Oh, it's been a crazy, crazy week. I usually prefer to post according to topic, what's hot for us that day or few days, but I am so far behind, this posting will relate to the week at large and I will try to use subtitles to break it up.
Work. You've heard on the news that journalism at large is struggling. Several large papers reduced to 5 or even 3 days off, and laid off many staff.
Our little town paper is no different. It relies on wire service for national and international news, and focuses on what no one else can replicate-- local news of our small town. Staff have been advised they have to take 5 days off between now and June -- with no pay. With such a small staff, it will be even harder for the editors to get the paper out. Freelancers like me have capitalized on the short staffing situation until now, stepping in to cover the empty spots. Now we are in the second phase -- cutting back freelancers. My food page is over, for now. I am focusing on education, and writing maybe 5 or so articles a month.
***
Little One. All-county band was this week, and she played like a trouper, even though her band Director has had her solely playing the baritone sax for the past 4 months. She qualified for All-County on her flute, and had to play flute Tuesday night. He even told her, "This is all my fault." She practiced a bit and I daresay she lip-synched the rest. But she made it through, 4th chair of 16 flautists.
Her confirmation ceremony is this coming Sunday, and we are having a "do" mostly for family that afternoon. The church had a lovely banquet for the confirmands Saturday night and each one read his or her statement of faith. One of the boys has Down's Syndrome and his dad helped him read his statement. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. All the girls wore new dresses and were so happy. The boys wore suit and tie and looked miserable -- until they had free time and the girls gave them attention. Then they seemed to brighten up.
Youth Sunday was yesterday and all the high school and middle school kids did the whole church service -- sermon, music, prayers, all of it. Well, adults accompanied them but the kids sang. It was amazing. LO has been discovering her voice this year and is, well, she has become quite good. A new choir director has taught them how to harmonize and she is loving it. She had two gfs visit Sunday evening and they sang for hours.
***
DH. We had thought electricity was recession-proof, but it seems demand is down what with all the store closures and industry cutbacks. Thankfully his unit did not lay anyone off, but sent them out to other plants with higher demands. This means DH is driving about an hour each way, now, for a while. The good side is, he is off weekends for now. And, he is day-shift only, so we can have family dinners. Yay.
Some of you may know he has suffered with plantar fasciitis since October, when he was running an hour at a go. He has been to doctors and doctors and doctors and has suffered a great deal of pain. Finally a friend told us of someone who had gone to Nearby Town where you put your foot on a computer thing and it tells you which over-the-counter insert you need for your feet. DH called the person and went to the place and amazing! after hundreds of dollars in medical fees, he is seeing relief from a pair of $50 orthotics. Yay.
***
Me. I had a terrible cold last week and finally spent a day at home, lying around to try and beat it. I am still all snoggy but feeling much better. At least I can climb the stairs without getting dizzy! It was terrible timing with Planning Board, All-County Band, progressive women's group and a host of other things.
The novel is coming along well. My class ended last Wednesday and we were all sad to say goodbye. It seems if you share your writing with someone, you feel quite intimate. I will not miss the drive -- an hour each way -- but the class was wonderful and I learned so, so much.
This week is crazy as I am heading up the neighborhood Easter Egg Hunt on Saturday and hosting folks for a luncheon on Sunday, following LO's Confirmation. We're talking major cleaning, folks, and it's crazy.
I went to a nearby bakery with an awesome reputation to order a cake for the luncheon. Chose a lovely "Mad Hatter" cake with tons of fondant icing. One hitch: it came to $400. My co-host (we are having it here and sharing responsibility) looked at me with wide eyes and asked, "Did you buy it?" I had to laugh as I said, "No, I would not do that without talking to you first. I found it a bit steep."
DD. Started a new job last Monday and is happy. She is a mechanic at a local auto shop. Her boss is a Christian and a former Army guy. She trained as a diesel mechanic in the Army and wanted to learn internal-combustion, and he gave her this opportunity.
This allows me to pick up LB from school every day and help her with her schoolwork. DD arrives at 5:30, covered in grease from head to foot. She seems quite happy and fulfilled. We are so thankful she found work, spesh in this economy.
It's Reality season and our family is absorbed in Idol, Amazing Race and The Celebrity Apprentice. Saturday we did not even turn on the TV and it was so refreshing. It's all good. :)
Monday, March 30
Wednesday, March 25
The Knickerbocker
About a hundred years ago I knew someone who owned restaurants. I spent a bit of time in one of them, and observed "the regulars," who provoked a lot of thought on my part.
I had the idea to write a series of short stories about them, weaving in their personalities as I saw them, with my fantasies of their home life.
I had once visited the Knickerbocker bar in downtown Atlanta and I decided to set them in that place. It had these leering caricatures painted on the wall, likenesses of local politicians, I think, and in my story I imagined them to be muses of sorts, observing the bar patrons and discussing them there amongst themselves.
I ran into a box full of these stories yesterday as I was home with a bad cold or the flu, who knows. Anyway, I thought I might put one up here on the blog.
Barbie looks down when people ask her name.
“Barbie Hooper,” she whispers.
Her short fingernails dig into her palms and she hesitates before looking the polite inquirer in the eye.
How could her mother name her Barbie – such perfection to live up to! A perfectly molded body, firm, upright breasts, flat tummy, round, high fanny. Tiny little rosebud mouth. Blue eyes. Blonde hair.
Barbie’s brown hair always looks frazzled and on rainy days: it puffs out, tiny hairs forming a kind of halo around the other, heavier ones.
She never can find her tweezers – last time they were in the kitchen where she’d used them to pull dried spaghetti from the colander. One giant eyebrow crawls across the top of her face.
Her complexion is rosy and her monthly pimple is always prominent, on her chin, or her nose.
She can’t help that it’s so hard to find cute clothing, cheap, in her size.
The only thing she’s really self-conscious about is the tiny line of very fine, dark hairs across the top of her upper lip.
“Don’t be silly,” Mama always said. “You can’t even see it.”
Yet she often brought Barbie chemicals to lighten, remove, or peel away what she insisted no one could see.
Barbie works in an office building two or three blocks from the Knickerbocker. She’s a file clerk for a title company and doesn’t often go to the bar simply because she can’t afford to. She goes when she can, to find a guy who makes more money than she does. Then she could be happy, if she found a guy with money.
When she goes, she returns to work with a story or two to show those girls at the office that she does, too, have a social life. Of course, she might exaggerate just a little, romanticizes reality just a bit. Her details usually involve a little more interest from a man than he actually showed. Sometimes it’s a bartender. Sometimes it’s an attractive, slightly older businessman. She tries to vary the lines to give the stories more credibility. She is sure her stories make her seem desirable.
Barbie’s pushing thirty and all she wants from life is to marry someone and have his baby. Stay at home like Mama did. Be a good cook. Tiny white house with a very green lawn.
Barbie thought once she would go to school and become a dental hygienist. She heard somewhere they make good money. She’s never come up with the tuition and so files for Hayes, Moore and Moore.
She hates it.
At night, she returns to her apartment to cook a Lean Cuisine, then eats potato chips and microwave brownies as she watches the sitcoms. She’d really like to get a flat screen TV one day.
Her furniture is used—gifts she received as Mama’s bridge club remodeled their homes. The afghan was made for her by an aunt. Barbie kept it in her Hope chest for the longest time, but one night as she lay on the sofa watching TV, her feet were cold and she thought, “Why not?” and pulled it from the chest. It’s been draped over the back of the sofa ever since.
Flowerpots sit in the windowsill, full of dirt with a single dead stump in the center. Plants she buys on impulse at the first sign of spring, waters for a week.
Beside the sofa is a basket with a needlepoint inside. It says, “HOME SWEE” in three colors. It’s waited for a year or two now, but she’ll get back to it. The colors in her living room don’t match the yarns, anyway.
So every month or so, Barbie splurges and takes herself out to the Knickerbocker. She feels pretty there, especially after her second glass of wine. She tosses her hair and uses her hands a lot; catches glimpses of herself in the mirror behind the bar and thinks to herself, “I look pretty good.”
As the people begin to filter out, Barbie realizes she has no one left to talk with. The bartender is beginning to look a little drawn around the eyes.
“Well, I guess I’ll head out now. I actually have a late date tonight. Hate to make him wait too long.”
The bartender gives her an understanding smile. “Bet you’ve got ‘em lined out the door, Barbs.”
“Well, not really.” Barbie smiles at him over her shoulder on the way out. She’s sure that looks really good, smiling over her shoulder that way.
“You have a good un, now, doll” she says, and breezes out the door.
Outside, she glances in her reflection in the window. Her mascara has run all below her right eye, and the middle button on her dress has popped open.
Barbie slides into her car, feeling so, so empty inside.
Maybe if she had a cat…
I had the idea to write a series of short stories about them, weaving in their personalities as I saw them, with my fantasies of their home life.
I had once visited the Knickerbocker bar in downtown Atlanta and I decided to set them in that place. It had these leering caricatures painted on the wall, likenesses of local politicians, I think, and in my story I imagined them to be muses of sorts, observing the bar patrons and discussing them there amongst themselves.
I ran into a box full of these stories yesterday as I was home with a bad cold or the flu, who knows. Anyway, I thought I might put one up here on the blog.
Barbie looks down when people ask her name.
“Barbie Hooper,” she whispers.
Her short fingernails dig into her palms and she hesitates before looking the polite inquirer in the eye.
How could her mother name her Barbie – such perfection to live up to! A perfectly molded body, firm, upright breasts, flat tummy, round, high fanny. Tiny little rosebud mouth. Blue eyes. Blonde hair.
Barbie’s brown hair always looks frazzled and on rainy days: it puffs out, tiny hairs forming a kind of halo around the other, heavier ones.
She never can find her tweezers – last time they were in the kitchen where she’d used them to pull dried spaghetti from the colander. One giant eyebrow crawls across the top of her face.
Her complexion is rosy and her monthly pimple is always prominent, on her chin, or her nose.
She can’t help that it’s so hard to find cute clothing, cheap, in her size.
The only thing she’s really self-conscious about is the tiny line of very fine, dark hairs across the top of her upper lip.
“Don’t be silly,” Mama always said. “You can’t even see it.”
Yet she often brought Barbie chemicals to lighten, remove, or peel away what she insisted no one could see.
Barbie works in an office building two or three blocks from the Knickerbocker. She’s a file clerk for a title company and doesn’t often go to the bar simply because she can’t afford to. She goes when she can, to find a guy who makes more money than she does. Then she could be happy, if she found a guy with money.
When she goes, she returns to work with a story or two to show those girls at the office that she does, too, have a social life. Of course, she might exaggerate just a little, romanticizes reality just a bit. Her details usually involve a little more interest from a man than he actually showed. Sometimes it’s a bartender. Sometimes it’s an attractive, slightly older businessman. She tries to vary the lines to give the stories more credibility. She is sure her stories make her seem desirable.
Barbie’s pushing thirty and all she wants from life is to marry someone and have his baby. Stay at home like Mama did. Be a good cook. Tiny white house with a very green lawn.
Barbie thought once she would go to school and become a dental hygienist. She heard somewhere they make good money. She’s never come up with the tuition and so files for Hayes, Moore and Moore.
She hates it.
At night, she returns to her apartment to cook a Lean Cuisine, then eats potato chips and microwave brownies as she watches the sitcoms. She’d really like to get a flat screen TV one day.
Her furniture is used—gifts she received as Mama’s bridge club remodeled their homes. The afghan was made for her by an aunt. Barbie kept it in her Hope chest for the longest time, but one night as she lay on the sofa watching TV, her feet were cold and she thought, “Why not?” and pulled it from the chest. It’s been draped over the back of the sofa ever since.
Flowerpots sit in the windowsill, full of dirt with a single dead stump in the center. Plants she buys on impulse at the first sign of spring, waters for a week.
Beside the sofa is a basket with a needlepoint inside. It says, “HOME SWEE” in three colors. It’s waited for a year or two now, but she’ll get back to it. The colors in her living room don’t match the yarns, anyway.
So every month or so, Barbie splurges and takes herself out to the Knickerbocker. She feels pretty there, especially after her second glass of wine. She tosses her hair and uses her hands a lot; catches glimpses of herself in the mirror behind the bar and thinks to herself, “I look pretty good.”
As the people begin to filter out, Barbie realizes she has no one left to talk with. The bartender is beginning to look a little drawn around the eyes.
“Well, I guess I’ll head out now. I actually have a late date tonight. Hate to make him wait too long.”
The bartender gives her an understanding smile. “Bet you’ve got ‘em lined out the door, Barbs.”
“Well, not really.” Barbie smiles at him over her shoulder on the way out. She’s sure that looks really good, smiling over her shoulder that way.
“You have a good un, now, doll” she says, and breezes out the door.
Outside, she glances in her reflection in the window. Her mascara has run all below her right eye, and the middle button on her dress has popped open.
Barbie slides into her car, feeling so, so empty inside.
Maybe if she had a cat…
Tuesday, March 24
The Ultimate
I sniffled, snorted and coughed my way through a Board of Education meeting, came home, and wrote the article. Emailed it in.
We were settling down for bed.
"I'm not going to Ikea tomorrow, honey. I think I need to stay home and feel better."
DH sat up in bed and looked at me.
"You really ARE sick, aren't you?"
We were settling down for bed.
"I'm not going to Ikea tomorrow, honey. I think I need to stay home and feel better."
DH sat up in bed and looked at me.
"You really ARE sick, aren't you?"
Friday, March 20
Burnt Tacos and Beyonce'
For some reason, my kids love and adore to remember when I was the most fallible. Like the night I burned taco shells not once, not twice, but three times. We lived in Virginia at the time, and our home was 3 blocks away from an aged IGA. DS2 pedalled his bike 3 times for fresh taco shells.
Ever since, I have been given to burning taco shells. Lately I have been using Azteca tortilla shells, a cool kind of tortilla that you drape over little boxes that come in the package. Bake them for 8 minutes and voila! Crispy shells shaped like little bowls for your salad and taco fixin's.
Alas, our nearby grocery has STOPPED CARRYING these gems and I had to resort to normal taco shells for dinner tonight.
Meanwhile, DD called this afternoon and asked if we would be home tonight about 6. Sure, I said, why don't you just stay for dinner? Um, ok, she said, but there will be three of us.
I was thrilled. DD and LO's sister, Little Bit, moved back to town in October from Hawaii, and a third, and a surprise, surely meant their little brother was visiting from Nearby City.
He was, and when he came in the front door, he ran all the way to the kitchen to tackle me with hugs and kisses. Wow. What a great reunion. GJ was named for DH; the G is the same as DH's middle name.
I had baked my last pkg of Azteca tortilla shells and then turned the oven off and ran in the shells -- or so I thought. As I chopped and shredded for tacos, I smell something very, very familiar. Something like -- like burnt tacos.
Alas, I had not turned the oven off, but the wrong way to "broil." And broil they did. Crispeeee.
I tossed the black ones and saved the sienna ones. Burnt sienna, that is. No one complained, and every one was eaten; must not have been too gross.
DH built a bonfire in the back yard and we roasted marshmallows. Gee, we are used to girls. GJ, the grandson, ran around with the metal roasting tool on the long pole, poked sticks in the fire, slung marshmallow on the dog, and otherwise acted like a true boy. It was great. I believe every person in the family at some point in the night said, "Don't run in the FIRE!"
Finally we came inside for a game of spoons. It was a hard-fought game. Everyone lost about equally so no one's feelings were hurt.
At one point, we were all counting in Espanol. We passed nueve, dies, then went on to once, doce, trece, and GJ piped up. "Beyonce' ! "
It was great to see him. They will be back tomorrow.
Ever since, I have been given to burning taco shells. Lately I have been using Azteca tortilla shells, a cool kind of tortilla that you drape over little boxes that come in the package. Bake them for 8 minutes and voila! Crispy shells shaped like little bowls for your salad and taco fixin's.
Alas, our nearby grocery has STOPPED CARRYING these gems and I had to resort to normal taco shells for dinner tonight.
Meanwhile, DD called this afternoon and asked if we would be home tonight about 6. Sure, I said, why don't you just stay for dinner? Um, ok, she said, but there will be three of us.
I was thrilled. DD and LO's sister, Little Bit, moved back to town in October from Hawaii, and a third, and a surprise, surely meant their little brother was visiting from Nearby City.
He was, and when he came in the front door, he ran all the way to the kitchen to tackle me with hugs and kisses. Wow. What a great reunion. GJ was named for DH; the G is the same as DH's middle name.
I had baked my last pkg of Azteca tortilla shells and then turned the oven off and ran in the shells -- or so I thought. As I chopped and shredded for tacos, I smell something very, very familiar. Something like -- like burnt tacos.
Alas, I had not turned the oven off, but the wrong way to "broil." And broil they did. Crispeeee.
I tossed the black ones and saved the sienna ones. Burnt sienna, that is. No one complained, and every one was eaten; must not have been too gross.
DH built a bonfire in the back yard and we roasted marshmallows. Gee, we are used to girls. GJ, the grandson, ran around with the metal roasting tool on the long pole, poked sticks in the fire, slung marshmallow on the dog, and otherwise acted like a true boy. It was great. I believe every person in the family at some point in the night said, "Don't run in the FIRE!"
Finally we came inside for a game of spoons. It was a hard-fought game. Everyone lost about equally so no one's feelings were hurt.
At one point, we were all counting in Espanol. We passed nueve, dies, then went on to once, doce, trece, and GJ piped up. "Beyonce' ! "
It was great to see him. They will be back tomorrow.
Friday, March 13
Gray day
It's a cold and rainy day, to be followed by another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another beyond that.
We had 3 blissful verdant days of sun and 70-degree weather. I thought this crap was over.
I have realized that as I age, I am more and more dependent on the sunshine for a steady mood. Hold on, Maggie, it's gonna be a loong week.
I had begun refinishing two pieces of furniture this week, and have only the final coat to go. They are locked safely in the outbuilding awaiting another sunny day.
Yesterday, in addition to the rain, I had another problem. I. have. lost. parts. of. my. novel.
Then as I was leaving the friendly neighborhood grocery, the little twerp of a checkout girl (hasn't she gained weight?) said, "Well, ma'am, you saved $3.40 on coupons and $2.62 on your senior discount.
Hmph.
Yep, it's gonna be a long week.
We had 3 blissful verdant days of sun and 70-degree weather. I thought this crap was over.
I have realized that as I age, I am more and more dependent on the sunshine for a steady mood. Hold on, Maggie, it's gonna be a loong week.
I had begun refinishing two pieces of furniture this week, and have only the final coat to go. They are locked safely in the outbuilding awaiting another sunny day.
Yesterday, in addition to the rain, I had another problem. I. have. lost. parts. of. my. novel.
Then as I was leaving the friendly neighborhood grocery, the little twerp of a checkout girl (hasn't she gained weight?) said, "Well, ma'am, you saved $3.40 on coupons and $2.62 on your senior discount.
Hmph.
Yep, it's gonna be a long week.
Wednesday, March 4
And the winner is.........
I wish I could say we built this lovely lady. I wish I could say I am this talented.
We have neighbors whose kids are so, so, talented. Well, the whole darn family is. Mom and Dad sing like nobody's business. Mom used to act on Broadway. Kids sing, dance, act, play instruments amazingly, son is a talented gymnast.
Apparently they are quite the sculptors, too. After driving by their house today and noticing the diva in the front yard, I happened to run into the girls at a downtown shop. I pitifully begged them to email me their pics.
Please take a second to study this lady. (Notice the abs!)
Tuesday, March 3
Snow and Refrigerator Poetry
We have had two blissful days locked in the house with about 5" of snow outside. I have not heard the actual official figure, but there appears to be about an index-card depth piled on the bird feeder, the handrails, and the stairs.
LO has been out of school, and the holiday has coincided with her freedom from having been grounded for what seemed like an awfully long time. She spent a happy evening on Facebook with her cell phone in hand, texting with both the right hand and the left.
Little Dog hates to poop in the snow. I am sure she feels as I do, that it is so very unsightly to have the dark turds perched atop the pristine snow. She will waddle back and forth, legs very bowed, and even whimper a little, looking for a more obscure spot. Finally, she can't stand it any more and has to just let loose. She glances over her shoulder at me accusingly, "Can't you find me a good spot of grass? What sort of owner are you, anyway?"
I don't have to answer her.
****************************
I think it's a shame that more people don't write refrigerator poetry. I got a set of words about 7 years ago and have enjoyed it immensely. I don't remember who gave them to me but it was so so thoughtful.
We still have two poems I wrote a long time ago, but the impact of slamming an 80-pound door 100 times a day has been rough on the poetry.
What used to say,
"Spring and summer are the dear friends I think of all winter long"
now says,
"Spring and summer friend I think winter."
And...
"You whisper to me / of love and eternity / and my heart sings"
now reads,
"You me eternity my heart sing"
..... I keep them around because my original sentiment is still there.
The kit has about 300 words printed on tiny magnets, and they even have suffixes and prefixes so you can make the words the way you need them. This is how "sings" became "sing" -- the S got lost.
The box of words long ago got lost. I think someone got tired of picking up the 300 pieces of half-inch magnet every time they fell off the closet shelf, and chucked them.
But it was a lovely gift. If you gave them to me, and you are reading this, thank you.
If I ever get another set, I will keep them in a drawer.
LO has been out of school, and the holiday has coincided with her freedom from having been grounded for what seemed like an awfully long time. She spent a happy evening on Facebook with her cell phone in hand, texting with both the right hand and the left.
Little Dog hates to poop in the snow. I am sure she feels as I do, that it is so very unsightly to have the dark turds perched atop the pristine snow. She will waddle back and forth, legs very bowed, and even whimper a little, looking for a more obscure spot. Finally, she can't stand it any more and has to just let loose. She glances over her shoulder at me accusingly, "Can't you find me a good spot of grass? What sort of owner are you, anyway?"
I don't have to answer her.
****************************
I think it's a shame that more people don't write refrigerator poetry. I got a set of words about 7 years ago and have enjoyed it immensely. I don't remember who gave them to me but it was so so thoughtful.
We still have two poems I wrote a long time ago, but the impact of slamming an 80-pound door 100 times a day has been rough on the poetry.
What used to say,
"Spring and summer are the dear friends I think of all winter long"
now says,
"Spring and summer friend I think winter."
And...
"You whisper to me / of love and eternity / and my heart sings"
now reads,
"You me eternity my heart sing"
..... I keep them around because my original sentiment is still there.
The kit has about 300 words printed on tiny magnets, and they even have suffixes and prefixes so you can make the words the way you need them. This is how "sings" became "sing" -- the S got lost.
The box of words long ago got lost. I think someone got tired of picking up the 300 pieces of half-inch magnet every time they fell off the closet shelf, and chucked them.
But it was a lovely gift. If you gave them to me, and you are reading this, thank you.
If I ever get another set, I will keep them in a drawer.
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