KITCHEN FRIGHT

I was putting away the dishes this evening.  Most modern women do this when they empty their dishwashers.  Since I am some kind of peculiar relic who has never fully departed the 60s (and since I happily use my dishwasher for the alphabetical storage of spices) I was pulling damp plates and glasses from my well-worn dish rack. As usual, there was “dish overflow” spilling out onto the toweled surface of my kitchen counter.  To any naysayers reading this particular post, I will say here that I stand FIRMLY by my dishwater theory. And I challenge any of you staunch automatic dishwasher supporters who believe that scraping, rinsing, arranging, processing, hearing incessant hum and sputter for an inordinate amount of water and heat-wasting time, and then finally arriving at emptying- only to discover ill-shapen plastic storage lids (and just narrowly escaping injury via loosened and relocated knives and other assorted sharp implements….) ...ahem... I defy you to consider that plunging ones hands therapeutically into hot soapy dishwater is a more effective process and an excellent remedy for most of the things that ail.  Wow, that was a long and unnecessary sentence.

Back to the story at hand…. I lifted a glass from the aforementioned overflow counter towel.  Said drinking glass had been resting upside-down for drainage and needed a quick swipe of my dish-towel.  But first, as if by reflex, I dislodged a foreign body which had mysteriously appeared and was somehow pressed onto the rim of the glass.  A pause.  Something was amiss. My dislodging finger was a beat or two ahead of my mind because as soon as I touched the foreign body, my mind snapped to horrified attention. A WORM.  A “c” shaped segment of EARTHWORM.  I shuddered and flicked with all of the flickiness I could muster and sent that worm sailing into the remnant bubbles in the sink.  But my overreaction was not finished.  I jumped up and down several times in complete disgust at having seen and TOUCHED a segment of worm.  A WHOLE earthworm would have been bad ENOUGH.  But a SEGMENT of earthworm that had been pinched in the center by the rim of a DRINKING glass was enough to skeeve me out COMPLETELY.  I began to retch and gag.  (I mean seriously, WHO dry-heaves from an earthworm segment?)  I continued my ridiculous display of shivering and jumping up and down, trying not to puke.  And with these calisthenics, my brain began to engage.  It is February.  I do not live in a mud hut.  My house could be accurately described as clean.  How could a worm have been strolling across my kitchen counter?  And if indeed this clever worm-pilgrim were journeying on my very own Hatfield kitchen counter in February, pray tell me WHAT has he done with the rest of his wormy segments?  

My eyes flew back to the worm carcass in the sink.  And that’s when I saw them.  The telltale freckles.  The worm was decidedly freckled.  He had salt freckles.  This dastardly worm which had so suddenly invaded the peaceful therapy of my dish detail was really….in fact….a stray piece of my snacking husband’s thin pretzels.  The offending pretzel “c” had swollen to a ghastly size due to the water draining from the drying glass.  I tell you, this pretzel was sporting a distinctly wormlike form.

I braced myself and exhaled.  And then in a grand and sweeping relief (and a nearly as grand and sweeping disgust at my own foolishness) I began to laugh until my daughter came out to discover what new nonsense had befallen her mother. 

There is never a dull moment.  And if you find you are having one, stop on by and I’ll put you to work washing some dishes.   Things are not always as bad as they seem. 

FORGIVE THE ATROCIOUS PHOTO - This was from Christmas and is the only dish-washing photo I own (Note: I do not wear sparkly Christmas tree t-shirts to wash dishes on a normal weekday evening...) 

A TRIBUTE TO A CAT

This is not the kind of thing I usually post on my blog. If you are not an animal lover, you should probably stop reading now. And to those who are bravely continuing on, I thank you for indulging  me as I remember a furry family member who left us yesterday.  This is my tribute to a very special cat.

My Memories of Life with a 15 Year Old Marvel 

Harley Shelly the Cat

·        The first time I laid eyes on him:  He and his small feisty littermates were in a cage at the local animal shelter.  All of his siblings came eagerly crawling over to meet me, hoping for some affection. Harley was not the least bit interested in socializing and instead, he attempted a daring escape, fleeing his jail entirely and hiding himself under the large row of cages.  I knew I had to have him.

·        10 year old Isaac named him Harley.  Because if and when he let us catch him, his insistent growling purr sounded surprisingly like a Harley Davidson.  Most of his first week on Roosevelt Boulevard was spent hiding behind the dryer and emerging sporadically with fluffy patches of lint clinging to his ears.

·        Jim was amused by the absolute disgust on Harley’s face when he was retrieved from a terrible appointment with a flea dipper.  They sent him back to us sporting a bandana scarf around his recently treated neck.  Devoid of cowboy aspirations, Harley distinctly loathed that scarf and it took him days to forgive us for the humiliation of it all.

·        As an adolescent cat, he stole rubber bands and stole our hearts, but also systematically drove us crazy by peeing willy-nilly on anything left on the floor that didn’t belong there.  I tried several times to convince coworkers and complete strangers to take him off my hands.  Maybe he was trying to make us tidy by insisting that everything remain where it belonged, but instead it made me INSANE.  In fact so insane that at one point upon discovering he had ‘watered’ the front room carpeting, I phoned Jim who was just landing in a plane at the Philadelphia Airport. I informed him with the hysteria a women who loves a clean house can rise to when confronted with cat leakage on her floor that I was on my knees and about to remove our carpeting with a steak knife.  In a calm and measured voice (as though speaking to a psychotic patient) Jim responded. “Brenda….can we talk about this when I get home?....”

·        It was fascinating how Harley was always sure the chicken or turkey roasting in the oven was being prepared expressly for him. He sat waiting in front of the stove and acted surprised when one of us accidentally stepped on him as we tried to wrestle the hot cooked bird from the oven.

·        I recall with great clarity the time I walked into the dining room when he was a kitten and a very small Aubrey was actually holding him by his ears.  His tiny triangular ears pinched mercilessly in each chubby toddler hand.  He was literally hanging by his ears. I ran over to rescue the poor cat and found him purring contentedly.  From that point on, he was on his own...

·        And then there was the evening our adventurous feline got stuck in the large dirt rabbit hole under the back deck (either out of curiosity or stupidity, we can’t be sure.)  Poor Jim had to pull the cat (which was by this point a ball of growling fur, flying claws, and piercingly sharp teeth) out of the hole by his back legs.  Obviously this resulted in severe bodily harm to the poor rescuer who stated emphatically that the next time Harley chose to get stuck down a rabbit hole, he would be more than happy to fill in the dirt around his fuzzy little behind.  (Okay, maybe my bleeding and furious husband didn’t say it quite that nicely….) We rarely let Harley outside and that little rabbit hole incident marked the last chapter in the Harley the Adventure Cat series.  He was forever relegated to window sitting and admiring the birds through glass. Given the muddy smear on his record, potted plants were as close to nature as he got.

·        One of my favorite memories was the afternoon Harley crept with impressive stealth over to the fireplace and suddenly stole about one-third of a large chocolate muffin from a paper plate.  He fled so quickly with his prize; he was nothing but a streak of fur and muffin.  The muffin was never seen again.

·        It was interesting, the way he loved females and was wary of nearly all men except for Jim, Isaac and my father.  His fear of heater repair men and other male visitors to our home drove him back behind the dryer again and again (though his enormous size in his middle years made it difficult to squeeze into the hiding spot he loved as a kitten.)

·        We found it remarkable how he would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down. I loved the fascinating satisfied hum (which was a fabulous combination of purr and chew), which he sang joyfully while munching on his food. 

·        The sound of a spoon being removed from a drawer, a pill being crushed, the ecstasy and tear of a can opener, or the simple movement of a bowl on the floor brought him flying into the kitchen with great speed.  But these sounds were rarely needed to summon him as he was nearly always already IN the kitchen asking annoyingly for a morsel of food (or sometimes displaying noteworthy control as he forced himself to wait patiently at the corner of the cabinets, his furry face filled with expectant hope. It was pathetic. His enthusiasm for eating was not only reserved for food.  When it was not mealtime, he was on more than one juncture seen grazing for delicious lint particles on the carpet of my bedroom floor (even once trying to lick the scent of bacon from my unsuspecting jeans on a Saturday morning.)

·        It was heartwarming the way he clearly adored his owner Isaac and his “sister” Aubrey.  If either were in the room, he only had eyes for them. And of course, his insistent and contented purring and kneading when he conquered the laps and chests of his family members will always be remembered.

·        Then there was his absolute disdain for the newcomer Jasmine, Aubrey’s Lynx Point Siamese with enormous blue eyes.  The two lived together in our home for about nine years. We hoped they would eventually come to admire each other.  But their relationship was more like the pesky and athletic little sister who persistently instigated trouble with her older brother vs. the intolerant brother who looked like he would fracture a hip if he attempted a leap and who growled in disapproval when the little sister came near his “stuff.”  (In his old green eyes, WE were apparently his stuff.)  Her elegant scheming wiles did nothing to charm him.  She flaunted herself as the queen of the castle and Harley viewed her as a bothersome usurper.

·        He couldn’t keep his paws out of my hair (and his fists from pushing down on my shoulders) when I sat on “his chair” <MY CHAIR!> to read.  Sometimes sniffing my shampoo from his position on the top of the upholstered chair wasn’t enough for him and I would have to stop him from tasting strands of my hair.

·        I loved how he “assisted” Aubrey with her geometry, sitting by her side on the couch, sending mathematical vibes of support to her thigh with his paw.

·        He was wild about watching all the festivities surrounding Christmas.  He loved the fresh cut tree and drank water from the tree-stand (despite frequent warnings to knock it off.) And on Christmas morning he enjoyed watching gift opening and could hardly wait to get tipsy with his latest catnip acquisition.

·        It was pitiful the way he lost the hair around his eyebrows from hyperthyroidism before his thyroid levels were restored to normal with medication. His altered facial expression looked perfectly pensive as though worrying about the economy or contemplating important matters like world peace and tuna fish. 

·        He was a big fat chicken when we had pet rabbits.  He was at least twice their weight yet he ran away with gusto, leaping high into the air to get away from them when they hopped over to innocently check him out.

·        And finally, I will never forget the way he had me wrapped around his little white-mittened paw.  Even after repeatedly peeing in places he was not permitted to pee, he somehow melted my heart when he came to sit with me and look at me affectionately.  There were more moments than I can count when his look of adoration drove me to stroke his pointy head, scratch his snowy white chin, and sing him his favorite song.  The Beatles performed it first, but the cat liked my version better.  “Oh Harley, please believe me….I’ll never do you no harm…”  He loved “his song” and pinched his eyes shut in approval.  (Being the cultured cat he was, he also thoroughly enjoyed a rousing rendition of “Senor Don Gato”, always appearing relieved when the love struck hero Don Gato came back to life after his terrible fall from the rooftop.)  Check youtube for the song if you are not as cultured as Harley.

RIP Sweet Harley.  Your family adored you and you will be sorely missed.

February 9, 2012

THE LIES WE BELIEVE

“Five foot two and eyes of blue...”  Hey, that’s me!  I’ve been telling myself this for years.  Sam Lewis and his buddy Joe Young penned the words to Has Anybody Seen My Gal in the 1920s.  I can’t say where I got the notion that my height perfectly matched the lyrics to this catchy but annoying tune, but it was fiction I firmly believed.  Maybe I was trying to make my younger self feel better about my carrot-red hair, perhaps my school nurse or a gym teacher misinformed me.  More likely, I was a late bloomer and just continued to grow after people stopped measuring me.

In a moment of bravery, I measured myself on an infallible stadiometer this past weekend.  I was prepared for the worst.  You must realize I spend a good deal of time convincing my coworkers they are shrinking.  I measure many of them on an ancient scale in my office for workplace weight loss contests. When calculating body mass index (BMI) for the masses, I am often the harbinger of aged vertebral doom who tells people they are not as tall as they once were.  Internally, I feared I was barely five feet tall.  This would be an unsurprising but sad finding because it would convert my BMI to a sorrier number than the one I had grudgingly grown to accept. 

You can imagine my surprise when I tightened the knob on the measuring device, stepped away, and revealed that I am now (at one-half century of life) nearly an inch taller than I had ever known. That means there is a good chance I was over 63 inches at some point!  Practically a giant! Since it is clear I am no longer growing, there can only be one explanation.  Be it firm denial or a lifetime of erroneous information, the result remains the same. I’ve been lying to myself for YEARS. 

Despite my surprisingly improved BMI, this revelation rattled me.  And it started me wondering what other lies I’ve been telling myself. 

Without delay I thought of two...

How about the notion that “I’m right” about something just because I’ve managed to convince myself there is no other way?  I can latch onto that one with the ferocity of a Rottweiler with a pork chop.  (Just ask my husband…)  And while we’re on that subject, how do I rationalize the accompanying bad choices I sometimes make while I’m trying desperately to prove my point?  Finding reasons to excuse my poor behavior just adds to my self-deception.  Being honest about it, I also have to question how I manage to justify the ways I may hurt the ones around me with my tendency to barrel through life with my own inflexible lists and pressing agenda.  (Ouch- and I’m sorry if you have been squashed on the track of my locomotive tendencies.)

But my inclination to insist I am correct is not the only personal fraud I’ve identified since I began thinking about this deep well of self-deception.  Consider lie number 2…  What about the times I tell myself “I can’t”?  I give voice to that notion and even I am hard-pressed to know what I am really saying.  “I can’t go back to school.”  “I can’t spend an hour exercising every night.”  “I can’t change my career now.”  “I can’t pay my bills online.” “I can’t make bread with yeast!” In most cases, I’m claiming I can’t do something I’ve never even attempted.  And I’m telling that sorry tale to MYSELF.  It’s like clipping my own wings with a dull craft scissor.  When I swindle myself in that way, I pretend the choice is not mine. I’ve given up before I even try.  A truly pitiful display. 

What great untruths and white lies have YOU been telling yourself?  Now that I am the confirmed and virtually towering height of nearly 5 foot 3, I’m pressing forward to uncover more of the ways I’ve been deceiving myself.  There are millions of things I’ve never tried.  And almost as many annoying behaviors with which I can stop torturing myself and others.  It’s a brave new world.  Care to join me?  

WHAT ON EARTH?! 

LOOSE LIPS AND DICEY TOPICS

Thinking before speaking; now there’s a concept. Those closest to me might suggest that as I age, my filter is growing increasingly defective. You know the filter of which I speak… (That pesky sieve that is supposed to keep the reactive and inflammatory thoughts I am thinking from slipping haphazardly out of my sometimes less than diplomatic lips…)

There is a reason we are instructed to be quick to listen and slow to speak. Typically I’m aware I’ve crossed that tricky acceptability line as soon as my ears (with no small measure of alarm) take note of what my mouth has just done. But even if I were completely and blissfully unaware of my lapse, the look on my daughter’s face quickly alerts me. Her scathing glance causes an immediate and cringing recall of whatever rabble-rousing comment I should not have said. She is perceptive, inclusive, and infinitely sensitive to others. And these wonderful traits make her wince with displeasure when she hears her mother sounding like an abrasive gong. She reminded me gently this weekend as she described a moment I could have been more sympathetic. And she was right.

So in the interest of sounding like the kind and compassionate person I hope to be, I’m working diligently on the slow to speak thing. It isn’t easy. Especially when people around me are acting like idiots...  Okay, let’s try that again. “When people around me are making questionable choices, drawing attention to their misguided actions and involving their poor unfortunate offspring in the process.”  (Hmmmmm….I’m not sure this is sounding any better…) Like I said, I’m WORKING on it.  Not saying I’m there yet…

Dicey topics are the most difficult. But as the media begins buzzing about caucuses and campaigns, one area in which I am hoping to make great strides is my increasing propensity to avoid the arena of politics. I am trying my hardest to stay away from this subject, yet a bubbling frustration has been left simmering and I have an overwhelming desire to vent. Since it's my blog, I'm going for it.  I believe political views are a very personal thing.  So I’m teaching myself to just bite my tongue and walk away from this type of conversation when it starts. (There are days my tongue hurts from all that biting...) Some of my friends and family disagree with this whole "walking away" philosophy. They want to talk about it, hash it out and try to make me change my mind. "Socratic Method", "growth by challenge", or some other such drivel…  Whatever they want to call it, I wish with every fiber of my being they would stop wasting their efforts and raising my blood pressure.

If someone wants to stick a banner in their front lawn, I have no objection. Let that banner flutter and wave in the breeze. Free speech without all the chatter, that’s fine by me. But please do not attempt to position your banner in my yard, call me on the phone to sway my opinion, air repeated negative messages about the opponent, or assume that I am an unread or agnostic personality because I do not share your personal outlook.  I don’t wish to know for whom you are going to vote. I don’t much care what you think of past or current Presidents (their birth certificates, or their dogs.) And I’m certainly not interested in anything you want to report about why I should mirror your convictions on any topic related to our government. I have my own passions and I’m fairly certain that my convictions and your convictions could not manage a civil and tolerant thumb-war, let alone a longwinded and exhaustive debate.

It is clear that most of us hold an untiring notion about what traits and beliefs are required in the making of an admirable and effective leader. I love my brothers and sisters in the faith, but I have to honestly say: religious people are the WORST. On the far right we’ve got “Christians” with their perception of God, guns, and tax shelters. On the far left we’ve got more “Christians” with their version of God, social justice, and wild spending. Both sides assume the other is laden with heathens. Both sides are convinced they have cornered the market on saving lives (be they born or unborn.) Neither political party is completely representative of my beliefs. So why is it that people constantly try to make politics a religious decision? More to the point, HOW can we be so brazen as to suggest WE know which way God would vote if subjected to our pitiful, hostile, and obscenely expensive elections? World hunger could be eradicated with the kind of dollars spent during one pathetic year of our mud-slinging coercive campaigns. It is sickening that furthering our political opinions seems so much more pressing than human decency.

So should you wish to send your electoral arguments, political cartoons, or emails fraught with scare-tactics (which appear solely designed to bash one side or the other), I beg you to refrain from trying to enlighten me. I don't ask you to agree with me. Your thoughts are your own.  And I will be quietly reading what I can from whatever unbiased news source I can find; trying my best to form a personal decision with which I, myself, can live.  

If in my zeal I get it all wrong and start spouting on some soapbox, I sincerely hope that my daughter is standing by to remind me how words are often superfluous and how truly ridiculous I can sometimes appear.

The Couch Legacy

 “Children seldom misquote you.  In fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn't have said.”  Author unknown.

I know this is true.   When my daughter was about three, I was innocently walking through a department store when a fabulously cushy sofa and a marvelously upholstered chair sidetracked my attention.  My longing was immediate. Had those pieces extended their stylish wooden legs and literally tripped me I would have been no less smitten.  I called my husband from the parking garage and told him it was likely I would perish if I didn’t order both pieces.  He reminded me that I was the financial wizard in the family and to do what I thought was best.  (Do I have a great husband, or what?)

The furniture was delivered and it wasn’t long before the cat decided the chair was his.

And were that not enough, my sweet daughter took to mercilessly bouncing on the irresistible couch.  I was aghast.  So I pleaded. “Mommy will have to work lots of hours before that couch is paid off, let’s not stand and bounce!”   My daughter attended an early childhood program and one of the things accomplished during circle time was “morning news.”  The teacher wrote news highlights (as described by the children) on her oversized easel tablet for trouble-free viewing.  Imagine my mortification when I arrived one afternoon and read, “Aubrey’s mother has to work long hours to pay off the furniture.”  I was passing along my legacy in large red marker. 

As a school nurse I hear many things that would make stoic parents cringe.  A first grader was resting in the dark under an ice pack, nursing a miserable headache. After 10 minutes, I asked how his head was feeling. Never opening his eyes, he thoughtfully responded.  “It is still hurting pretty much, but not nearly as much as it was last night when my mother was screaming at my sister!” Another legacy.

I, for one, wish to pass along something a bit more substantial.  I hope and pray that my words and actions describing God’s generosity and faithfulness to me have made deeper and more lasting impressions than my day to day human shortcomings. 

And for the record, it should be noted that 13 years later I still have (and love) my couch…

GRAMMY WAS RIGHT

Generations. We are indelibly tied together. I cannot think about Christmas without missing Grammy in her red dress crooning a slightly “dutchified” tune about Jesus in his manger. And I cannot rise from my bed on Christmas morning without remembering my grandfather’s grin beneath the blinding light of his 1960s moving picture camera. I’d never considered how early they had extracted themselves from their warm quilted beds in order to be at our house before the sun came up. They have been gone for over twenty years.  And as I remember them now, I love them all the more in retrospect.

Adoring tradition, I now find GREAT delight in tormenting my own family with maddening rituals.  Any good mother does. And despite moans of mistreatment when my children (who are now considerably taller than me) are compelled to sit upon the stairs for their annual Christmas morning picture, I am gleeful with the near certainty that they will someday force their own children to do the same. 

I begin playing Christmas carols as soon as I can get away with it. Living with a man who pretends to be Scrooge makes this a dicey proposition. I’ve loved these traditional songs since my childhood. I’ve belted them out with my family of origin gathered around my mother’s piano. I’ve sat transfixed as they were sung in the church of my childhood by an impossibly high soprano with fabulous blonde hair. I can recall caroling with gusto as frostbite threatened my fingertips and toes. The words of these carols are ingrained. So how is it that I have failed on many occasions to grasp the significance of the lyrics? Tradition has had an unexpected side effect. Immunity. 

I realized this irony when I was alone in my kitchen baking my tenth batch of Christmas cookies last December. I had reached the point when the cookies had passed from ooey-gooey and fabulously delicious to rows and rows of completely unappealing baked toil. Trying to lift the elation of the season above the looming nausea of ingesting too many carbohydrates, I was singing loudly with Josh Groban. We were managing a magnificent duet, if I do say so myself...  Our musical selection was “O Holy Night” and the previously unappreciated phrase hit me square in my over-cookied gut.

Read it as though you’d never heard it before.“He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”  This sorely overlooked and wondrous truth puts this amazing gift into just a little bit of perspective. Before the arrival of that sweet and miraculous baby in the manger, the soul had been as completely oblivious as I.

Had I been listening more closely as my grandmother crooned, I may have felt the impact 45 years sooner. 

So to my faithful blog readers (and the dedicated if not coerced friends and family who read just because they know I will ask if they have…), I wish you a joyful and blessed Christmas season.  And I pray that you too will be stopped in your busy December tracks by a new and delightful awareness of God made flesh among us.  His very breath, the promise of the greatest gift we could ever choose to receive. 

THE WORST THINGS IN THE WORLD

I've talked with a lot of grumpy people this week.  And as Thanksgiving approaches, I am considering again how important it is that we take time to be thankful for the countless and amazing blessings in life.  Like the grouches with whom I've interacted today, I'm not always good at remembering to be thankful.  But I'm working on it.  I've got a reminder on the cabinet in my office.  "If you can't find the bright side of life, polish the dull side."  

I want to tell a story, but before I do, I want you understand something important.  I'm the mother of the two most amazing people in the world.  If you are a parent, you will want to argue with me.  Don't bother, I'm tenacious.  

My son is living in another state and I miss his laughter and his fun-loving personality every single day.  He has grown into a wonderful, generous, and appreciative young man.  But this was not always the case. 

My husband Jim and I can distinctly remember the times we had to channel some pretty negative thinking into something less pessimistic. Please understand, we are a family of redheads. We tend to feel things with conviction and our son was holding true to well-established family patterns.  (It’s probably wrong to blame hair color, but so helpful to have a target for culpability…)  When little Isaac would tell us about his woes, we would attempt to redirect. “Okay Ike, now tell us five happy things.”  It didn't take long for our son to realize that voicing one miserable thought would most likely result in being forced to wrack his 6 year old brain thinking of five blessings for which he was grateful.  I remember well his adorable little face straining for answers....“Ninja turtles….Satchmo the cat….my new Nerf football….Swedish Fish…”

As our now sweet Isaac aged, his phraseology changed too.  And in time, he fine-tuned his complaints to a category we liked to call “the worst things in the world.”  He began referring to the things he disliked in this way and it soon became ridiculous how many items made the list.  (Yes, much to the dismay of my children, I am one of those annoying mothers who maintains exhaustive lists of just this type of thing…) My personal favorites included:  “Home-cooked meals three days in a row is the worst thing in the world,” and “My Mom telling people about the worst things in the world list is the worst thing in the world.” 

Gratitude is definitely a learned behavior, and one that comes with a degree of difficulty for some.  Even non-redheads can struggle to find the positive and be grateful for blessings rather than grumpy about inconveniences.  It is always easier to identify blessings in retrospect, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t work at being thankful in the moment.  Because very few people relish having to endure grouchy and ungrateful persons.  Some consider it one of the worst things in the world.