The Kids Are Alright

This may be a new business idea in your neck of the woods, but it’s not new in mine. It IS, however somewhat unique, so I thought I’d share it.

So let us say that you own a parcel of undeveloped land. Perhaps it’s not even a full acre, and it’s on a hillside. It’s inconvenient to keep the wild grasses down (especially important during fire-season), because of the pitch of the land, or the gully that runs down the middle, the wild blackberry bushes and mass of poison oak crawling throughout the property, or the oak trees that are scattered about. Getting a mower in there to keep things at bay is not an option, and a “weed eater” type device would take literally 8 days or more. Short of pouring a weed kill over the entire property (which, of course, no SANE person would do in our very ecology-sensitive state), what’s a person to do?

As I’ve said this is not a new idea in my hometown, but it is still quite a sight to see. You’re driving home from a hard day – conference calls that went way too long and solved nothing, bosses asking for more things on your “done” list while adding nothing but things to you “to do” list, co-workers who honestly are just on the edge of pissing you off for no real reason – and you work your way through the traffic, get off the freeway and as you start to unwind, you turn a corner and see this:There’s just something about seeing a goat that make me laugh. For starters, I grew up with ‘em. We had three (Chuck, Billie, and Cookie – names that prove you should NEVER allow your children to name your pets) and they were great fun. Terrific personalities, great size for a kid to hang out with, and on the really hot nights when I’d be allowed to sleep outside in the hammock, they’d all hang out under me and I could reach down and pet them whenever I wanted to. Our three weed-eaters did TERRIFIC work, and that image you have in your head about a goat chewing on a tin can? It’s very true.

Only in the mind of a goat would it make sense to be in a huge field of terrific dry grass and go through the trouble of reaching up to nibble on an oak tree. If these guys were people, the two watching would be saying something like “yanno, it may just be easier to concentrate on the massive amount of food at ground level”. Since they are goats, those two watching are likely thinking “heyyyyyyy – that’s a GREAT idea!!!”

Like all workers, they do make sure to take the occasional water cooler break and catch up with old friends. Imagine how great YOU’D feel if every now and again, during your regular workday, you could get in a good game of head-butt. I’m sure there’s some silly regulation against doing so, but there have been days when I have thought about grabbing someone by their noggin and giving them a good head-butt.

Anyway, since I was clearly starting to be noticed by the workers,
I decided to leave them to the task at hand. In the next few days, I noticed that they were being moved down the road from field to field. I figured that by Friday, they’d be gone, and I was right. I look forward to seeing them again soon.

Voyeurism ... redux

So that car that I blogged about literally HOURS ago?

Dad tossed me the keys and told me to take her for a spin. Dutiful daughter that I am, I did so - and, in fact, I drove it directly to a local classic car show that I happened to remember about in my neighborhood. On the last Wednesday of each of the warmer months, a bunch of local car geeks gather and show off their latest projects.

As I was one of the first to arrive, I secured a spot that allowed for a quick getaway (in case Dad wasn't up for the idea of showing off), and called him to grab his "car bible" (it is a pictorial of literally every car he's ever owned) and come on down.

Well, suffice to say, I've created a monster. He now has multiple invites to enter in "Hot August Nights", and has signed up three other car shows (that I know of anyway). I left about an hour ago, took his truck back up home (to swap out for my car) and pre-apologized to Mom about what I'm sure will be his latest addiction. (I'm kidding - I didn't apologize and actually, she was REALLY happy with the idea. Now he'll have "car buddies" to hang out with.)

Anyway, he made a bunch of new friends, the car is a HUGE hit, and it's so pretty in the sunlight, I believe it deserves another shot.

Vehicular Voyeurism

A friend of mine recently expressed surprise at watching me enjoy playing a video game. Now, I’ll easily grant you that I’m not a “gamer” by any stretch of the imagination and – in the electronic arena anyway – I’m not competitive. If, however, we’re talking about real life stuff (including board or card games) – well then I’m VERY competitive. And I’m a terrible winner, too. So *when* I beat you in backgammon … and I will, oh YES I will … don’t cry when I point out all the dumb moves you made. Because I will, oh YES I will.

I blame my father for the "terrible winner" trait. Just like I blame him for my infatuation with cars, which brings me nicely to today’s topic - automobile erotica or, if you’d like for me to dumb it down, car pron. I have been known to, mid-sentence, stop and downright drool when a classic car passes by. I make NO attempt to prevent this from happening, any more so than I would expect you to HIDE gawking at the hot waitress with the incredible rack as she bends over to hand you your milkshake, or the Olympic male swimmer who – dear God, is he stuffing socks in his Speedo???

Now car geeks come in all shapes and sizes and, as with any kind of pron, everyone has their fetishes. Me? Well you’ve seen Jake already, and my adopting Jake was inspired by my Aunt Eileen’s MG, which I’d coveted as a 6 year old. So I’ve been known to have lust after foreign imports but mostly, I’m an all-American gal. From the Camaro to the Mustang … from the Tbird to the holy grail of classics –

all rise, and bow your heads

– the Corvette.

You may be seated.

My father has been working his Corvette for about 6 years now. After watching him dabble for decades in various “project” cars, my mother and I had pretty much given up trying to prevent him from adding to his collection. We had him on the ropes for awhile, and then he started MAKING money by fixing them up and selling them. (Up until that point, it was merely a fancy garage stocked with a lot of nifty metal … a very expensive museum with a high insurance premium. Jay Leno’s wife must be a saint.)

So here comes the car pron. For those paying attention, here are the numbers: This is a 1960 Corvette,
completely restored from frame to fender. The restoration took between 450 to 500 hours to complete, and parts were found literally from all over the world. Every single thing on this vehicle WAS original to a 1960 Vette, except for the vanity plate. Also note the 327bhp engine.The base engine was a 230 (downright tragic for a vehicle with a 24-gallon gas tank), but just over 10,000 were specially made with 327s. Said engine has (as you can easily see) been chromed and cleaned – and my father has promised that he won’t wipe it down after every single use. Maybe. Well, probably not anyway.

It’s not hard to see that my father is running out of things to do for this car. But not to worry, even though he’s done some ridiculous customization to his most basic transportation,(yes, he really did PAY to have Goofy painted on the doors and tailgate of his truck) there are more pressing projects ahead. You may notice two Model T’s under covers behind the Corvette.We’ve agreed that his Granddaughters will get these vehicles, so he has at least 13 years to finish them, and the paint on both is already complete, and both have working engines. He’s well ahead of the curve.

Speaking of curves, the road is acallin’, and it’s time to see what she can do. Get outta my way!

*squeeeeeeel*

GEFP Overnight Buttermilk Ciniyum Buns for Tena

I promised someone that I’d make these this weekend, and then I experienced huge waves of self-induced “family-first” guilt and basically wussed out. This doesn’t sit well with me – I don’t sign contracts lightly, I don’t shake hands unless I mean it, and I don’t go back on my word. (This means I’m always DEEPLY unhappy when other folks don’t take themselves and giving their word as seriously as I do, but that’s another show.)

Anyway, I promised Tena that I’d make breakfast this weekend. And, even after I explained to her my reasons for not going, and after I cancelled my trip, and ate a huge airfare fee, and told Scott I’d tour his estate some other time, I found myself looking at various places where I could overnight breakfast. It’s silly – I know she understands this wasn’t an easy call for me to make. I know that we’ll meet up at some point (hopefully prior to Wisconsin, assuming my health allows even for that trip), and I know she’s got a whole houseful of folks that she’s looking forward to hanging out with. (In fact, it’s 10:00pmCT currently, so they’re all seeing a movie right now.)

But a promise is a promise. I give you “GEFP’s Overnight Buttermilk Ciniyum Buns”. (Please note these are NEARLY identical to “AB’s Overnight Cinnamon Rolls”, except I add a healthy dash of Cayenne Pepper to the filing. It amps up the ciniyum mixture and, as my father says, “makes your tummy say ‘howdy'.") The dough is basic enough (eggs, sugar, butter, buttermilk, flour, yeast, salt) – and I will presume that you’re able to look up the “official recipe” so what I’m gonna show is only technique.

After resting and turning out the dough, the goal is to get it to a large rectangle – about a foot by a foot and a half, with the longest sides directly in front of you. If you are REALLY picky, you can cut the edges and such … as you can clearly see, I’m not that picky.
Your filling is a mix of brown sugar, a pinch of salt, a much more healthy pinch of Cayenne pepper, and cinnamon. (Don’t cheap out and use fake stuff on this – spend the green stuff for the real red stuff.)

Now ya’ dump the filling onto the dough, getting it as even as possible (knowing to keep a bit of edge free ‘cause it WILL push to the edges all by itself) and keeping about ½ an inch at the top, to seal things up.

Starting at the edge closest to you, roll the sheet away from you. You’ll NEVER be able to do a complete roll all at once, so work from the middle out, and then out to the middle. (Hopefully you’ve dusted the rolling surface enough so that there are no sticky problems.
When you get near the end of the filling and there’s less than a full turn left in the roll, bring the other edge up to the top. Spend some time evening things out, and then roll the entire log over, so the seam is on the bottom. Ideally, your log will be about as thick as your average rolling pin (‘tho it will likely be longer than one).
Using a serrated knife, figure out even slices from your log, factoring about 1 ½ inches for each roll. (The recipe says that you’ll be making 12 rolls, but that has more to do with how thin the dough is when you start with the roll and how big your rectangle was. I always seem to get anywhere between 13 and 15, honestly.) I also tend to start by cutting the entire log in half first – it’s just easier to work with that way for me, and yes, it’s prettier. (For those paying attention, yes that’s some of my copper collection on the far wall, those are some of my Shun knives in the Shun block, and that *is* a Foghorn Leghorn Tile in the upper right corner. What?)

The recipe says that the cut side of each roll should be placed on the bottom of the baking dish (which please GOD tell me you’ve buttered) but honestly, I’ve never had a problem with the rolls not rising. Here are my little beauties just prior to having an overnight party in the refrigerator. (You’ll see 13 here, but I couldn’t make myself toss out the two ends, so I wound up with 15 actually.)
After waking up to a hungry cat (and a nifty little migraine that would NOT let go of me dammit), I woke up my buns, so to speak, with a 30 minute rest in a cold oven, with only a steaming pan of hot water at the bottom rack to get ‘em going again. After a brief run to Starbucks, it was time to get the oven to 350 (remembering, of course, to remove my buns first) and I turned my attention to the cream cheese drizzle for the top. This is just cream cheese, milk, and powdered sugar but I probably triple-whip it just to make sure that it’s beyond smooth. (Not so much the fault of the powdered sugar, which I sift, but of the cream cheese not always blending well with the milk.)
A quick peek at my buns midway through to see how they’re doing – and heck, just to smell ‘em more.
And then back to the mixer to see how the icing is doing. I know I’m there when I get a good ribbon at the end of the whisk – like this.Upon a “ding”, the oven door is opened and … seriously, this must be what Heaven itself smells like. It’s spicy and yeasty and kinda sweet (not as much as you’d expect) and somewhat tangy (the buttermilk) and again, that’s all just the smell. And we’re not even DONE yet. These, however, are – they’re G,B and, I’m sure, D.Now the part that honestly I think is MOST nerve-wracking in this entire process? The part of cooking that I like the very least? It’s not the cleanup, or the occasional mishap, or picky eaters or anything … it’s the first slice. No matter WHAT I bake, the first slice for me, is a “now you’ve done it” thing. There’s no recovering from it. So – did I get it right? Yes. Yes, I did.
And now, I present the hot, creamy ending we all so richly deserve.

These are, dear people, my version of the “GEFP’s Overnight Buttermilk Ciniyum Buns”. Share them with someone you love today … er, tomorrow. You can MAKE ‘em today, but you’ll eat ‘em tomorrow.

The Family Circus

I haven’t updated things in awhile, not to any real depth anyway, so I guess it is time to do so.

A lot of my being private and protective of some of the details (and people) in my life is directly linked with either avoidance and/or procrastination. It’s kind of like the child that plays hide and seek by covering his eyes and says “you can’t see me ‘cause my eyes are closed”. The logic is faulty, but on a certain level, the idea is valid. If I close my eyes, even for a few minutes, to the pain and sadness that is galloping through my family, I can decide to not acknowledge it and, for those few minutes at least, it doesn’t exist. One gets creative on these things when forced to, I suppose.

I closed my eyes for a few days last week, and decided to NOT check in with my folks, didn’t call into my voicemail, and didn’t talk with my sister. I wasn’t “off the grid” – I was online and my folks know that my Crackberry allows me access to my personal email accounts – so if something awful were to have happened, I would have known about it but I decided to not make it a part of my schedule each day. Honestly, it was pretty wonderful at the time.

Like all good games of hide and seek though, eventually you need to tag-up at home base. The news was not good.

Now realistically, I have known for months how this journey will end. I know that my Aunt Verna, no question, is dying. What bothers me FAR more, though, is that she is not “living”, and there IS a difference. I’m not saying that she’s sitting on a chair and begging to expire – but she’s been robbed of the little joys she used to experience all the time. Primary of those joys is the annual escape to the lake house she and my Uncle have had for more than 45 years. It’s well established that Verna and Ernie leave mid-May from their gray-skied city home and live at the lake house until mid-September.

As it is now the 21st of May, there is MUCH discussion among the family as to what this Summer season will look like, and I don’t understand the problem, honestly. In my typical ultra-stubborn “shut up and do it, dammit” fashion, I don’t understand why we aren’t hiring three or four caregivers to work in 6 hour shifts and just let these two people enjoy their last Summer on the lake, in their home that they’ve known and enjoyed for decades. It’s plain to see that if Verna’s day arrives, it will make little difference where that happens or what our response is. Honestly, her doctors are all of the “just go and be comfortable” mindset by now so … what’s the holdup?

And, while that’s all very well and good for me to say, I am cut from the same cloth as the rest of my family. I was to travel this weekend to visit a bunch of friends, enjoy great company, see new sites, and share terrific food … and now, on the day I was originally scheduled to depart, I find myself unable to do so. I all-too-vividly remember the last time I traveled more than a state away last October. I remember having a terrific time, laughing a lot, seeing new things, enjoying great food … and then ignoring my cell when my mother called me with news of my father’s heart attack. I made a silent vow to myself to do whatever I could (when things were in my control to do so) to be a more present family member. Could I forgive myself if I fell short of my own expectations again? It is not something I choose to gamble with.

So I will continue to focus on the center (family-based) ring of this three-ring circus and, for the time being, if doing so pushes my own small joys out of the spotlight, so be it. In the third ring are my friendships, and those that know me well will take the time to understand and I’ll do my best to be a worthy friend. Sometimes that means more than being present – it means being THERE. Right now I can only be present, and my friends deserve better than that.

Step right up - to the greatest show on Earth.

One massage with happy ending, please

Almost two months ago, I wrote that Tim went with me to the mall near our HQ offices over lunchtime to pick up a quick gift. As we were leaving, we noticed a couple of massage chairs and kinda kicked ourselves for not seeing them sooner. “Next time” we agreed.

Well ok – it took two months, but we visited today, with the express purpose of using those chairs.

We walked in the mall, mid-conversation and … no chairs. Not a great start. We walked down the main hallway for a bit (past a shop selling Tiffany Sunglasses which I didn’t even know existed but will be researching shortly) and saw a “Mall Information” kiosk. After quick instructions on where the chairs had been moved to, we also were asked “so you like those things then?” and we had to fess up that we didn’t yet know that to be true and we’d get back with our report.

Herewith is said report: These chairs are freakin’ hysterical.

I dunno if I’m more relaxed now than I was prior to sitting down. I can’t say that any knots I may have had are gone. I don’t even know if I’ll notice an overall difference between pre-massage chair and post-massage chair. I can say that putting in our money at the same time in each chair was a genius (and lucky) move, ‘tho. Tim would be mid-sentence and then say “oh wow – quit grabbing” and I’d know exactly what he was feeling. I’d be describing dinner on Saturday and suddenly start laughing. In the first 5 minutes of the 15-minute session, we both said something like “yep – but a little to the left”. It’s not that we didn’t get that the chair didn’t hear us. It’s just that we’ve both done the massage thing so it’s second nature to try to advise the activity.
To a chair.
In the middle of a mall.
At Noon.
On a Tuesday.

What I also can say that it was a great abs workout because we were both laughing pretty hard at the sensations we were experiencing. The rollers would start at the shoulders and slowly work down the back and then sometimes move too far out and would inadvertently tickle my sides, or they’d move too far in and pinch a big bunch of skin (it was NOT “back-fat”, dammit) to the point where I’d have to shift. And then the “pounding” would start – like my own little mini-earthquakes. It was about then when I'd have to wipe my eyes from tears of laughter.

At one point, either Tim or I may have wondered out loud if we’d get a happy ending, and either Tim or I responded by pointing out that with the pain we’d experienced, perhaps the ending wouldn’t be so happy after all.

Or, yanno, maybe neither of us said that at all.

(I just know it wasn’t me, ‘tho.)

Anyway, best $5 I’ve spent in awhile. Recommendation? Yes, no question, without a doubt. Cheaper than a comedy club, no two-drink minimum, and a happy ending damn near guaranteed if you experience it with a friend.

"Wait - wait what did you say?"

Though I purchased it more than a month ago, I’m still enjoying the occasional memory of scenes in “Stranger Than Fiction” – a movie starring Dustin Hoffman, Emma Thompson, Linda Hunt, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Queen Latifah & Will Ferrell. The movie is about a main character in a still-being-written novel who, as it turns out, actually exists in real life. The author of the novel (“Karen Eiffel” played by Emma Thompson) is trying to figure out a clever way to kill off her main character (“Harold Crick” played by Will Ferrell) but, instead, she stumbles onto a serious case of writers block.

Harold is living a boring little life in a boring little job (as an IRS auditor, no less) surrounded by boring little rules that he, actually, thrives on. He suddenly awakens one day to find his every move being narrated by the voice of an English woman who reminds Harold that he IS boring, and that those around him may not actually LIKE him (and WHY that’s true), and that these things that he takes comfort in and thrives on are, in fact, perhaps holding him back instead of keeping him “safe”. Harold gains all kinds of insight with these little bits of narration, especially after he is standing at a bus stop at the end of his day and he hears his narrator say "little did he know that events had been set in motion that would lead to his imminent death.” (Seriously – this scene alone makes the movie worth renting. Will Ferrell’s delivery of Harold’s response – the title of this entry – is priceless.) It’s not hard to imagine that we’d all listen more carefully if we heard something like that being said about us.

I described this movie – and the idea of having a narration that we all, to some extent, play in our own heads at times – to a friend of mine over the weekend. The movie was not a standard Will Ferrell box office draw, but I was glad to see that this whole notion of running your own movie in your head, or having your own narration, isn’t completely foreign. I know that I’ve been starring in my own “docu-dram-edy” for 39 years now.

Mid-morning on Sunday I was pretty deep in thought while driving alone in the car and the narration in my head was noticing the beautiful wild clover and the barn on the right that I’d been meaning to take a photo of and that image reminded me of the other barn near the coast on the drive to Pescadero Beach, and then I realized that I wasn’t really remembering to focus on my driving when, all of a sudden, I heard a woman’s voice say “turn left at the approaching intersection". This was ok though – it was the GPS unit making sure I wasn’t going to get lost.

Perhaps it would be more helpful if the standard GPS unit dispensed directions of a different sort … something like “little did she know that her life would be dramatically changed by a simple7-word text message” or “he would later refer to this as his greatest achievement, not realizing that he missed his true calling by not waking up just 25 minutes earlier that day".

Sadly, I think it would have to be a drastic announcement for most of us to pay attention. I think that, to a point, our internal narrators (and our bodies) are telling us all kinds of things all the time. It’s only when the narrator gets dramatic that we take a moment and listen to what is being said.

Note to self: Start listening more.

Lessons from The Fun Club

They are Rich & Pat, Paul & Sue, Jim & Doe, Joe (aka “Judge Joe”) & Tony, Butch & Alana, Al & Barbara, and Peter & Carol. Sometimes included are Shark (aka “The Colonel”) & Renee, and Dallas (aka “Uncle Gum”) & Melinda. The core five group of the men were all members of the rifle team in college. (This was back when it was alright to HAVE rifle teams in college.) Some were siblings (Shark & Butch, Paul & Carol, Dallas & Barbara) and others met because of the people they were dating (Paul was seeing Doe while he was in college ‘til she dumped him to marry Paul’s best friend, Jim.)

As you can see, three of these folks had nicknames, all job related. Judge Joe was seated on the superior court of a local large county. Shark … honestly I have NO idea what his actual name is – never heard him be called anything BUT Shark … was a very high-ranking Colonel who worked in countries that we weren’t allowed to know about doing things we NEVER asked about. Uncle Gum … ok, Uncle Gum had the coolest job EVER. He was the Western Hemisphere Vice President at Wrigley. (I cannot tell you the bedlam that would ensue when we kids knew we’d be seeing Uncle Gum and Melinda.) Jim & Doe have nicknames too – I call them “Dad” and “Mom”. Nicknames aside however, all 18 of these folks are collectively known as “The Fun Club”.

While growing up, once a month without fail, one couple would host the rest at their home for a blow out. St. Patricks Day? Fun Club dinner at Paul & Sue’s. Presidents’ Day? Fun Club dinner at Butch & Alana’s. Saturday, July 17th? Fun Club dinner at Dallas & Melinda’s. If all the kids attended at once, which would only happen at the New Year’s bash at Rich & Pat’s, the kids would out-number the adults by 4.

There were smaller sub-groups too, mainly by virtue of geography. Tho’ everyone lived in California, some were further flung than others. The sub-group that my folks were a part of was with Al and Barbara and their three kids, Matty, Suzie, and Jimmy. We spent more fun times as a combined family than I spent with any of my cousins or aunts and uncles. We vacationed together, we spent weekends camping together, or on the beach, or abalone diving. I vividly remember running cold beers from one car to the other while our folks were driving over Highway 92 to the coast one hot Fall evening. (Hey - I said we had fun times – I didn’t say they were SMART times.)

So when my mom called me Monday as I was leaving from my hair appt to tell me that Matt (he’s over 40 now so he probably outgrew “Matty”) was helping out my dad with a project on the house, I damn near broke the sound barrier to get there to see him. It’s been about 12 years since any of us “kids” have hung out at all. I have heard bits over time how everyone is doing, but Matt has been the enigma of the group, and that was always a bummer for me. My sister and Suzie had VERY little use for me (which makes sense, given that I was the youngest), so Jimmy, Matty, and I would wind up hanging out. Matt always made sure to include me, and he NEVER allowed anyone to make fun of my speech impediment, or my back brace, or my klutziness. He was the older sibling that my sister woulda been, but didn’t have to be.

Well anyway, when I walked downstairs to greet him, he had just wrapped up the job and was still covered in cobwebs and dust. He looked up and said “oh sure – just show up looking fabulous.” “Shut up and hug me, dumbass”, I laughed. I was relieved. Same Matty … same sense of humor, same kindness, same everything. And as we left my folks house at the same time, me to continue on my errand run and he to get to his next job site, he looked at Jake and said “Your ride”? “Yeah, one of them.” He paused and asked “Hey - what do you remember the most, from those times I mean?” “Well”, I offered, “I remember you looking out for me a lot. I remember NOT feeling awkward or like a pesky little sister. I remember fitting in, even though I know that I clearly didn’t.” “Hmm”, he said. “I remember not feeling like I needed to play the role of the fat, happy kid. I remember thinking that sometimes your dad had more faith in me than mine did. Sometimes more than I even did, actually.”

I guess it never occurred to me that we were both misfits growing up. I was so busy feeling self-aware of how different I was that I never even noticed Matt’s lack of self-confidence. In my head, he was infallible, so to hear him talk as ‘tho he was worried of being some kind of failure caught me off guard.

Of the five of us kids, the two that were most awkward or felt like they had the least to offer turned out, I think, pretty damn terrific.

Captain, my Captain ...

Today, as I'd promised myself earlier in the week, I stopped off at the grocery store before getting my morning coffee. I picked up two boxes of “Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries” cereal - one for me and one for my barista, John. This kid was gonna have Crunch Berries once in his life, by God, even if I had to spoon feed him myself.

I had a very late start, so the place was empty. John was restocking the cookies and snacks - and I nodded to another employee I know well, Kathy, who wordlessly started making my drink. (Again, the bonus of being so predictable is that my embarrassingly large order doesn't need to be repeated time and again.)

John turned to the register as I placed the box on the counter. “Here – now you can taste what I’m talking about.” He was taken aback – and it took him a minute or more to realize that I wasn’t offering to share – I was giving him the box. In fairness, I was giving the whole staff the box to share. Cereal to adults in their earlier twenties is like … like Viagra to men in their 50s. No one may not admit to wanting to try it, but hey … if the bottle/box is already opened, ya’ may as well give it a test to see what all the fuss is about.

Anyway, I returned home, and decided to have a serving of the cereal myself.

At this point, I should note that as a child, I FULLY enjoyed the various bowls of sugar that were named things like “Lucky Charms”, “BooBerry”, “FrankenBerry”, “Corn Pops”, “Cocoa Krispies”, etc. As a card-carrying member of kiddo-hood, I KNEW that if the milk didn’t change color, I was being fed something that might actually … gasp … be good for me. Sometime around 9 or 10 years old, ‘tho, I took notice when a father of a best friend was pouring himself a bowl of cereal. There were no marshmallows, and it didn’t look to have much sugar (or flavor), but you should have HEARD the crunch. Since that time, my cereal of choice has been “Grape Nuts”. Anything that made that much noise first thing in the morning … enough to make my parents glare at me and bother my sister … was aces in my book.

So anyway, I pour myself the bowl of Captain Crunch w/Crunch Berries and …

Yanno how everything in your childhood, to some extent, probably ISN’T as you remember it? How it’s been fixed, or is “new and improved” (over, I suppose the “old and inferior” WE had when we were enjoying the product)? Well some marketing genius decided to add extra colors to my Crunch Berries. It seems that hot pink wasn’t good enough – now there’s purple, and green and … blue. Good lord – there are BLUE Crunch Berries. Plus the milk hardly changed color at all.

Oh – and I realize now that I cannot blame General Mills for this atrocity. It seems the Captain is a member of the Quaker Family.

Screw it – I STILL may buy General Mills stock … just as a protest.

How I pick the stocks I buy.

Occasionally I am asked how I've chosen the stocks that are in my portfolio. I have a very effective formula - and I'll let ya' take a peak. It goes a little like this ...
*************************
My day didn’t start out great yesterday morning. I was a bit of a grump, actually. Suffice to say that the cat starting out the day by puking next to his food kinda kicked things off for me. I decided to see about changing my outlook by going on-line for a bit, which turned out to be ummmm … well, I guess the cat puke was still the morning highlight.

With the mantra of "please let's NOT be in this mood - it takes too much of my energy" going through my head (set to the tune of ... wait for it ... waaaaait for it ... "Boom De Yada!"), I turned Jake towards the familiar and friendly faces of my local coffeehouse. You KNOW the one – they have the somewhat-Italian sounding names for what would usually be “small, medium, large” beverages and are on every other corner in larger cities. People either love or lothe this chain. Me? I'm a shareholder.

Because I visit literally every morning, I’m known at this location. (I’m also known, by name and embarrassingly long personalized beverage order, at two other locations of this same coffeehouse chain. What can I say – I am, apparently “memorable”.) John, the employee behind the counter, had just finished giving out samples of some pink frothy thing and offered me a glass of it. “It’s strawberry”, he said, “and there’s no caffeine so you can try it.” I did, and it was lovely. And familiar. VERY familiar.

I finished the taste and said “uh … so this tastes JUST like … mmmmm … which cereal is it that has the Crunch Berries?” And another regular turned to me and said “You’re exactly right. This is a Crunch Berry slushie.” And for a few minutes, the customer base at this location discussed their favorite awful (but awesome) breakfast cereal.

“I wouldn’t know”, said the man-child that had whipped up this shot of deliciousness. “I’ve never had that cereal.” The whole scene stopped.

“Uh – what?” I said.

“Yeah, my folks never let us have that stuff … we did a lot of granola and … um stuff like that.” I was agog. “John – that’s … that’s practically un-American. On Friday, I’m bringing you a box of Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries and you’re gonna see what you’ve been missing.”

And I found that, when I left with my drink order, I was smiling. And it may have been the coffee, but I think it was the memory of the cereal.
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So I’m thinking … maybe I should buy some General Mills stock.

I'm the kind of person who .....

Given my most recent blog (and Dana's comment on same), I thought it'd be interesting to see how the general population would finish this statement:

"I am the kind of person who ..."

“… can easily trip while walking on flat pavement but is fabulously graceful on ice rinks.”
“… has no problem owning up to being wrong but almost always question myself if I think I may be right.”
“… listens to the same song over and over and over and over, until I don't remember I'm hearing it anymore.”
“… doesn't feel weird at getting teary-eyed at a Hallmark store, but feels too insecure to go to the movies alone.”
“… works best under a deadline, even if it means I have to work harder as a result.”

So … what kind of person are you?

The line between comedy and tragedy

An open blog to the woman on the cell phone with the BIG problems …

This Saturday, as I did errands around my small town, we passed each other on the street. I’d just parked my car around the corner from the Post Office, and was on my way to drop off several envelopes – some were letters to family members, others were payments to doctors and to the legal minds that I’ve been using as of late. You see, my Aunt is dying, and it appears to be happening sooner rather than later, so there are items that need my attention and I was distracted by those “life details”.

You, also, were distracted by your own “life details”. The snippet of your conversation that I overheard was as follows:

“I understand – I do – but you see – I’m just the kind of woman who doesn’t like topiary in plants and trees where ya’ wouldn’t ordinarily expect to see SEE topiary. It’s just … I have to draw the line there.”

So I COULD be bitter about this, but honestly – I wanna thank you. Thank you for making me laugh, even 48 hours later, at your statement. I actually want to spend my time now driving around town to see if I can figure out which house is yours so I can witness the horror that is your yard filled with the offending topiary in question.

Laughter and joy is where you find it, folks. Look for comedy and it will present itself to you in all forms and flavors. Just don't be so caught up in your own crappy "life details" that you miss the funny "life details". Because THAT would be a real bummer.

"Boom De Yada", indeed

Thank you, Discovery Channel.

Not only are you informational, entertaining, fun, striking, moving, and (at times) creepy to watch, now you're even making sure that my musical ear worms are fun, too.

http://dsc.discovery.com/video/player.html?bctid=1509264631

I will be getting a "Boom De Yada!" shirt, even if I have to make one myself.

Maybe she'll do the music for my after-school special?

I've always been all over the musical map. Rag Time, Punk, New Age, New Wave, Grunge, Classic Rock, British Invasion Bands, Country, Show Tunes, mindless Dance Music, "Chick" rock ... I make no apologies for my iPods.

More often than not, I'll wake up in the morning with a song in my head that stays with me for hours. For no apparent reason, I always think of a specific track from "Peter and The Wolf" when doing my laundry, as an example. Who knows WHY ... but I dream in music.

I am, specifically, a sucker for anything that features a piano. This isn't a huge secret for those who know my musical background and, 'tho I no longer play, there are days - or tunes that come to my ear - which ORDER me to the keyboard to play them. I'm usually able to work this out because (1) I have several keyboards readily available for me to bang away on and (b) I have perfect pitch. I know, before I touch any part of the ivory, what sound it will make, and which keys will compliment the note.

When my parents discovered that I had a "good ear" for music, I was immediately enrolled in private lessons, which I violently resisted. I had an awful speech impediment - I was short - I was LOUD - I was klutzy - and if all that "different" wasn't enough, now I was "talented", too. I was one thick pair of black-rimmed glasses and a bully away from being an after-school special.

I went twice a week to my dreaded piano lessons, where an older woman endeavored to teach me how to read music that I could just as easily repeat by ear after she'd played it for me. Which is exactly what I did. Anyway, Miss Batkin (yes, I do remember her name even today) would do her best to teach me pieces perfectly acceptable for my age - and I would sit on the bench - never looking at the sheet music she was reading from but watching her fingers, testing myself on "ok now what will THAT sound like?" I knew when she was about to make an error, before she did, but I was unfailingly polite and played along with the game. She would comment that at some point, I'd have to learn to turn my own pages - not realizing that I couldn't do that because I had NO idea how the scribbles up on the sheets related to the notes that I was playing.

After a year or possibly more of this, just as suddenly as the lessons started, they stopped. I don't remember what had happened. If I had to guess, I'd say that I'd broken my arm (again) and was finally given a reprieve ... and just didn't go back.

I'm still in awe of those who read music and hold those who play instruments other than the piano in high regard. See - for me, the keyboard, in all forms, is pretty basic stuff. The notes never change - ya' press Middle C and it's always gonna sound like Middle C. With a guitar (for instance), one hand will dictate what note will come out, while the other hand will dictate the measure of the sound itself. For me, that's close to voodoo. And while I can mimic well enough to copy a song, I cannot, for the life of me, improvise. I must have a musical goal when I sit at the piano. I need to know the destination.

Speaking of "destinations", I'd like to provide one for a close to this entry. It's not enough that Alanis Morissette comfortably expresses poetry with lyrics ("If God's taking bets, I pray he wants to lose") or that she is more beautiful today than she was 10 years ago (the bitch), but she also has an amazing voice. I give you "Not As We". (And yes, I tried to embed, but got no love. Just visit the old fashioned way.)

http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/AlanisMorissette/Not-As-We%3A-Nissan-Live-Sets-On-Yahoo!-Music--59775741