Simple-Tasking

OK. As a programmer in the 80's, yes, I know some of you weren't BORN yet, but back then, we learned the term, "multi-tasking." It referred to the process of having the computer do multiple things at one time so it would run as quickly and efficiently as possible.

At some point, I began multi-tasking. It was simple enough when it started. Tying a child's shoe while talking on the phone. Stirring the spaghetti and calling out spelling words. Driving the car and yelling into the rearview mirror, "Don't make me stop this car!"

Then I really began multi-tasking. Mopping and watching TV and answering the cell phone. Eating and playing spades online. Walking the dog, listening to the iPod, and talking to neighbors. Writing and listening to NPR and answering emails.

I feel like I don't listen anymore. I don't complete tasks. I start working, flip over to FaceBook, flip back to the article. Listen to the recorder to get that quote just right. Oops, an email popped up. Answer that one. File it before I forget. Back to the article. Someone asks where I put the thermometer. In the cabinet, I think. Back to the article. Second shelf, I think, I call. Back to the article. Wait, why do you need the thermometer? Do you have a fever? Come here, let me feel you.

And on it goes.

I am making a conscious effort to stop multi-tasking. No more eating hunched over the keyboard. I. will. eat. at. the. table. Even if I am home, alone.

No more scanning the newspaper online and listening to NPR. I will read the tangible newspaper. It's delivered every day. I'll read it the old-fashioned way.

I will close the door when I write, and not scad about email and internet.

I will look people in the eye when they talk. I won't look about to see what else is going on. That's rude, anyway. No more thinking what I want to say next. That's rude, too. I will Listen. Listen. List-en.

I will play music on my new stereo. Walk the dog. Just walk her. No electronics. Sit on the porch.

After a week of this strange new world, I will make a report as to how well (or not) it went.

Stay tuned.

Hankies

Many of you may know I collect vintage hankies. I love 'em. I try to carry one or two on me at all times. If I have allergies, or feel emotional, or my makeup runs, or a kid scratches a mosquito bite, their uses are endless.

I was at school board meeting Monday night and met with someone out in the hallway to discuss a much-loved teacher who is battling cancer. She had just received a merit award and I was interested in perhaps featuring her in an article.

So I asked the assistant to meet me out in the hallway for a second. When I told her my intention, she began to cry -- quite hard. Fortunately I had a polka-dot hanky in my pocket.

I have offered a hanky to a crying friend several times over the years, and it never fails to cheer them up. The polka-dots are my favorites.

Sometimes when I am tired, I will pull up vintage hankies on eBay just to look at them. I love to see the various designs. What a lovely item that, sadly, has fallen out of favor.

I am shopping for more in earnest now b/c I have 'loaned' so many to friends that my stock is running low. If the idea appeals to you at all, I encourage you to browse on eBay just to see all the lovely choices. It takes you back to a simpler time. Enjoy!

Guns and Barbies

As a young mom, I made many mistakes. One in particular I remember is forbidding my children to have the things I didn't believe in.

The two boys were only 16 months apart. I did not allow them to have toy guns. It seemed at every birthday party, they would receive at least 2 or 3 toy guns. It was very frustrating. After the guest had gone, while the boys were distracted, I would slip the guns out of the room and hide them on top of the refrigerator until I could get them into the outside garbage can.

They were both fascinated with the concept of guns. Everything became a gun. Sticks in the yard, half-eaten sandwiches, stacks of Legos, anything that could remotely resemble a gun, became one. Bang, you're dead.

Finally I gave up. Once they were allowed to have them, the fascination seemed to wane. I still wonder, though, is that why DS2 joined the armed forces?

I was also opposed to the Barbie doll. Her physical perfection seems impractical to me. Does she have a good personality? A sense of humor? Is she sensitive? Smart? Self-reliant? I became anti-Barbie.

And so my daughter craved them. Being a cheap gift, she received scads of them as birthday gifts. They disappeared, similarly to the guns. She loved to go next door and play with the little girl whose mom encouraged Barbies. I distinctly remember the mom next door, out in the front yard at night with a flashlight, looking for a missing Barbie shoe.

Do you know how small a Barbie shoe is? It's not quite a half-inch long. By maybe a quarter-inch wide. Why on earth did she even know it was missing? I never understood.

Finally, I relented and let DD have Barbies.

By the time I raised LO, I was a wee bit older and wiser. Still opposed to Barbies, I allowed her to have them, but did not encourage them. When we played with them, I would say things like, this is her college interview outfit, this is what she wears to help at the shelter.

LO soon tired of Barbies and they languished in their box until I finally had her permission to throw them away.

Comparing 2 Books

There have been two books on the market lately that both have to do with a white guy coming upon an African-American street person, and the effect this has on both lives. I thought it might be neat to read both and compare them.

The two books are, Same Kind of Different as Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore (and Lynn Vincent), and The Soloist by Steve Lopez.

I read SKODAM first; it's the story of a rich, make that, very rich, white art dealer whose wife goads him into working at the homeless shelter after he outs his affair and she forgives him. At this point in their lives, she can pretty much call the shots.

While he is (reluctantly) working there, a black guy about the same age comes through the food line and the wife announces this is the guy she has seen in a dream. "You're supposed to be his friend," she says.

So White Guy attempts to befriend him. It takes a long time and finally they make friends and the black guy learns how to trust. The white guy does too, but in different ways. The black guy comes to know Christ and everything is peachy for a short while.

In the end, the wife dies and the two men are left mourning her.

The book is okay.

I most enjoyed the first half of the book, which tells, in alternating chapters, the stories of the black guy's childhood, and white guy's childhood.

The black guy grew up poor, I mean, really poor. He never attended school a day in his life. Never stepped inside one. This was the sixties, not the thirties, or the nineteenth century. His family and everyone he knew, were sharecroppers, working someone else's land in a borrowed house and working an acre or two that was loaned to them. At the end of the year, they would hypothetically be paid for the crops they raised for the other guy, but since they could not read or write or calculate, he always told them they did not turn any profit, and could not be paid.

The white guy says he grew up poor, too, although I could not reconcile his homemade flour-sack clothing with 'having to attend the cheapest college in the state.'

I did like the wife, though, when he made his first million and called her from the showroom floor of the Jaguar dealership. He excitedly told her he was about to buy a red Jag convertible. She told him to tell that salesman, 'never mind,' right now and get himself home. She wasn't about to have such an ostentatious show of wealth parked in front of her house every night.

Hmm. No wonder he had an affair. I mean, I loved what she said and all, but, hey, don't men like, hold a grudge about this kind of thing?

So, back to the book.

I did not like how they were kind of cocky, like, we are coming into this homeless shelter and we'll make their lives all right, they'll learn to eat with manners and live in a real house and look people in the eye when they speak.

Can't we just help for the sake of helping, and not be about changing people? Some people are there because they want to be, and some are mentally ill, and, we can't just assume that our way of life is for everyone. Some may want it, some may not.

Sort of like saying the whole world needs to be a democracy. It might not be for everyone.

I never understood how the friendship was such a big thing that she had this dream from God about it. I could see it if they had some effect on lots of people, if some foundation were chartered that made a huge difference in the world, but that's not really what happened.

So. . . It's clear that it's ghost-written, and the writing is okay. I mean, just okay. Barely. When the wife dies, the sound of violins leaps off the page and I could hardly hear myself think.

The Soloist was written by Steve Lopez, a columnist for the LA Times. He is a seasoned writer, and it shows. His punchy style and rhythm get more said in a paragraph than most ppl can say in a page-and-a-half.

He happens upon a street person in downtown LA on his lunch hour. The guy is playing a 2-stringed violin, and despite its drawbacks, sounds pretty darn great. Turns out he had gone to Julliard.

The writer smells a story. He realizes he has to warm up to the guy, and takes his time, even though it's hard. By the time he gets a story out of it, he has just fallen crazy about the guy and wants to help him just because he cares for him.

He goes through all sorts of self-questioning, like, "Am I helping him for the right reasons?" "What right do I have to presume what is best for him?" and "Am I jeopardizing him by giving him expensive instruments to carry on the street?"

He handles these issues with grace and wisdom and not a small amount of humor. These guys become real friends. The salvation here is not from Jesus, but it is spiritual just the same.

If the guy in Soloist had not written his concerns about presuming too much, I may never have realized how condescending the first book was.

Overall, I -- by far -- liked the soloist much better, and highly recommend it. Now that I've finished it, I may check out the movie.

Creative

Spent yesterday at a writers' conference and learned so, so much. Now to apply it!

Rode up with a gf whom I met at the writing class this winter. We gabbed all the way up and back, about writing, about people we know whose lives would make great stories, about this and that.

Most conferences include lunch, but this one did not. Unless you paid extra to eat lunch with an author. At this point in my life, I am past idolizing someone so I did not spring the extra $25. Hey, I am published, too, just in a different way.

The weather forecast was sunny and 82 degrees, so gf and I decided to pack a picnic. We ate outside in the shade and came back in totally refreshed.

The writers' network announced a summer residency in July. You send your manuscript ahead of time and arrive ready to work, work, work. I may go. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, I happened this morning on this lovely collection of books by one of my favorite people. Now I would pay to have lunch with him. Enjoy.

Foamy Thing: Cool

On our first adventure at the new Ikea, DH spotted this spinny thing that makes foam for your latte'. I resisted getting it because he teases me about being a gadget-aholic.

I think you could also use it to dissolve powder into drinks. Like Spiru-tein, another passion of mine.

Or Gatorade. Which is not.

On my second trip to the new Ikea, however, I succombed. It costs $2.99, takes one penlight battery, and is the BEST.

Here is the cream in my mug with a little cinnamon sprinkled on it. Actually, I use soy milk, but you can use cream. I warm the milk first. This helps the smell of the cinnamon really burst through, enhancing the flavor of the coffee.

Here is the spinny thing at work. The photo was turned the correct way on my computer, but somehow it uploaded at an angle. Oh, my.

Here is the finished product, coffee in, foam on top. I use the spinny thing every day and am constantly amazed at the pleasure I get from a $2.99 device.

My coffee has never been so delightful.

Aw, just the fan...

Despite my earlier aghast reaction to the price of refrigerators, I must say, once I started shopping for them, I quickly became warm to the idea of buying one. Oooh, shiny.

I studied them online. I visited several stores. I settled on two models, both counter-depth, stainless, freezer-on-the-bottom. I showed the prices to DH and showed him pics online. We settled on a date to purchase, based on the oldie holding out, so we did not have to use credit.

So I dug in and waited for said date.

As I've indicated earlier, I had swept, swiped, vacuumed, and blown the coils to be sure we weren't dealing with clogged fan.

This weekend, DH, probably responding, himself, to the cost of a new one, took it all seriously, finally, and took the back off the fridge, and cleaned it.

Ick.

Last night, he googled the issue and came up with a different set of options than I had. His diagnosis: burned out fan.

A new one costs $100.

So he is ordering a new one and installing it, himself.

Aw. I had really gotten used to the idea of a new one.

Oooh. Shiny.

Refrigerator Woes

If I want to know how to clean something, cook something, or grow something, I call my MIL. She is very gracious about giving tips and doesn't seem to mind at all.

I called her last night and we talked about our refrigerator.

It's been running warm for a week or so now, and only Tuesday did we put 2+2 together and realize it's fading fast.

It's a side-by-side. The wall that separates the freezer side from the refrigerator side is hot to the touch -- really hot.

On Monday our milk was sour, even though I had just bought it Saturday.

On Tuesday, LO opened a new pint of Ben & Jerry's: it was a milkshake inside.

That's when it dawned on me.

I had googled the words, hot wall refrigerator, and had read that the cause was likely one of two things: the coils beneath were dirty, impeding air flow, or the yoder loop, a part that lies in the wall, is out.

On SundayI vacuumed underneath the refrigerator really well. We have an extension thingie, about 30" long, made just for under the refrigerator.

It's still running hot.

After spending several hours yesterday shopping for refrigerators, I called my MIL. I hadn't emailed her in a few days and wanted to touch base.

I mentioned that refrigerators cost $2500. She did what I did: freaked out. WHAT, she said, THAT'S RIDICULOUS.

That's just what I said, I said.

She asked if I had cleaned beneath the refrigerator. I told her I had.

She said she ties a rag to a yardstick and goes under there. She said sometimes she uses the reverse on her vacuum and blows the dust out from under the fridge.

So today, I rubber-banded a rag to the yardstick and swiped and jabbed under the refrigerator.

I got a little dust, but no clumps or anything that looked nefarious.

Then I got out the vacuum and reversed it. Blew it under the refrigerator.

Nothing.

Now I'm headed out to the shed to get the leaf blower.

This is getting serious.

Will. Post. Later

Wednesday

In a rush to interview someone for a thing, stopping here only long enough to catch up on what's going on.

Between interviews today, I have to shop for a refrigerator.

DH is working his butt off at the power plant 30 miles away. He loves the people and the facility, but comes home pooped every day. He is working 10 or 12 days straight, too. Poor baby.

LO found out Monday she is in the talent show today. Her audition got rescheduled a month ago and then when she showed up, none of the advisors did, so she (rightfully?) assumed she was not in it. On Monday they said, we are counting on you. She talked the twins into singing as she played the piano. They practiced Monday and Tuesday. Last night they called and said, it's too hard, too late, we are out.

She did the only thing a reasonable person could do in that sitch.

She went hysterical.

She came to me: what on earth do I do?
I offered alternatives:
Back out? ...no, I can't let the principal and Student Council down.
Play and sing, yourself? ...no, I can't manage both; both the music and vocals suffer.
Play only? ...the music is too simple and repetitive. It needs vocals too.
I finally ran out of options and just dispensed lots of hugs.

Okaaaay. Once that was over, she called them with compromises: what if you come over tonight and we practice? What if you select another song? No, no, and no.
Finally, she retreated to her room. Closed the door. Within minutes we heard her practicing on the keyboard. Within more minutes we heard her singing.

After practicing for 3 hours, she felt ready. Woke up all smiles today.

Good luck, girl.

The ULTIMATE Power

Even though LO has had the same chores for over 5 years now, it's been a battle to get them done. I have had to nag, or do them myself.





It's not that I mind doing them. The point is that we're trying to develop a disciplined, motivated person here.



We have tried lists, charts, monetary rewards.


Something was not working.





Last fall, I asked her to figure out a way to remind herself, so that I could get out of the nagging business.





Nothing. No attempts.





A month ago, I had an idea. I had these colored packaging tags on hand. I bought them a year or two ago, for a piece I did on packing creative school lunches. The tags were for notes from Mommy. I bought them for the photo spread.





Yes, I do deduct this kind of thing. It's a business expense.





So here it is, a couple of years later, and they're on hand.





I had an idea. I printed LO's chores on clear labels and stuck them onto the tags. Loaded the tags on a round key-ring-thingie.





Hung them on a cabinet knob near the refrigerator, where they are easily seen, not lost, and prominently displayed at all times.





The setup was easy. Complete them every day. Consequence if they are not done: texting is turned off for the day.





The first day we used them, the chores did not get done.





I turned off texting.





Tears. "I didn't understand."





Sigh. Okay. To be totally fair, we went over the rules in detail. Do you understand? Is anything not clear? I turned texting back on and warned I would never reverse it again.





That was 3 weeks ago.





The chores did not get done yesterday. I turned texting off.





Anger. Bordering on fury. I didn't mean to. I did them when I got home. I slept late, could not help it.

I stayed calm. They weren't done all day. Maybe you need to go to bed earlier so you can get up.




Last night I was at a school board meeting for my work. Forgot to mute my phone. Ding-dong. I had a text.





(DH and I are the two entries on her list: she can text us at any time despite parental controls. We can text her, too. This is a safety feature. For example, we have texting turned off during the school day. But if there were a terrorist on campus, or she really needed something from home, she can still text me. )





Embarrassed, I hurriedly muted my phone.





Here is the text I received:





"I am dissapointed (sic) in u. I proved u wrong and u still gave me punishment. Im very hurt and angry. DONT TXT ME BACK. If u do Im not reading it."





I did not mention the message.





Neither did she.





This morning, she woke up early. Cheerfully, she completed all her chores. Before we left for school, she asked, "Did I miss any chores?"





Yes, I replied. You have makeup and tissues all over your dresser.





I just checked it. It's clean.





Yay. For now, texting seems to be The Ultimate Weapon. For now.