Who I am:
An Arkie in CaliAn editor
A teacher
Mom of two
Wife of one
A dog owner
A Jeep driver
A taurus
A Ph.D.
A twenty-thirty-one-year-old woman
A resident of the Real World...Blogger Style
Links:
- Fark.com
- Yahoo
- Recent earthquakes in SoCal
- UofA webcam
- The Watercooler
- Email the future you
- Mount St. Helens Volcanocam
- Irvine
- More Irvine
Blogs:
- My New Best Friend (Mo)
- The Real World Blogger Style
- The Pissed Kitty
- The Lowland Seed (Sergei)
- Cori
- The Grand Ennui (Boz)
- No More Boz
- Kat's Stuff (Kat)
- Melissa
- A Sorta Kinda Fairytale (Belle)
- Pork Tornado
- More Dusty, because you can never get too much Dusty
- Nacho Steppinstone (Jonnie)
- The Daily WTF
- Rapmastacornflake (Jodie)
- Black Betty (Sandra)
- Subliminal Silence (Marci)
- Dvl
- Bored Housewife (Lisa)
- Flingus (Mad Matthias)
- Whoa That was so deep (Rosa Posa)
- Shannon's Planet
- AmyJo
- Thought Minion (Jer)
- Avatar
- Drew
- Infomaniac
- 63 days
Thanks, Michele:
- Michele
- Birdie
- Juggernaut
- Vit/Madge
- Full Steam Ahead
- Paul Sveda
- Blaugustine
More blogs:
Still more blogs:
Archives:
- 04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004
- 05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004
- 06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004
- 07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004
- 08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004
- 09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004
- 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004
- 11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004
- 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005
- 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005
- 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005
- 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005
- 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005
- 07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005
- 07/01/2006 - 08/01/2006
E-ME!
Email: Nanntz@gmail.com
Oh I get it...like humor...but different.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
A dearth of material
I have to say, there's not much foolishness going on in my life right now. Thus, there's not much for me to blog about.
CrankyMom, either due to improved nutrition since her move west or due to increased attention from her eldest and favorite child, is doing much better and hasn't been cranky at all lately. She's giving me nothing to work with here, people. I could tell you about the drapes from hell that PU2 and I have worked on no fewer than five times but that still do not operate properly, but it's too dull to contemplate.
The Greatest Father in the World is as wonderful as ever. He gives me great material, having a world-class sense of humor...but I find that it is one of those "you had to be there" kind of things.
Thanksgiving went well. No dropped turkeys, no forgotten cranberry sauce, no fat, humping, slobbering dogs (well, okay, CJ was there, but he doesn't count), no redneck, hunting-obsessed cousins (see The Pissed Kitty for more on those topics). It was a pleasant meal, much laughter....
The tree is up and decorated, the lights are up outside....I have begun my Christmas shopping. I don't know. If I had a duller life, I think I would be comatose.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I have to say, there's not much foolishness going on in my life right now. Thus, there's not much for me to blog about.
CrankyMom, either due to improved nutrition since her move west or due to increased attention from her eldest and favorite child, is doing much better and hasn't been cranky at all lately. She's giving me nothing to work with here, people. I could tell you about the drapes from hell that PU2 and I have worked on no fewer than five times but that still do not operate properly, but it's too dull to contemplate.
The Greatest Father in the World is as wonderful as ever. He gives me great material, having a world-class sense of humor...but I find that it is one of those "you had to be there" kind of things.
Thanksgiving went well. No dropped turkeys, no forgotten cranberry sauce, no fat, humping, slobbering dogs (well, okay, CJ was there, but he doesn't count), no redneck, hunting-obsessed cousins (see The Pissed Kitty for more on those topics). It was a pleasant meal, much laughter....
The tree is up and decorated, the lights are up outside....I have begun my Christmas shopping. I don't know. If I had a duller life, I think I would be comatose.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
The Stuffing Talk
Like many families, my family has many traditions regarding Thanksgiving. Things have been done a certain way since my great-grandmother, maybe even before. When I was a young married woman, I started taking notes as my grandmother and mother made TG dinner. My notes became a booklet, a how-to guide that I followed when I took over the meal a few years later. TG has been my holiday since then, and always I have followed "the book."
One of the most complicated parts of the book is the dressing. I won't go into boring details about it here, but much chopping is involved, as well as pre-baking of cornbread and pre-drying of white bread and the use of fresh, grown-in-one's-own-garden sage. Altogether, it adds at least 2 hours to the process of preparing the meal. The turkey has to go into the oven after the turkey comes out, which means that tom gets wrapped in foil and buried under kitchen towels to stay hot in the meantime (one glorious TG, but only one, I actually had two ovens *sigh*).
The TG after that glorious two-oven TG, we moved to California. That was 2001. The next TG that came around, my husband confessed to me that he didn't care for the family dressing and would prefer StoveTop. PU2 said she preferred StoveTop as well. I preferred saving the 2 hours of doing the family dressing all by myself for people who didn't give a crap about it, so we dropped it. Problem solved. Happy family.
But this year, mom and dad are out here, and TG will be for ALL of us again. Thus arose the Stuffing Crisis. Do I go back to the family style, which I know is what my mother prefers but adds time and pain to the process? And, remember, neither Hubcap nor PU2 likes it, so that's like saying, "Nanny nanny boo boo, my mom is more important than you are!" Or do I do StoveTop, which my mom, with her million allergies can't eat, which is like saying "Nanny nanny boo boo, you aren't important!" Wringing of hands. Searching of conscience. I decided that I had to have The Stuffing Talk with my mother. There was no way around it.
I put it off for several days....looking for the right moment. She has been in such a good mood lately. I am afraid The Stuffing Talk will send her into a spiral. Finally, it can't be delayed any longer. We were in the car, on our way to some umimportant place. Me driving. Mom in back. (Dad always rides in front.)
I carefully explain the situation, couching it in language such as "this will be easier for you, it's hard for you to stand and chop and such...blah blah blah." Would it be all right, I ask (beg?) if we DON'T do the family stuffing? I hold my breath.
"Sure, I don't care. I never ate it anyway. I just made it for you kids."
"What the...what?"
"I just ate a bit of the crust. Never really cared for it that much."
OMG.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Like many families, my family has many traditions regarding Thanksgiving. Things have been done a certain way since my great-grandmother, maybe even before. When I was a young married woman, I started taking notes as my grandmother and mother made TG dinner. My notes became a booklet, a how-to guide that I followed when I took over the meal a few years later. TG has been my holiday since then, and always I have followed "the book."
One of the most complicated parts of the book is the dressing. I won't go into boring details about it here, but much chopping is involved, as well as pre-baking of cornbread and pre-drying of white bread and the use of fresh, grown-in-one's-own-garden sage. Altogether, it adds at least 2 hours to the process of preparing the meal. The turkey has to go into the oven after the turkey comes out, which means that tom gets wrapped in foil and buried under kitchen towels to stay hot in the meantime (one glorious TG, but only one, I actually had two ovens *sigh*).
The TG after that glorious two-oven TG, we moved to California. That was 2001. The next TG that came around, my husband confessed to me that he didn't care for the family dressing and would prefer StoveTop. PU2 said she preferred StoveTop as well. I preferred saving the 2 hours of doing the family dressing all by myself for people who didn't give a crap about it, so we dropped it. Problem solved. Happy family.
But this year, mom and dad are out here, and TG will be for ALL of us again. Thus arose the Stuffing Crisis. Do I go back to the family style, which I know is what my mother prefers but adds time and pain to the process? And, remember, neither Hubcap nor PU2 likes it, so that's like saying, "Nanny nanny boo boo, my mom is more important than you are!" Or do I do StoveTop, which my mom, with her million allergies can't eat, which is like saying "Nanny nanny boo boo, you aren't important!" Wringing of hands. Searching of conscience. I decided that I had to have The Stuffing Talk with my mother. There was no way around it.
I put it off for several days....looking for the right moment. She has been in such a good mood lately. I am afraid The Stuffing Talk will send her into a spiral. Finally, it can't be delayed any longer. We were in the car, on our way to some umimportant place. Me driving. Mom in back. (Dad always rides in front.)
I carefully explain the situation, couching it in language such as "this will be easier for you, it's hard for you to stand and chop and such...blah blah blah." Would it be all right, I ask (beg?) if we DON'T do the family stuffing? I hold my breath.
"Sure, I don't care. I never ate it anyway. I just made it for you kids."
"What the...what?"
"I just ate a bit of the crust. Never really cared for it that much."
OMG.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Given the title of this blog...
I HAD to link to this.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I HAD to link to this.
The Fire Department
My father, aka "the greatest father in the world," was on the fire department all of my young life. In my small town (now not so small) when I was a kid, the fire department was all volunteer. No one lived at the station. The trucks were locked up there, and when an alarm was called in, someone who lived nearby would hurry there, jump in the truck, and roar off. The volunteers, who lived all over town, were alerted by a "squawk box" radio. There were two companies, A and B. Both companies responded to fires in town; only one company (and it rotated between the two) responded to country fires. The squawk box sat on the top of the kitchen cabinets in our house.
I grew up listening for (and loving, I might add) the sound of that squawk box. The fire department was like a reality-tv interactive drama in which I took part. If Dad left for the house for a fire, I didn't get to go with him. But if we were out in the car as a family when an alarm went off, we ALL went. So a trip to a local restaurant might turn into a race to a house fire. Or a quick grocery run might turn into a grocery store fire. It was just the best. (My apologies to those whose belongings were destroyed in my reality drama; as a child, I didn't think that way. I just liked the adrenalin rush.)
When I was about 12 years old, my mom and dad remodeled the upstairs of our huge old house, adding heat up there and making bedrooms for my brother and me. All of our furniture was carried out on the porch and painted, pink for me, turquoise for my brother. The plaster and lathing was removed and shoveled down a shute into a truck, and sheetrock went up.
One night Mom and Dad were upstairs sanding the floor in my room with a floor sander. I was downstairs getting something to eat. Over my head, the squawk box screeched the two alarms that indicated a run in town.
"Attention all firemen. Attention all firemen. We have a house fire reported at 601 N.W. B. That is a house fire at 601 N.W. B." I walked to the bottom of the stairs, a bit stunned. Dad called down...
"Where did they say it was, Nancy?"
A puzzled moment of silence. "Here."
"What???"
"They said it was here."
We could hear the sirens...the truck was about three blocks away. Then my mom realized that all that newly painted furniture was out on the front porch. She streaked past me like a mad woman, running out on the porch just as the truck pulled up, prepared to sacrifice her (extremely small) body to prevent damage to the paint job.
Apparently, someone had seen the bright lights in the upstairs window, coupled with the dust from the sander and thought out house was on fire. It was most entertaining for the firement to be called to a "fire" at our house.
My dad went on to become fire chief of the department, as had been my grandfather and my great-grandfather. He was the first fulltime paid chief after the department went fulltime, no longer volunteer. I loved those guys, each and every one of them. I even dated a fireman later in life---who might have become the fourth chief in the family. And I still get a bad case of the "wanna goes" when I hear sirens.
Remind me to tell you about the grocery store fire...and the rice hulls fire...and the big hotel fire downtown. Come to think of it, my life has been anchored by fires. "Oh, yes, that happened just before the Massey fire, but after the Hunt fire." Gotta love it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My father, aka "the greatest father in the world," was on the fire department all of my young life. In my small town (now not so small) when I was a kid, the fire department was all volunteer. No one lived at the station. The trucks were locked up there, and when an alarm was called in, someone who lived nearby would hurry there, jump in the truck, and roar off. The volunteers, who lived all over town, were alerted by a "squawk box" radio. There were two companies, A and B. Both companies responded to fires in town; only one company (and it rotated between the two) responded to country fires. The squawk box sat on the top of the kitchen cabinets in our house.
I grew up listening for (and loving, I might add) the sound of that squawk box. The fire department was like a reality-tv interactive drama in which I took part. If Dad left for the house for a fire, I didn't get to go with him. But if we were out in the car as a family when an alarm went off, we ALL went. So a trip to a local restaurant might turn into a race to a house fire. Or a quick grocery run might turn into a grocery store fire. It was just the best. (My apologies to those whose belongings were destroyed in my reality drama; as a child, I didn't think that way. I just liked the adrenalin rush.)
When I was about 12 years old, my mom and dad remodeled the upstairs of our huge old house, adding heat up there and making bedrooms for my brother and me. All of our furniture was carried out on the porch and painted, pink for me, turquoise for my brother. The plaster and lathing was removed and shoveled down a shute into a truck, and sheetrock went up.
One night Mom and Dad were upstairs sanding the floor in my room with a floor sander. I was downstairs getting something to eat. Over my head, the squawk box screeched the two alarms that indicated a run in town.
"Attention all firemen. Attention all firemen. We have a house fire reported at 601 N.W. B. That is a house fire at 601 N.W. B." I walked to the bottom of the stairs, a bit stunned. Dad called down...
"Where did they say it was, Nancy?"
A puzzled moment of silence. "Here."
"What???"
"They said it was here."
We could hear the sirens...the truck was about three blocks away. Then my mom realized that all that newly painted furniture was out on the front porch. She streaked past me like a mad woman, running out on the porch just as the truck pulled up, prepared to sacrifice her (extremely small) body to prevent damage to the paint job.
Apparently, someone had seen the bright lights in the upstairs window, coupled with the dust from the sander and thought out house was on fire. It was most entertaining for the firement to be called to a "fire" at our house.
My dad went on to become fire chief of the department, as had been my grandfather and my great-grandfather. He was the first fulltime paid chief after the department went fulltime, no longer volunteer. I loved those guys, each and every one of them. I even dated a fireman later in life---who might have become the fourth chief in the family. And I still get a bad case of the "wanna goes" when I hear sirens.
Remind me to tell you about the grocery store fire...and the rice hulls fire...and the big hotel fire downtown. Come to think of it, my life has been anchored by fires. "Oh, yes, that happened just before the Massey fire, but after the Hunt fire." Gotta love it.
Monday, November 22, 2004
The David Copperfield Mountains
To the north of where I live (north being relative in this state) are the San Bernardino Mountains and the San Gabriel Mountains. They are not more than 50 miles away, at their closest point, but they are invisible for much of the year because of air quality issues. Sometimes I get a glimpse of them during the summer. But most of the time, if they are going to be visible, it is in the winter.
And when they appear, it is startling. It really is as if they were beamed in overnight or magically appeared. Where one day there are foothills with nothing behind them at all, the next day there are these craggy mountains.
And it is even more amazing when there is snow. That is the case now. We had a humdinger of a storm over the weekend in SoCal....an actualy thunderstorm, with lightning and thunder that was near Arkansas quality and wind that was as good as the best Arkansas straight-line wind. Trees were laid over all around us (one into a house, with the occupants inside), and the temperature dropped to the point that the wind chill in Irvine was in the 30s...and the snow level was under 3,000 feet. There is even some snow on Saddleback today, the first time I have seen that in my three-plus years here.
But that is nothing compared to the snow on the more distant mountains. It is so beautiful! I am sure that it is less beautiful to the truckers trying to get over the Cajon Pass and more beautiful to the resort owners in Big Bear, but it is beautiful. I must remember to bring my digital camera tomorrow....
The first time I ever saw the mountains, I had lived in Irvine for months with no idea whatsoever that there was a view of mountains from here. One chilly morning, I left my subdivision to take PU2 to school, turned "north" and WHAM. There they were. Just like someone had trucked in a backdrop for a photoshoot. Breathtaking. I still get a thrill every time I see them like that.
What a place this is to live. 20 minutes from the beach. An hour from the mountains. Try not to hate me. :-)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
To the north of where I live (north being relative in this state) are the San Bernardino Mountains and the San Gabriel Mountains. They are not more than 50 miles away, at their closest point, but they are invisible for much of the year because of air quality issues. Sometimes I get a glimpse of them during the summer. But most of the time, if they are going to be visible, it is in the winter.
And when they appear, it is startling. It really is as if they were beamed in overnight or magically appeared. Where one day there are foothills with nothing behind them at all, the next day there are these craggy mountains.
And it is even more amazing when there is snow. That is the case now. We had a humdinger of a storm over the weekend in SoCal....an actualy thunderstorm, with lightning and thunder that was near Arkansas quality and wind that was as good as the best Arkansas straight-line wind. Trees were laid over all around us (one into a house, with the occupants inside), and the temperature dropped to the point that the wind chill in Irvine was in the 30s...and the snow level was under 3,000 feet. There is even some snow on Saddleback today, the first time I have seen that in my three-plus years here.
But that is nothing compared to the snow on the more distant mountains. It is so beautiful! I am sure that it is less beautiful to the truckers trying to get over the Cajon Pass and more beautiful to the resort owners in Big Bear, but it is beautiful. I must remember to bring my digital camera tomorrow....
The first time I ever saw the mountains, I had lived in Irvine for months with no idea whatsoever that there was a view of mountains from here. One chilly morning, I left my subdivision to take PU2 to school, turned "north" and WHAM. There they were. Just like someone had trucked in a backdrop for a photoshoot. Breathtaking. I still get a thrill every time I see them like that.
What a place this is to live. 20 minutes from the beach. An hour from the mountains. Try not to hate me. :-)
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Furniture was purchased
Yes, my friends, by me. Well, by us. Sorry. It was a family decision.
First, Hubcap and I went to the furniture store, looking for a dining room table. We are rearranging our house so that instead of having a dining room end of a living room we have an actual Dining Room. ETA Thanksgiving for all improvements to be completed. So we needed a decent table that doesn't fold up against the wall.
Hubcap had to keep redirecting my focus in the furniture store. There was mission style furniture that was screaming my name (but screaming it with a HUGE price tag), and there was a highboy secretary that whispered to me, and a million other "Ooooo....look at that!"s But he finally adjusted my blinders and turned me toward the tables...and we narrowed it down to two styles that we liked.
Then we called in the cavalry---PU2 came roaring up in her hot new truck (blonde chicks in black trucks get a LOT of attention) and swooped in. We turned her loose without telling her what we liked. She was immediately drawn to the high-dollar solid oak stuff. Not those, we said. Try again. The mission style furniture was okay too. Not those. After a few tries, she finally noticed one of the two tables that we liked. Then we presented her with the actual choices. She was relieved that one particular table wasn't in the running. ("You buy that table and I'll move out of the house and live in my truck," she said.)
So we went back and forth and back and forth and back and forth between the two tables, as PU2's eyes began to roll back in her head and there was a bit of frothing at the mouth. She thinks we are the king and queen of indecisive. (Where to you want to eat? I don't care, where do YOU want to eat? No, you choose. No, YOU choose.) We began to examine the mechanisms for inserting the leaves. If you haven't bought a table this decade (or in my case, this lifetime), you would be AMAZED at how the leaves function now. While we were watching a salesperson demonstrate how the leaves work for another customer, the customer said, and I quote, "Beautiful. I'll take it." And before my eyes, a "sold" sign appeared on my table. Oh. Is THAT how it's supposed to work? Damn. Who knew. PU2 began to lose consciousness and stumbled to her truck to make her escape. The people in the furniture store had taken to saying, "Oh, are you still here?"
So we got the other table. Black trim, cherry top, butterfly leaves. Simple? No. We were in agreement on the table, but then there was a matching hutch....Black? Cherry? Black? Cherry? Wait, bar stools? Matching bar stools?
I will tell you no more. Suffice to say, decisions were made, plastic was burned, and delivery dates were set. Wednesday it will all be at home in my new dining room. Want to come for Thanksgiving?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Yes, my friends, by me. Well, by us. Sorry. It was a family decision.
First, Hubcap and I went to the furniture store, looking for a dining room table. We are rearranging our house so that instead of having a dining room end of a living room we have an actual Dining Room. ETA Thanksgiving for all improvements to be completed. So we needed a decent table that doesn't fold up against the wall.
Hubcap had to keep redirecting my focus in the furniture store. There was mission style furniture that was screaming my name (but screaming it with a HUGE price tag), and there was a highboy secretary that whispered to me, and a million other "Ooooo....look at that!"s But he finally adjusted my blinders and turned me toward the tables...and we narrowed it down to two styles that we liked.
Then we called in the cavalry---PU2 came roaring up in her hot new truck (blonde chicks in black trucks get a LOT of attention) and swooped in. We turned her loose without telling her what we liked. She was immediately drawn to the high-dollar solid oak stuff. Not those, we said. Try again. The mission style furniture was okay too. Not those. After a few tries, she finally noticed one of the two tables that we liked. Then we presented her with the actual choices. She was relieved that one particular table wasn't in the running. ("You buy that table and I'll move out of the house and live in my truck," she said.)
So we went back and forth and back and forth and back and forth between the two tables, as PU2's eyes began to roll back in her head and there was a bit of frothing at the mouth. She thinks we are the king and queen of indecisive. (Where to you want to eat? I don't care, where do YOU want to eat? No, you choose. No, YOU choose.) We began to examine the mechanisms for inserting the leaves. If you haven't bought a table this decade (or in my case, this lifetime), you would be AMAZED at how the leaves function now. While we were watching a salesperson demonstrate how the leaves work for another customer, the customer said, and I quote, "Beautiful. I'll take it." And before my eyes, a "sold" sign appeared on my table. Oh. Is THAT how it's supposed to work? Damn. Who knew. PU2 began to lose consciousness and stumbled to her truck to make her escape. The people in the furniture store had taken to saying, "Oh, are you still here?"
So we got the other table. Black trim, cherry top, butterfly leaves. Simple? No. We were in agreement on the table, but then there was a matching hutch....Black? Cherry? Black? Cherry? Wait, bar stools? Matching bar stools?
I will tell you no more. Suffice to say, decisions were made, plastic was burned, and delivery dates were set. Wednesday it will all be at home in my new dining room. Want to come for Thanksgiving?
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Shopping for CrankyMom
It's never easy. It's never simple. It's never just "get me some bar soap." It's "get me Camay." They don't SELL Camay out here. I am ordering it on line. And "get me this house brand of Gas Relief." Gas-X won't do. It has to be a house brand for an Arkansas-owned grocery store (called the manufacturer and found out what other names it is sold by). And truffles. The kind they sell at Wal-mart. Not Sees, not any other kind. And a toaster. No, not THAT toaster. Don't like that one. Another one. And a can opener. No, not THAT can opener. Another one. And nylon windbreakers, one navy, one black. Nylon windbreakers in Cali? Not likely. How about a Roxy hoodie? No. Ok. And fake ficus trees, two of them, three and a half to four feet tall. No, I said ficus. And fake greenery to make arrangements with. Green only. No color. Ivy, not philodendron. And Magic Tape. 1/2 inch. No, not 3/4 inch. They sell that everywhere. 1/2 inch that you have to go to Staples for. And bread with no preservatives. No, not that bread. That's too hard/sweet/dark. And Kraft pudding cups, chocolate fudge. Only chocolate fudge. Lots of it. Oh, and Wernet's dental powder. No, not polident or fixodent or even Sea Bond. OMG, no. It has to be Wernet's, which is totally unavailable. Thank God for drugstore.com.
PU2 and I spent about two hours last night at Walmart, Michaels, and Staples, but we still have Chick's to go to for the windbreakers and a couple of other stores for other odds and ends. We even had a couple of poor Michael's employees climbing ladders in the back storeroom and searching for 4-ft ficus trees in the out-of-season stock.
And would you like for me to tell you about hanging CM's drapes? Hm? Wouldya? My mom is the kind of person who can tell who last talked on the phone by the way the cord is lying. She has every knick-knack in her house in the exact same spot, with not even 1/16th of an inch of leeway. She rearranges the shower curtain into even pleats every time she goes into the bathroom. She folds her trash. Let me repeat. She folds and stacks the trash in the trashcan. Paper trash goes to the right. Ashes and non-paper trash goes to the left. Paper towels (one per use only) are rolled very tightly and taped before being put in the trash. Get the picture? OCD delux.
So can you imagine what it was like to try to get new drapes hung in her living room and bedroom? Can you imagine the number of trips up and down the ladder I made adjusting this pleat and that pleat, and this drapery pin and that drapery pin? And then back the next day, doing much of it again because "I can see the drapery rod on the right when the drapes are closed" and "they don't overlap correctly" and "we need to train that third-from-the-right pleat to pop out" and "they cover the window too much when they are open." And she was really really trying to be agreeable. Really, she was. I know she overlooked a jillion other adjustments she could have asked for. God help me.
But the worst - and PU2 will tell you that this is when she decided that her grandmother is totally round the proverbial bend - was the ficus tree. Next to the drapes is a eight- or nine-foot fake ficus (all her plants are fake - mom is allergic to everything). After all the drape work was finally done and the couch was finally exactly centered in front of them and the coffee table in front of it, mom asked me to work on the tree. PU2 and I assumed that the tree was in the way of the drapes. But no. The problem was that one tiny branch---at the very top and on the back---was turned "upside down" so that the bottoms of the leaves were visible. It had to be turned over and reshaped. It was very important.
Argh. And I do mean argh. PU2 gets very high marks for hanging in there with me. She goes over often when I do, and we do tag-team CrankyMom management. When she starts seeing steam pour from my ears, she steps in and spells me while I get it under control. Then I tag her, and she gets to go play with her PaPa for a while.
Did I mention that my dad is the most wonderful man in the world? And certainly, when they handed out patience, he got back in the line at least four or five times. (Come to think of it, maybe he got MY share. Hmmmm....).
Enough. Sorry. No more whining. But remind me to tell you sometime how she is allergic to water.....
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It's never easy. It's never simple. It's never just "get me some bar soap." It's "get me Camay." They don't SELL Camay out here. I am ordering it on line. And "get me this house brand of Gas Relief." Gas-X won't do. It has to be a house brand for an Arkansas-owned grocery store (called the manufacturer and found out what other names it is sold by). And truffles. The kind they sell at Wal-mart. Not Sees, not any other kind. And a toaster. No, not THAT toaster. Don't like that one. Another one. And a can opener. No, not THAT can opener. Another one. And nylon windbreakers, one navy, one black. Nylon windbreakers in Cali? Not likely. How about a Roxy hoodie? No. Ok. And fake ficus trees, two of them, three and a half to four feet tall. No, I said ficus. And fake greenery to make arrangements with. Green only. No color. Ivy, not philodendron. And Magic Tape. 1/2 inch. No, not 3/4 inch. They sell that everywhere. 1/2 inch that you have to go to Staples for. And bread with no preservatives. No, not that bread. That's too hard/sweet/dark. And Kraft pudding cups, chocolate fudge. Only chocolate fudge. Lots of it. Oh, and Wernet's dental powder. No, not polident or fixodent or even Sea Bond. OMG, no. It has to be Wernet's, which is totally unavailable. Thank God for drugstore.com.
PU2 and I spent about two hours last night at Walmart, Michaels, and Staples, but we still have Chick's to go to for the windbreakers and a couple of other stores for other odds and ends. We even had a couple of poor Michael's employees climbing ladders in the back storeroom and searching for 4-ft ficus trees in the out-of-season stock.
And would you like for me to tell you about hanging CM's drapes? Hm? Wouldya? My mom is the kind of person who can tell who last talked on the phone by the way the cord is lying. She has every knick-knack in her house in the exact same spot, with not even 1/16th of an inch of leeway. She rearranges the shower curtain into even pleats every time she goes into the bathroom. She folds her trash. Let me repeat. She folds and stacks the trash in the trashcan. Paper trash goes to the right. Ashes and non-paper trash goes to the left. Paper towels (one per use only) are rolled very tightly and taped before being put in the trash. Get the picture? OCD delux.
So can you imagine what it was like to try to get new drapes hung in her living room and bedroom? Can you imagine the number of trips up and down the ladder I made adjusting this pleat and that pleat, and this drapery pin and that drapery pin? And then back the next day, doing much of it again because "I can see the drapery rod on the right when the drapes are closed" and "they don't overlap correctly" and "we need to train that third-from-the-right pleat to pop out" and "they cover the window too much when they are open." And she was really really trying to be agreeable. Really, she was. I know she overlooked a jillion other adjustments she could have asked for. God help me.
But the worst - and PU2 will tell you that this is when she decided that her grandmother is totally round the proverbial bend - was the ficus tree. Next to the drapes is a eight- or nine-foot fake ficus (all her plants are fake - mom is allergic to everything). After all the drape work was finally done and the couch was finally exactly centered in front of them and the coffee table in front of it, mom asked me to work on the tree. PU2 and I assumed that the tree was in the way of the drapes. But no. The problem was that one tiny branch---at the very top and on the back---was turned "upside down" so that the bottoms of the leaves were visible. It had to be turned over and reshaped. It was very important.
Argh. And I do mean argh. PU2 gets very high marks for hanging in there with me. She goes over often when I do, and we do tag-team CrankyMom management. When she starts seeing steam pour from my ears, she steps in and spells me while I get it under control. Then I tag her, and she gets to go play with her PaPa for a while.
Did I mention that my dad is the most wonderful man in the world? And certainly, when they handed out patience, he got back in the line at least four or five times. (Come to think of it, maybe he got MY share. Hmmmm....).
Enough. Sorry. No more whining. But remind me to tell you sometime how she is allergic to water.....
Monday, November 01, 2004
Cranky mom is not so cranky after all
Apparently mom has decided that moving to Cali was a big win-win. She seems happier than I have seen her in decades. I hope it lasts. I took them to the beach Saturday, and she was like a kid...They aren't strong enough to actually walk on the beach any more, but I found them a bench with a nice view within earshot of the surf, and they enjoyed it thoroughly. She seems to have relaxed and let some of her "I can't handle it all" fears go to me. I am cautiously optimistic that this new mom will stay around for a while. What a plus for all of us.
So, it's November. Thanksgiving is at my house. Who all is coming? I need to know how big a table to buy.....
Don't forget to vote tomorrow!
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Apparently mom has decided that moving to Cali was a big win-win. She seems happier than I have seen her in decades. I hope it lasts. I took them to the beach Saturday, and she was like a kid...They aren't strong enough to actually walk on the beach any more, but I found them a bench with a nice view within earshot of the surf, and they enjoyed it thoroughly. She seems to have relaxed and let some of her "I can't handle it all" fears go to me. I am cautiously optimistic that this new mom will stay around for a while. What a plus for all of us.
So, it's November. Thanksgiving is at my house. Who all is coming? I need to know how big a table to buy.....
Don't forget to vote tomorrow!