Making Pudding

Oh yes, there are tales to tell. This week it's my birfday, and according to my Death Clock it won't be my last. I should have a good 45 years or so left, so I don't have to go all nutz like the guy I heard about on Bob & Tom yesterday morning (given 1 year to live by his doctor... one year later, he's still alive and not gonna die due to a misdiagnosis). So, I'm a-living. I was showered with goodies by the kids and Spousal Unit this past weekend, and at the risk of being all braggy, I'm fixin' to tell ya about it. First, I got to make breakfast. Fried sliced potatoes, brown-n-serve sausages, and the BEST scrambled eggs ever (add a spoonful of cottage cheese for each egg, salt & pepper, then shovel 'em around a non-stick frying pan with a spatula until cooked). I got a box of chocolate truffles and a flowering plant-thingy for the apartment. Then it was off to a mystery address. But first, we stopped by Best Buy for my new favorite CD. I got their newest one first, and love it. The older one is just as good - a whole new raft of favorite tunes! Buy it. You can thank me later. From there, Mrs. Spiffy handed me an envelope with an address scribbled on it. "Go here," she said. We drove 45 minutes west to the lakeshore town of Grand Haven, found the street, and started looking at addresses. It was an industrial neighborhood by the airport, and the addresses were far apart. We must have driven right by it, because the numbers were going the wrong direction again. Turning around, I realized the address I was looking for WAS the airport. I pulled in the long drive past the airport sign (F-100 Super Sabre on a pedestal) up to the B&B flight office. A tall guy was walking around inside stuffing a chewy granola bar into his face, chatting about the windy weather with the girl behind the counter. "Oh, you must be here to fly. Jennifer will go with you." I was pretty bouncy by this time. In case y'all didn't know, I love to fly. I'm what might be known in Latin as 'pilotus beginnerus interruptus' (or something) - I've started flight training, got my books, completed ground school - but due to time and expense, haven't yet completed. Still an A-list dream though (you know, after securing things like food and shelter and whatnot). I've got about 12 hours of flying time, including 4 takeoffs and one landing. Jennifer was friendly and happy, and handed me a couple headsets while she completed some paperwork. She grabbed the keys and we walked to the hangar across the lawn. Mrs. Spiffy came trotting up while we were pushing the Cessna 172 out of the hangar to begin the preflight checklist. I kicked the tires, sumped the fuel, checked the oil, and made sure not too many rivets were missing. I hit the master switch and heard the gyros whirring to life, another full-body rush at the excitement. Jennifer invited Mrs. Spiffy to climb in the back seat, if she promised not to barf. "I can't clean up that sort of mess, so don't make one." I climbed into the left seat as Jennifer got buckled into the right and we completed the checklist. I primed the engine and turned the key. The propeller spun, engine sputtered and then roared to life, filling all the senses with vibration and motion and noise and power. Jennifer asked if I knew how to taxi. I nodded, and she told me to take it out to the runway. Sure, I know how to taxi - but being good at it is something entirely different. The rudder and nose wheel are controlled by foot pedals, the tops of which operate differential brakes. I weaved down the taxiway like a drunken senator, watching the wingtips to make sure I didn't shear off a gas pump or hit one of the half-dozen planes on the tarmac. We successfully made it to the runway entrance and mashed the brakes for the runup - revving the engine up to 1700 RPMs and checking the magnetos. Everything was set and Jennifer announced our takeoff to area traffic. She gave me the go ahead to get on the runway, and mentioned we should be centered and pointing the right direction before I gave it full throttle. It was a good thing, because I was itching to go. There was a 20-26 MPH headwind, and I could feel the buffeting before we even started rolling. We were to rotate at 50 knots and take off at 70. I pushed the throttle all the way in and we were moving. We had barely reached 50 knots and we were off the ground - the wind had saved us a couple hundred feet of runway, and I grinned like a retard in a dunking booth as I pointed the nose skyward. Jennifer looked back at Mrs. Spiffy, who was gripping the upholstery like a cat over a washtub and rather pale. She instructed her in the fine art of using an airsickness bag in case it got to that point as we climbed to 2000 feet. I cruised around the lighthouse and turned southward, following the beach. It was cloudy and windy, but the warm spring day had countless fishing boats on Lake Michigan and all the homeowners sprucing up their landscaping. It was gorgeous. We neared the power plant and Jennifer said it was time to turn around. I asked if I could do a steep turn, but she thought it'd be a bad idea with Mrs. Spiffy's questionable gastric condition. We began our approach and descent, the tummy-tickling thrill of the first drop in altitude when I pulled back the throttle, and returned to the airport. I added flaps and neared the trees while Jennifer calmly suggested I add some power so we don't land before we reach the runway. The wind was coming at us diagonally, so I had to bank left while steering right with the rudder to keep us on track. We crossed the threshold and cut power, floating ever so gently to a soft landing, flaring as long as possible until the nose wheel finally touched down. I can't wait to go again. Later, we met my dad and sisters at the theater to see Spiderman 3. Very entertaining and pithy, it's fulla villains and morals to the story. I totally ran out of energy while we were waiting for our order at O'Charley's after the movie, nearly falling asleep in my spinach dip. T'was a good day.

80, My First Numbered Post

Numbering posts is the trendy thing to do, and if I ain't trendy, then cornflakes don't come with ratpoo anymore. It's also trendy to notice visits to blogs, and as I write this the sitemeter says 3061 people have frittered away precious time here. That's about 38 visits per post. If I ever want to catch up to the Real Bloggers, I better write more. Plus, ETW says if I don't write every day she's not getting her money's worth. And we can't have that. I got some presents from the wimmins' trip to Disney. Cooking presents. Sweet. And, since it's sunny and a very nice 48 here today, I'm thinking they brought back some weather too. Warm enough to traipse about jacketless, and the snow is receding from the driveway. It was even sparkly enough to get the car washed. This morning I rose and shone and made some experimental scrambled eggs with the Mickey egg rings. They turned out more tasty than artistic; they didn't come with instructions, but since I'm a guy I wouldn't have read 'em anyway. Today is another numbered day. Seventeen. Way back in 1990, when silver and rose were the cool colors to have in a wedding, Mrs. Spiffy and I got all dressed up and tied a knot. That was a long time ago, seemingly in a galaxy far away. The church we got hitched in is still just up the street, but lots has changed since then. We didn't have teenagers or a mortgage or a history at the time. Happy anniversary, Mrs. S. To celebrate, we spent A Day About Home. Traditionally, our anniversary is a very big deal, and we'd plan elaborate trips or events. This year, we'd both been traveling a lot recently, and Boy had driver's training right in the middle of the day. So, we took him to class and went downtown to go for a walk in the sunshine and get some lunch at a place we'd never been. Went to San Chez Tapas Bistro, a Spanish place in an old building right in the center of downtown. Lotsa windows, and the place got quite crowded by about 1PM. There was a womens' expo downtown, and the joint was packed with females of every stripe. I was one of maybe 3 guys in the room (not counting the cooks). The food was wonderful, we got hummus appetizers and paella, and a local amber beer. Lunch beer is the best. Another item of Disney loot I got was a "Dismembered Mickey" cutting board. I love the flexible plastic ones. They take up almost no room in the cupboard, and you can funnel whatever you've just chopped into the mix. Last night I made a concoction in an attempt to copy this dish from Bombay Cuisine, a nearby Indian restaurant. Amazing stuff. It has chicken, spinach, and spicy creamy goodness to it. Recipe follows. We were planning to have friends over, but they bailed out on us and I was already in full SuperChef mode, no way I was just gonna have spaghetti after getting all amped up to be exotic (at least for Dutch people). It really turned out as something good, but it's no match for the real Indian version. Have no idea what I was doing. Pictured are the leftovers, which were scarfed for dinner today. Get this stuff: 3-4 chicken breasts 2 cans spinach Red bell pepper 1 medium onion, chopped Salt, pepper Curry, turmeric, thyme Basmati rice 4 oz. Cream cheese Dollop sour cream 1 pint Jim Beam Don't forget to have a well stocked kitchen, including stove, oven, pots, pans, sharp things, and flippers. No, not fish flippers (although you could flip fish with one), but food flippers. AKA Spatula or Turner, depending on which silly accent you've adopted. First, put the Jim Beam on ice. Sip. Repeat during cooking. Splash some oil into a pan and sautee onion. Cut chicken into bite size chunks and cook. At this point I started the rice, as it takes about 55 minutes from zero to done. It's not Minute rice by any means, but it was worth it. Hearty, tasty stuff that. Expensive, but I was going for UltraYum, not just regular yum. Sprinkle the chicken generously with curry, turmeric, salt & pepper. I probably used 1 1/2 - 2 tsp. curry, and 3/4 - 1 tsp turmeric. It should turn very yellow. Red pepper was sprinkled by the pinch, about 1/4 tsp. Turned out very mild, could have used more. Add cream cheese and sour cream (could use heavy cream or half & half too, but I failed to get any); melt Stir until well coated. Add bell peppers, chunked up. Last, drain the spinach and add to the mix. Fold into a baking dish, bake at 350 until the rice is done, about 20-30 minutes. I baked up some Flaky Layers Grands rolls too, because I like 'em. A lot. You can tell by my stunning lack of momentum in the Shrinking Piggies Smackdown (go see the update!) Scoop out some yummy rice onto plates of hungry minions; top with chickenny spinachey goodness, and watch it disappear. Oh, it were quite good.

Various Things

Happy Friday! A few things to report, then it's time to apply my snotlocker to the archaic spinning implement-sharpening device. Er, something. Last night I made Beef Strogatiff, and holey freaking cow was it good. Never had it with a) ground beef and b) rice instead of noodles, but it was deeeeligh. How do I know it was a hit? No leftovers again. Crap. I wanted some for lunch today, but it's the price you pay for cooking something good. I used the white wine AND red pepper (1/4 tsp - probably a pinch hotter than needbe), and savory doesn't come close. Creamy, rich, and extrayum. I used cream of celery soup too, because every time I try mushrooms, they taste like mushrooms - and that just doesn't work for me. However, I did get a comment that 'this dish needs mushrooms,' so if that floats your boat, so be it. (In case you're wondering, no those aren't my boobies in the picture. Not my kitchen either.) =============== Mrs. Spiffy and Girl returned safely late Wednesday night from their week at Disneyworld. They didn't want to come home. I can't say I blame 'em, since it's freaking Disneyworld - and it was 80 degrees there, compared to 12 here. They're both tannish-pink and full of tales to tell. Girl dumped about 500 photos onto the computer last night, I'll hopefully get to see them tonight. =============== Rhetorical question: Can you be a pirate if you're from Boston? Maybe it's a silly question, but practice the Boston accent: "I pahk my cah in hahvahd yahd..." Now try and roll off a hearty "AAARRRRRGH!!" with that affectation. =============== Last night I found myself locked both in and out of work. Our lunchroom/ restrooms are part of the shop's keying and security system, while the office is separate. I ducked into the echo chamber toward the end of the day, and when I washed up and came out, discovered that I was the last one in the building. Fred, a coworker, thought HE was the last one in the building. Alarms set and doors locked. My keys, naturally, were in the office. Fortunately, I have experience with breaking and entering. I've "had to" break into my own house, churches, offices, and friends' houses before, and can do amazing tricks with a butter knife and coat hanger. The biggest lifesaver is that I had the occasion to know the shop's alarm code; that would have been harder to explain. After about 20 minutes of fiddling, and calling to bail out on Boy's Parent Teacher Conferences (way to go, Boy! He's the art teacher's favorite student, and all-around good kid), I shivered out to Esme The Jeep. Rooting around in the little compartment between the seats, I found an old keyring. Sometimes it's possible through creative wiggling to get another key to work, so I brought it along. The first key I tried turned the lock effortlessly. Forgot all about that spare. Yep, I'm still as smart as ever.

Homo Erectus!

As I write, Gorillaz are telling me all about windmills. I loves me some new music. While I was out last week for reprogramming, I got a call from a customer on a project we'd closed out many months ago. He says the inspector finally came through, and wouldn't finish the inspection because he found some missing items. That can't be, I told him. My installer is a pro, and knows what he's doing. But, through a commitment to customer service (and really no other way out), it was decided I was going back out into the field. On Monday, I booked a Tuesday morning flight to Washington, with a plan to drive to Cambridge for a meeting Tuesday afternoon with the customer, and the Big Meeting Wednesday morning with everyone. I arrived at our local International Airport with plenty of time for an 8:00 departure. Only, the flight was rescheduled for 11:30. That would make it hard to keep my 2:00 appointment. After a 2 hour wait in line, I was rebooked on Midwest to Milwaukee, then to Reagan National Airport. It didn't make sense to go west before going east, but hey, it would get me there almost on time. I was game, and happily trotted to my gate. I asked for a window seat, and got a snort from the gatelady as she told me 'They are all window and aisle seats.' We descended the stairs and it became apparent why the snort; I climbed aboard a Chrysler minivan with wings (ok, it wasn't a Chrysler, but a Raytheon Beech 1900D). I expected to see wood on the sides. As I stepped over the hump in the floor where the wing strut went through, I found my seat near the back. The seat in front of mine flopped over forward when I touched it. The back of the airplane featured a 3-wide bus bench up against a wall which was being thumped and rattled loudly by the baggage handlers. The windows were tinted smoky brown, and there was no PA system. The enormous young copilot shut the door and checked for daylight around the edges, then thanked us for flying and wished us luck. He said if anyone needed to communicate an emergency, we should come up and talk to him. I suddenly wished there was a bathroom on this plane. As we got to the runway, I was impressed by the massive amount of thrust generated by the twin propellers. I was pushed back into my wobbly seat with considerable force, and it made me forget the peeling paint on the engine cowl for a moment. We were aloft in no time, and crossed Lake Michigan as the crunchy center of a cloud sandwich. There was a fluffy layer of thick marshmallow clouds below, and wispy cotton stretched above. It was beautiful. I arrived in Wisconsin over mini icebergs in Lake Michigan and snowcovered residential neighborhoods. Milwaukee is Midwest's bustling hub, but one entire terminal seemed deserted. I wandered around while waiting for my next flight, and spotted something... icky. It reminded me of the scene in the Eddie Murphy movie Coming To America involving excessive hair product. The second leg of the trip was AWESOME. This time I boarded a brand-new-looking Boeing 717, and they proved the Midwest slogan, 'the best care in the air.' Not only were the flight attendants friendly and professional, but the seats - oh.my.goodness. They were ALL business class seats, leather upholstery, 2-2 configuration, wide enough for my fat ass AND some wiggle room. The lunches they served were delicious, and my friendly seat mate awoke me from a nap to let me know the cookies were coming. So what, you may ask? Well, let me tell you, if there's one way into my heart, it's via warm chocolate chip cookies, and more than one, thank you. They have earned a customer for life in me. Plus, the plane was on time, which is always something one hopes for. I arrived at Reagan National and got my Dodge Magnum station-wagon-with-attitude, and made the trip to the jobsite. It was a beautiful night, and I had time to take some decent pictures. Unfortunately, I did NOT have time for the meeting; the place was closed down by the time I showed up. The next morning, we met on site and began going through the inspector's concerns. Turns out his concerns were not only justified, but not hardly concerned enough. I found missing items and missed connections and enough things just plain wrong that if there was a heavy snow and a little wind, I would not be found inside that building. A long list was made and provided to my installer, and he set about making things right, which is good. That left me with a little time to kill before my flight out, so after returning the car and writing my report, I found myself at the Steven Udvar Hazy Center (silly name for an awesome airplane museum). It's on the Dulles Airport property, and features bunches of airplanes and flight artifacts. Boy and I spent an entire day in Washington DC a few years ago at the Smithsonian Air & Space museum, so this was right up my alley. It features all kinds of sweet airplanes, real adventurer stuff, and baby changing rooms. It's true. Also, it may have featured Oliver North. I walked all the way around him, but didn't ask if he was him because he was in conversation and that would have been rude. On the way out, I overheard one security guard saying to another, "Homo erectus! Homo erectus was found all over Asia, I tell you!" The hell? Is this what rent-a-cops normally discuss? Tell me, I don't know. The time came for me to sprint across 8 lanes of heavily-laden human traffic to my gate at the airport. I did so, arriving at my gate right on time (4:04) for a 4:14 flight. Only, um, wait. The display showed my flight leaving at 5:51. Which would wreck my connection in Detroit. I waited in line, which is what you do when you buy a Northwest ticket, moving at a rate of one passenger per 28 minutes. I started out #6 in line. #7, the nice lady behind me, missed a flight to Houston that would have saved her connection because of the long wait. Two hours later, I was told that the airplane that would take me from Detroit to Grand Rapids was in Washington DC as we speak, undergoing repairs, and would likely be delayed as well. I was further told that I should fly to Detroit because "chances are good" I would make it to Grand Rapids tonight. That was the best he could do, he said with a shrug. I went to the seating area to wait further. After a moment, I felt a bit peckish and picked up some pepperoni pizza from the purveyor across the parkway. Midway through my 2nd bite, I was informed that the gate had changed, pack up your belongings and trot (1 mile) to B15. B15 was under construction. There were bulldozers and open dirt at B15. As it turned out, we were to take a shuttle out to the 'remote parking area' for our airplane. My fellow passengers and I finally boarded a variable-height all-purpose shuttle bus, and waited (which, as you know, comes standard with a NWA ticket). Finally, we drove out to an airplane, parked all alone on the tarmac, and after extensive adjustment and wiggling, were able to walk directly from bus to plane. With a little rain shelter, too. That was a nice touch I must admit. After getting cozy in my $15 upgrade exit row window seat, we waited some more. Another 30 minutes or so. It was rush hour, said the pilot. Naturally, we arrived in Detroit well after my flight to Grand Rapids departed. It was at this point I began wondering about new acronyms for NWA: Not Working Again? No Way Anytime? Nincompoops With Airplanes? Turns out there were more to come, as Northwest has an entire gate dedicated to rebooking broken connections. And, as you would expect, the rebooking center features the customary long wait. 2 hours again. I found that I was automatically rebooked for 8:30 the next morning (it was now 9:00 PM or so), but I was on my own for where to stay and how to pay for it. It's a 3 hour drive from Detroit to GR, so why can't they just give me a free rental car and I'd be on my way? "Oh, we don't have any agreements with rental companies," she said. "Isn't there any other way?" I asked. There happened to be one more flight that night to Grand Rapids, but it was overbooked. I could fly standby, if I liked. Yes, I liked. So I waited in THAT line for about 1 hour while all the confirmed passengers boarded. I made it aboard as one of the last 3 allowed, and I was grateful. I slunk into the very last row, up against the bathrooms in an Airbus A320. 158 passengers in front of me continued to breathe and make the air humid and stale as we waited some more. The first officer announced he was resetting the lights, and did so. The cabin went dark, then flickered, then the lights came on. Except for the 'fasten seat belt' lights, which seemed to be the initial problem. 3 resets later, they called a mechanic. I took a nap to avoid the chatty Spaniard beside me as the mechanic worked the problem. I awoke an hour later to find myself not in Grand Rapids, but still in FREAKING DETROIT. It's a 20 minute flight. This was not turning out to be my day for travel. As I now announce, I made it home safely. Even my luggage made it home, which impressed me substantially - but I still harbor some bitterness toward Northwest.

Today, Girl and Mrs. Spiffy are in Disneyworld enjoying 80 degree swimming weather. Boy and I went to Crystal Mountain to go skiing, and had the ultimate best weather day ever. It would have been perfect except for a potentially broken thumb and a really broken cell phone. Clumsiness aside, it was a perfect day. I almost forgot how much Northwest sucks. Almost.

Flapping My Wings

This Monday, as has been previously mentioned, for those who are keeping track, is the first of many days I'll be Elsewhere. Probably in a windowless room in the back of a seedy motel, just me and a computer and a lonely engineering trainer. Maybe another designer or two, but these classes are usually pretty customized. One of the best parts of this trip is I get to fly there (my very favorite thing). Another best part is when I return, I'll no longer be between jobs, but be able to focus on the new gig. A third best part is it's a week with different scenery. Since I am one who loves variety, this is a good thing. Another (fourth, if you're counting) best part is yon Alabama is roughly 70 degrees warmer than hither. That, my friends, rocks. While we're on the subject of flying, Mrs. Spiffy decided to take Girl on a Girls-Only Vacation during spring break. Where would Girl like to go? Disney World, of course. This greatly pleased Mrs. Spiffy, who used to go with her family every year. They looked into the cost and timing of driving, and opted to fly. Which came as a surprise to me, since Mrs. Spiffy isn't a big fan of flying, and it's kinda pricey for an impromptu little getaway. But, they've decided it Shall Be and both are working extra jobs to make up the difference. It fell to me to book the tickets, since I have some degree of internet air travel booking experience. I compared prices and dates, and surrounding airports, and came up with a good budget number. I selected Southwest and plunked in the dates, credit card number, and hit "Purchase." All was set, and they were committed. Three days later, we discovered afresh that I am an idiot. I got a phone call from Mrs. Spiffy at the office. "Um, can we come home after our vacation?" "I don't know. Do you think you should?" I answered. "Well, it's where we live," she said flatly. Turns out SOMEone had incorrectly thought, with all confidence, that 'round trip' was selected before air travel was purchased. It wasn't. The nice people at Southwest kindly sold me another pair of tickets. Same price as the first leg of the trip, which was just slightly less than the price I'd found for round trip tickets elsewhere. Which is why I'm now working an extra weekend job, to help pay for their little excursion. They'll be camping at Fort Wilderness, which is a much nicer place to camp in February than most anywhere in Michigan. They have an adorable little tent and it's fun seeing Girl count up the trip money that's pouring in from their enterprises. Boy and I will be all bachelor-like for a week, watching chick-flick-free teevee and leaving the seat up, eating spicy foods and burping all we want. Oh wait, Mrs. Spiffy is the family champion belcher, so I guess we'd better come up with something distinctly bachelorey. Any ideas? We may go skiing, who knows. It should still be hella cold then.

I'm Planning a Sesquicentennial Exhortation of Clinquant Omniscients

I was talking to a friend last night, who exclaimed at one point, "Wow, I've never put a 'daddy hat' on you before. I know you have kids, it's not like they're secrets, but when you were talking about them just now I really made the connection." Well, dang - I'm a full-time Dad, so that came as a bit of a surprise. So, here's a story riddled with kiddos. Date Night is a sometime tradition in Spiffytown. It started many moons ago, where each parent would have a night alone with a kidlet once every week or month or so, then switch kiddos for the next one. During busy seasons, which seem to run together, Date Night is often neglected. I caught up a little bit a couple weeks ago. I took Boy out for Chinese on Tuesday, since the wimmins in our house don't care for it. We piled on the wontons and cashew chicken, chatting about plans and skiing and odds & ends. He just started driver's training last night, which is vastly different than when I was a beginner driver. First of all, it wasn't offered in winter - which, if you ask me (and I know you're asking since you're here), is a good idea, teaching 'em how to drive in snow, since (surprise!) it snows here. Second, there's the waiting list, which for him was many months. And (c), there's the cost. When I was a whippersnapper, it was offered through the public schools using ginormous Caprice station wagons (built like tanks) for the road and crappy little Volares for the range. All using tax money. No charge to the whippersnapper. However, now we have to fork over hunnerts to get him trained up. As a capitalist, I suppose that makes good sense. As the one paying the bill, it pisses me off. Not enough to vote Libertarian, but still. I discovered he's been invited to Sweetheart Swirl, which was supposed to be last weekend but canceled because of a little weather. It's happening this weekend, and he's happy because he doesn't have to go clothes shopping. Yep, he's a man after my own heart. Speaking of which, I found out about this game he likes which involves math... and bloodshed. Oh, it's fun alright, but I had to cringe every time he scored a hit. If you click, play vs. the computer... Girl and I went out on Thursday, to a nice place near the 'movie village.' It's a little city all to itself, where you can stroll the covered sidewalks from theater to record shop to restaurant, art gallery, coffee house, and salon. I got Fettuccine Jambalaya, and she got a wood-fired pizza. As we gourmeted ourselves to contentment, I heard about her little stalker. Oh yes, she already has a stalker. His opening line to her was, "My girlfriend just dumped me, and I'm lonely. Will you be my girlfriend?" Um, no thanks. He persisted over the weeks, trying to wear her down with his abundant charms and questionable hygiene skills. She continued to politely decline his advances. Finally, she asked him, "Would you like my father's phone number?" He did not get any clues from this. "No, why would I want that??" She eventually took her plight to a teacher, and he's calmed down since then. That's my girl alright. She has a custom when we're out in public of asking everyone we encounter, "Do you like your job?" Waitresses, cashiers, stockers, snowplow drivers, anyone. Sometimes it's when she notices a particularly grumpy worker. Other times it's as if she's doing research, to find out what kind of job she's going to want. Often she'll get glib, off the cuff answers. Sometimes there's a surprised and thoughtful response, one lady even coming to the verge of tears. Ever the conversationalist, she announced at dinner one night that she wanted each of us to tell our Most Embarrassing Story Ever. I have so many to choose from, but I narrowed mine down to the time I was trying to impress a girl at a dance, and just before delivering a sure-fire opening line ("Hi!"). I sneezed. In her face. Oh, it wasn't pretty. These little buggers are fascinating. I had a few memorable times of being 'alone with dad' when I was a kid, and I want to make sure it's not an unusual thing for us.

Phyllis

I concocted Tiff's Pot Roasty (oasty oasty) today for the Family Dinner. It was a big hit, and Girl only squirted a little ketchup on it (grrr...). Delicious! I'm a hero again. As the meal was winding down, Mrs. Spiffy asked me where I learned to cook. I thought following directions was a pretty easy way to make food turn out well, but I had to say my mom taught me the basics ("Don't light the house on fire and follow the directions."). Then she asked me for my favorite memory of my mom. I fell silent. I couldn't think of one. For several minutes, I sat blankly, sadly, empty. She spoke up. "I have lots!" she volunteered. There was the time at my in-laws' brand new, beautiful and very swanky log-cabin home that mom was found under an end table, playing with all the young kids. Then she would sing them songs and bounce them on her knees. Another time while helping paint our first house, my father-in-law came running to my mom, a registered nurse. "Phyllis, please help! My finger is stuck in the paint roller!" She tenderly, gingerly unscrewed the roller from his finger, taking care not to cause any pain. "That was fun!" he said, jamming it back on. She looked so concerned for his safety. The more I thought about it, the more memories came rolling back. Most involving neighbor kids (our house was the local gathering place, and the fridge was open to anyone), Campfire Girls (she was the council chairwoman and a group leader for some time), and food. She taught a lesson to a campfire group, hanging a paper sign on each girl's neck that read, "IALAC," which stands for I Am Lovable And Capable. Any time someone would hear a put-down or unkind word, they were to tear off a little chunk of their own sign and hand it to the offending party. In 30 minutes, rudeness and insults disappeared from a group of 15 girls. No matter who was over or what was going on, she was always trying to feed them. Never fancy, always friendly, she would make anyone feel welcome. She was very creative, intelligent, and had a goofy sense of humor (after the 7th chorus of "Three Short-Necked Buzzards," it was more goofy than humor). Most of my personal memories, unfortunately, involve me trying to leave. I resisted her authority regularly, either by argument, manipulation, or flat-out disobedience. As a youngster I would climb out my bedroom window onto the porch roof and down the tall pine tree to escape a grounding or early bedtime. When I gained my driver's license, I was home as little as possible. I tried moving out twice before finally (finally - at 20 years old) getting married and leaving for good. The reasons for all this escapism escape me. I'd like to think I was running toward something, because I sure can't figure out what I could have been running away from. Mom has MS. She's been in a nursing home about 2 hours from my home for several years, unable to get out of bed, walk, or even straighten her legs. She is in constant pain, especially if anyone touches the bed or her. She can't read my blog, write to friends, hold a phone, hold my kids, or even hold a conversation most days. I miss her.

Not The Loot Report

Another Christmas come and gone. Well, nearly gone. There's still the cleanup. I kinda like the idea I heard a few weeks ago from a certain Scrooge about 'The Man With The Really Clean Living Room..." The kidlets made out like bandits (again). It was a stroke of genius to get Boy a season pass at the local ski resort. Especially considering there has been no snow whatsoever in 3 weeks, and the temperatures have been too high for snowmaking (yes, people actually make snow. On purpose). Girl got pretty much everything she asked for, and so did I for that matter. They each got sweet digital cameras, and I expect to see unflattering pics of myself on their blogs soon. I got a guitar tuner, clothes, wallet, and a joke book. The cat got into the cheesecake and promptly yakked on the new shirt I was planning to wear today; other than that, it was smooth sailing. I got Mrs. Spiffy an exercise ball. Now, this may strike some of you as eminently unwise, but I did my research, yo. I saw how popular it was at the Office Party, and she even hinted I should steal it for her. Plus, I cleverly hid it in the back of my Jeep with my emergency winter supplies, knowing it's her nature to snoop (I once gave her a CD wrapped in a dishwasher box - the one gift she didn't guess that year). Sure enough, she found it, said she liked it and was even looking forward to receiving it. This morning, on our way to yet another Family Gathering, I mentioned my increasing interest in working out, and asked if I could borrow her exercise ball (I held my tongue and did NOT point out that only one hour ago, it was MY exercise ball). She raised her eyebrows and said, "No offense, but isn't there a weight limit on that thing?" Well, she DID call 'no offense.' Now pass me that cookie. =================================== There was some excitement in the neighborhood today. My sister was hosting the festivities. She lives on the border country, between the decent and scary parts of town: Right across the street from a very scenic psychiatric hospital, and down the block from the county jail. We looked out the front window and noticed an overflowing handful of police cars in front of the house, crawling back and forth with lights a-flashing. My brother in law went outside to see what was the matter. He noticed his neighbor's garage door had been kicked open, and waved Officer Friendly toward the scene. Apparently, a bad guy was being transported to jail and figured out a way to jump out of a moving cruiser. He passed by my unlocked car, keys dangling from the ignition, and was hiding under a car in the neighbor's garage. The fuzz converged in the driveway. Guns and 12-pound flashlights were drawn on the poor guy as he was dragged from under the car by his dreadlocks. My brother in law earned a hearty handshake and a "Thank you, fine citizen!" for his snitching good deed. How was YOUR Christmas?

But You Told Me To

Yesterday was a rough one for my young nephew. I'll call him Alfred. His teacher had had it. She was fuming over the condition of the room. Apparently, 25 hyperstimulated squirrel monkeys were just too much for her, and the classroom needed some attention. She stood in front, hands on her hips, and hissed through clenched teeth, "This room is a pigsty. I, am leaving for 15 minutes. You, will clean it up. When I return, this room had better sparkle." With that, she marched out of the room, apparently to have a nervous smoke and a nip off the hip flask. Obediently, the kids set out to make things right. They put away books and toys, cleaned the white board, tidied up all their desks, and hung up coats and hats. One even found some Windex and was going to work on the big wall of windows. From 4 feet and below, those windows were fingerprint-free. Now, little Alfred has a limited grasp of clean. He's perfectly content to sit for hours on his knees playing Legos or video games, in a room littered with weeks' worth of laundry and dead guinea pigs. At least, that's how it would be if it were up to him. Fortunately, our state has a health department and his mom has a healthy fear of it. What Alfred does have is a very literal mind. He found an industrial size jar of glitter. He remembered the Teacher's words. He could certainly make the room sparkle. As the other kids continued with their chores, he went around the room like a little wingless Tinkerbell, adding sparkle to every surface. Windowsills, ventilators, coatracks, bookshelves, and the Teacher's desk all received a generous sprinkling of fairy dust. He sat back, very pleased with the overall effect. Unfortunately, this did not earn him the praise he expected. In fact, she was even more furious than before, and made him desparkle the room after class. There's no pleasing some people.

Just Filler

This Saturday I took another wog. This time I brought the boy and the dog, because you can jog like an idiot in a group and less people notice. However, both boy and dog are natural runners, and would frequently leave me wheezing in their frozen dust. The boy, he got his varsity letter in rowing last year. As a freshman. The dog, as Bruce Springsteen would say, was born to run. I was born to loaf, but there aren't many anthems about that. ============ About today's title. If you want to see some REAL writing, the kind that spills over you more naturally than warm beer from a leaky metaphor, check this out. She calls it 'Just Filler' and spun it out in, oh, 12 minutes. I'm not quitting my day job. Ever. =========== Do you have someone in your life that makes new discoveries every day? It's amazing to see childlike wonder and excitement over the littlest commonplace things. Each evening, without fail, we'll be in the family cruiser going to or fro. My house is out of town, so every activity includes drive time. I'll be at the controls, piloting us smoothly through the jackass-flecked roadways, the kidlets and/ or their friends will be in the back kidletting, and Mrs. Spiffy will be in her place to my right. At some point after dusk, she will look up and notice that there are other cars on the road. This is unacceptable, and she lets me know by simultaneously clutching her side window, grabbing for my steering hand, and shrieking, "LookouAAAARRHHH!" This used to be unnerving. In fact, it's a miracle there isn't a tree-shaped dent in my bumper because of these little alerts. It's one of those things you get used to, if it happens enough. The proper response, I've found, is to hand over her eyeglasses. She's had them for over a year. They're always in the little drawer over the ashtray. She puts them on, and I brace myself. It's hard to plug one's ears invisibly, but there are techniques one can use. "Wowww!! I can see! Did you know these things help me see better? They're not that strong but still... Wow!" Every. damn. day. ============= On great uncling and wisdom, Kenju suggested that I try to pass on the Family Knowledge to the new bambino. That's a tall order, especially when the babymama is a moron. Don't get me wrong, I love her dearly and always will, but I've met smarter sand fleas. I shall do my best. All the great uncles in my life were large, old, mysterious men who smelled faintly of hay. And manure, but mostly hay. The Old Spice didn't do much to cover either. They would show up in their well-rounded Sunday Overalls to family reunions at Christmas and Mother's Day, and talk to my dad as if they knew him. I had to ask nearly every year what their names were. Sturdy, old-world names like Gus, Yogi, Gerritt, and Sid. They would eye me suspiciously for a moment, and go back to work on their plates of green bean casserole and chicken while my cousins and I ran around the place. I never got much wisdom from them, and it's too bad. I hear they were good men.