steady HFCS intake has been linked to weight gain, higher triglyceride levels, higher LDL cholesterol, and a decrease in insulin sensitivity - not really what you're looking for when you want to help your heart.

Also, almost all HFCS is made from genetically modified corn, a whole 'nother blog's worth of ranting.

The corn growers present HFCS as a martyr suffering groundless accusations. Read the book, "The Omnivore's Dilemma" for a great treatise on this product.

And, though the commercials are delightful, don't fall for them.

Growing up

Walked by LO's room this am to see her rubbing her Seventeen magazine all over her neck.

Quizzically, I paused outside her door, I am sure with a curious look on my face. "This smells great!" She enthusiastically held the magazine out to me for a smell. Sure enough, the scent was delightful.

"Man, that smells so great you need to lay the magazine on the floor and roll on it," I teased her.

Again, she unflapped the cologne sample on the page and rubbed it on her neck, ears, and hair.

She had asked for pancakes this morning but I was not yet finished getting my own hair and makeup done. "May I start making them?" Sure, I agreed. We had recently made them together and she was familiar with the routine.

She did the whole job herself, preparing, cooking, and eating -- but now that I think of it, not cleaning it up, -- but never mind, did a great job with only one question, does T mean teaspoon or tablespoon?

After eating her breakfast, I was finally ready as well, and we proceeded to the basement door to head down to the garage. We were loaded down with her luggage of the day: backpack, lunchbox, binder with shoulder strap, tennis racket, gym bag with tennis clothing inside.

"Wait a minute!" she called out. "I want just a little more cologne!" Ran to her room and rubbed the page on herself again.

While on the subject, I truly regret all the boxes of pancake mix I have purchased in my life. For the past 10 years or so, I have made my own with minimal work and great savings. The only ingredient that I was not accustomed to keeping on hand is dry milk; I buy it now to have for this recipe.

I have a large clear plastic container for pancake mix. On one side I have taped the recipe for the mix itself; on the opposite side is the recipe for mixing up pancakes. Here are both:

Pancake Mix

6 c flour
2 T baking powder
1T salt
1 c dry milk powder
3 T sugar

Mix well and package in airtight container. Makes about 7 cups mix.

Pancakes

To 1 1/3 cup mix, add:
1 egg
2 T oil
3/4 c water (more water makes lighter pancakes)

Mix lightly, cook on medium-hot, lightly oiled griddle.

No One Says It Like Dowd

Love this woman. Maureen, will you come to the house for dinner?

Jody's Reluctant Avatar

Cool Site

Saw this website somewhere where you can make your own avatar by selecting facial shape, eyes, hair, etc. My own biggest challenge was the facial shape. Visit the site yourself and have some fun!

Blonde Joke

Oh, I am tired of talking about politics. I am tired of seething when ppl do not see what is so clearly right. How 'bout a diversion?

Two blondes brought home a puzzle one day, and sat down to solve it. A week later, they finished the puzzle.
"Well, that didn't take so long," said one of them.
"No, it didn't. 'Especially considering it says 3-5 years on the box."

Confirmation

LO has reached the 8th grade. In our church, 8th graders can go through Confirmation, if the parents and child discuss it and agree the young person is ready.

Confirmation is a 9-month long process to teach the confirmands about Christ so they are ready to accept Christ in the spring. They attend a special Sunday School class together, with a large team of teachers who guide them through the Bible.

They are each assigned a sponsor, someone from the church who is a good Christian example. The sponsor does some activity with the confirmand about once a month. Usually the sponsor is the same gender as the young person. Some guys take their confirmands to football games. Some women take theirs to the day spa. Others do dinner, shop, any activity that might encourage conversation. It's an opportunity for the young person to get to know, and talk with, an adult who is not his parent. The sponsor serves as mentor and role model.

The year is spent examining what it means to follow Christ, and asking questions about what that will mean to them. It's year of self-examination.

The confirmands go on a retreat as a group in the spring and develop a statement of faith for their group.

On Palm Sunday, those who choose to accept Christ are publicly "confirmed." It's a lovely service. Because we sprinkle our babies, they are not baptized during this time, as they have already been baptized. If there are any, however, who have not been, they are baptized at this time.

When LO was small and attended church with me, she used to gaze up at the choir loft when the flautist was playing, and sigh, "Oh, I want to play the flute." She just loved the sound of it.

Soon as she was old enough to hold one, DH got her one. Once she joined the band, he got her another so she has one at home for practice, and one at school. This way she doesn't have to carry it back and forth.

Her piano is her true solace, and she practices over an hour a day with no reminders at all. I think while she figures out songs and plays them over and over, she is also hashing personal issues in her head -- or not, maybe taking a break from them. I can only attest that her mood is much lifted when she plays.

The flute is her second instrument, and she loves to take piano songs and translate them to flute. She will play a piece on the piano, then play it on the flute. It has given her many hours of pleasure. And, of course, it is her vehicle to the beloved Band Camp in the summer.

Well, the flautist is a lovely lady who works at nearby college. She's the type lady my mother wanted me to be -- positive, and sharp, and always says just the right thing.

The Director of Christian Education typically finds sponsors for the confirmands by calling church members and asking if they will serve. It's sort of hit-and-miss, although once they have enough adults to serve, they match them up with the confirmands by gender and personality.

We took the bull by the horns. We called our flautist and asked her if she would serve as LO's sponsor. We told her how LO looks up to her and we think she is a great role model. She was so pleased to be asked, and agreed. She called the church and "volunteered" to be LO's sponsor.

It is likely they will work on a duet this year.

LO has 2 friends at school who visit our church. They are twin sisters. She asked them if they were going to go through Confirmation. When they weren't sure, she insisted. "It's spiritual. You need to do this. Your chance is over in 9th grade -- we only do it in 8th."

I was so pleased to see them there today, dressed up for the first day of Confirmation. The Youth Pastor called the confirmands by name and one by one they walked up to receive their new Bibles.

Sigh. Childhood. It's a time of beginnings and completions, each one taking you closer to adulthood. LO is growing up.

Evening Tennis

LO made 5th seed on her tennis team this week, not a permanent position by any means. FYI if you are as unschooled as I in tennis terms, top 6 on a team rule.
She is very aware of her vulnerability and asked to go practice today. After driving around our TinyTown USA and finding no courts open, we traversed out to the county school where her meet will be on Monday. Vacant courts lured us and we hit balls for over an hour.
It was smart to play on the court where she will be on Monday, and I wish we had wound up there by design, rather than by grace.
We got there at 6 and hit til 7:30. The sun was low, but temps were still hot. There was an intermittent breeze, and the sweet-sour smell surrounded us of mown grass lying damp in heaps outside the courts. The school is less than 10 years old, so the courts are not cracked as at her school, and the fence is not rusted and bent.
"Hit me volleys, Nana," she urged. "I don't want to let K (her doubles partner) down."
So I hit her volleys until, as she demanded, she returned 10 in a row, properly, not lollipops or out-of-bounds. It took about 35 minutes to get 10 in a row. She'd reach 8, then miss one, and we'd have to start all over. When she made 10, I celebrated with knuckles and a quick kiss on her head, but she only humored me and said, "Now let's hit."
Old Nana doesn't move as fast as her opponents, who are 13 years old, and it wasn't long until all the balls were lined up against the fence on my side of the court. We'd clean 'em up and hit again.
I cajoled her into trying my racquet for a few minutes, to see if it felt any better to her. Both are the cheapest that were available at WalMart, several years ago, when I still shopped at the Store of Satan. The really good players have Head racquets, and lovely little tennis skirts for practice. After evaluating my racquet she politely advised me that hers feels better, but thanks for the offer. No problem, I said, just wanted you to give it a shot.

When her tennis elbow began to bother her, she "allowed" me to finish and head for the car. I could tell she was uncomfortable but she did not say. Neither did I.
I was thankful that I'm carrying 30 pounds less than a few months ago, so that I did move a tad faster and lasted maybe a nanosecond longer. Our water tasted so good and we could feel the cold of it moving down the pipes to our stomachs.
We headed to the store and perused the elbow wraps, selecting the one that looked the best, and conveniently enough, cost the least.
It was a great evening and one I hope to remember for a long time.

Johnny Bunko

I heard the book was only $6, maybe that's used? I might check it out just b/c it seems to be an up-and-coming format....

Here's the trailer:

Our Deepest Fear

LO & I watched a film last year -- or was it the year before? that quickly became her favorite film, ever. It's called Akeela and the Bee. I recommend it highly. 

In the film, the girl has a mentor, and he shares this quote with her. It overwhelmed me at the time. I have learned since that it was not original to the movie; it is credited to Marianne Williamson. 

A gf gave a copy of it to all of us who graduated our leadership program this spring. I keep this copy of it on my giant calendar, beside my writing desk. 

Recently I ran across it again, on one of my favorite blogs. Seeing it reminded me to share it here. 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be? 

You are a child of God. 

Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory  of God that is within us. 
It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine
We unconsciously give others permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

My copy says that it was read by Nelson Mandela in his 1994 inaugural speech. 

Happy Birthday, DH

Well, the Old Man is 54 today and he doesn't look a day over, say, 48. He has been running at least 3x a week, an hour at a go. Last week he ran with a gf of mine, of ours, really, and they went 7.4 miles. She kept up, and the run didn't  phase her, but when she found out their distance,  I thought she would keel over. For his bday LO and I got him a heart monitor, a Nike iPod +, and new running shorts & shirt, the kind that dry up quickly when you sweat. 

He is so low-maintenance it is hard to feel worthy. You just want to pamper someone you love. But he doesn't want it. 

I had to zoom off to LO's school early this am for the third of 3 presentations this week. He made his own coffee. He has been mowing, trimming, weeding, and pruning all day. Did not want lunch. What do you want for your birthday dinner? Sushi -- a quick trip to the market. 

Happy  birthday, old fellow. I love your crusty old heart. 

Articulate v. Sophomoric

If you've read my blog at all to date (both of you), you know that I have not articulated my exact political views. That seems odd, as my profile identifies me as interested in such things. I do blog frequently about things political, but in a kidding-sort-of-way, never in a thoughtful, here's-what-I-think-sort-of-way.

I have clear, strong beliefs on the war in Iraq, our care of our resources, women's rights (including abortion), gay rights, citizens' privacy, immigration, the economy, our responsibility to the poor, and more. Don't assume you know how I feel about any of these issues, despite my being a self-proclaimed liberal. No one really agrees with each and every plank in his party's platform, do we? 

Yet here on the blog, I only make light of issues, (hence the wig), and bash Bush, because he's... well... he's so bashable. He's only proven one thing to me: that you can purchase a Yale degree. Surely Yale doesn't give diplomas to morons without incentive. 

Why am I writing about whether or not to articulate specific political outlooks? Because my DS2 does it so darn well. I read his blog and think, "Jiminy Christmas, he's done it again." He looks at issues and people objectively and types in his line of thought clearly, intelligently,  and with a wry sense of humor. He knows exactly how he feels about them, and expresses himself well. 

Many of his thoughts, I don't agree with. Some, I do. Yet I always admire the thoughtful and direct way he expresses himself. 

Change of subject.

Today he has the most maddening widget on his blog. It's a button in a square that says, "Don't press this button." When you hover your mouse over the button, your pointer turns into a hand, indicating that if you click on it, something really will happen. 

It looks like this:

This is only a mock-up of the original, that I drew on the computer, and has absolutely no powers. 

You can click on it all day long and nothing will happen.

I really do NOT want to be the sucker who falls for it, but I saw it several hours ago and it is still calling me. "Click me," it says. "Come on." "No," I reply. "It's a trick. Something will scare me or DS2 will get a list of all the visitors who fell for it, or I will arrive at some screen that makes me feel badly about myself because I gave in." 

It's still calling.

Grr.

re The Wig

OK, I googled Laura Bush and wig. After wading through all the Halloween costumes! I found several postings where ppl had asked the exact same question as I, but no answers. Life is too short to waste any more time on such a silly question. 

Apparently she is still a smoker, though, and I have to wonder: does she have to go stand out back of the White House to smoke a cigarette, or do they let her puff away in OUR house? Got to wonder...

PS.

...And.......btw, is that a WIG?

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days

Does this not look exactly like Mrs. Cunningham, on Happy Days? I can't even hear what she is saying. All I can hear is, "Sunday, Monday, Happy Days..."

Early Morning

This morning I got up a good half hour earlier than normal, at 5am. Our day is quite full and I thought some alone time would do me good.

Our PTA this year is participating in the Reflections contest, an opportunity for the students to express themselves through art, writing, musical composition, choreography, or film. I am chairing the contest this year, gladly letting go Membership Chairman for a hapless dad who does not yet know what he has gotten into.

Our middle school has a high population of high-risk kids, kids who stand a risk of not graduating, kids who may not have access to piano lessons, art camps, even playing in the band. Today I am speaking at their assembly to introduce them to this contest. My fear is that many of them are already too jaded and cool to want to participate. I would love to get them excited about the creative arts. So I got permission from our PTA Board to get prizes for the winners. Last night I zoomed to a Nearby Town and bought all sorts of fun things: lava lamps, a glow-in-the-dark basketball, a frizbee with LED lights around the edge, 35 pounds of candy bars, a soccer ball, a digital camera, and a digital frame, that shows all the photos on its chip.

I know when the schools hold fundraisers the kids come home all excited, wanting to "win" the fluffy pen or lava lamp, so I am hoping the same incentives might hold true for creativity. We are also giving an Honorable Mention ribbon to every child who participates, and medals to the winners.

The assembly is at 8:30. DH and I are attending (re)training at 9am downtown for mentoring our elementary school kids. At 10:30 he has a dentist appt. At 2 we check LO out of school for her sports physical, and at 7 she has piano lesson. You can see why I was so happy when my interviewees for an upcoming article called to reschedule our meeting from 4pm today to next week.

It's a busy day but a fun one. DH and I will be together for much of it, which makes it even better.

Must go get shower, etc, bye for now.

Thank you, Brother

When my little brother reads this posting in November, he will likely think the title here is insincere -- sarcastic, but it's not. It is said with much appreciation.

My brother is a, ahem, Republican political consultant. I won't mention any big names but one of his clients is currently running for president of the US.

I received an email from him -- my brother, not George McCain, yesterday. It said:

I look forward to checking your blog everyday and am
happy when you update, but I am taking a moratorium until November, at least.
As someone who makes a living as a Republican political consultant and a
former Senior Advisor to the McCain campaign, there is WAY too much Bush and
McCain bashing on it. I find myself getting upset when I read your posts.
I guess politics is too important to both of us. . .

So, why am I thanking him?

Because of what he did not say.

He did not say, "You can't be my sister because you are a liberal."

He did not say, "We don't have anything in common."

He did not say, "You are wrong."

He respected my right to my beliefs and made sure I understood that he is just taking a break. He will be back.

He understands that we don't pick our siblings. They are picked for us. They are the closest relationships we have, with our parents already being deceased. We all started in the same place -- and by that, I don't mean the tiny house in southern Alabama. I mean in the same womb. We share the same blood, for heaven's sake.

We have chosen different paths, places to live, livelihoods, and beliefs.

He understands that I have as much passion for, and right to, my beliefs, as he does, even though they are diametrically opposite.

It isn't a surprise to anyone when I wax politic. Read the profile at the top of my blog. It clearly warns you of what's coming. He knows I tend to run on. He still reads it. But, for now, he is taking a break. But...he'll be back. He said so.

So, thank you, Brother. See you in November.