Juggling Life

Book ‘Em

Remember this post? I’ve finished all but five of those books—and I read a book from outside the pile as well.

It can only mean one thing when I’m reading at that rate. I’m going through a tough time.  The summer after my mom died I had a 300-page a day monkey on my back. It’s a better vice thank drinking or smoking, but it doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for exercise—which I sorely need to get back to doing on a daily basis.

The non-bloggable events, which are not in my control, are clearly affecting me. Strangely enough, I still get everything I need to do done. But I go to bed an hour or so early, read for an hour in the middle of the night (3 to 4 usually), and read while everyone else watches TV. Before you know it the return pile is twice as high as the to-read pile.

As a coping mechanism I can’t really say this is good or bad, but it has been my way at least since I read James Michener’s Centennial in one three-day weekend—during the dying days of my mother and stepdad’s marriage.

Tell me—what is  your coping mechanism?

Boys and their Dogs

 

                                           MVP and his dog Roxy

I have no doubt this is equally applicable to some girls, it’s just that in my house it’s been boys.

I am not a pet person. My husband is not a pet person. So why do we have two dogs and a snake? And why have we also had, over the years, two cats and a turtle, plus the requisite goldfish? Because although we are not pet people we have boys that are pet people.

I know some parents just flat out refuse to have pets—too much work, mess, time, money, etc. They know they will end up shoulder the responsibility of the animal. To which I say, “ this is true.”

The thing is that even though I am not a pet person I can see that for those who are it is like an animal fills a hole in their soul that cannot be filled any other way. I don’t get it, but I get it—if that makes sense.

I am surely not going to be the person responsible for letting a hole in my child’s soul go unfilled.

My racist, alcoholic, slightly lecherous grandfather was transformed into a kind, gentle, loving man when he had a dog at his side.

My depressive, alcoholic mother found so much happiness from her succession of dogs; I shudder to think what life for her would have been like without them.

When the youngest of my four children was out of diapers we decided to take the plunge from low-maintenance fish and turtles to the dog that was the heart’s desire of my boys—especially my youngest son, three at the time.

I was not so selfless as to go the puppy route—I knew I needed a break from potty-training, so we chose a two-year old rescue beagle, Buddy. A few years later, contemplating the timing of that dog’s eventual demise (the dog is now 14 and my son is 16; a beagle’s life span is 12 to 15 years), we added a beagle puppy, Beaux, to the family. This way when the inevitable and heart-breaking happens, my son will not be dog-less and therefore will be able to seek comfort from the quarter in which he has always found it—his dog.

My older son is a sophomore in college, for the first time living in a house with roommates. Almost his first act once he moved in and got a job was to acquire a dog (from a Marine about to be deployed to Afghanistan). Roxy is a champion hiker and wonderful companion. 

Boys and their dogs. In our house it’s a combo that has brought endless joy, companionship and unconditional love—along with the occasional mess.

In Which I am A Bad Influence

My Dad stopped by unexpectedly on Wednesday night. He can be a bit long-winded at times. Okay, protractedly-winded is more accurate.

As luck would have it, a friend of MVP’s was also here and we did what our family always does in a situation like this. Throw the friend to the wolves, by suggesting that the two of them share a common interest. In this case it was travel to the Pacific Northwest. Endless discussion of the microclimate of the Seattle area created by the location of the Cascades anyone?

Anyway, I digress (wonder where I get this from). I was on the couch and Danger Boy was in the kitchen when we had the following text message exchange.

Me: Put the burrito down and come out here.

DB: No.

Me: It’s okay. There’s an unsuspecting victim here.

DB: hahahahaha.

Pie and Hi

The apple was a “compilation pie;” filling by MVP with Grownup Girl featured on upper crust.

                  Sending an American Thanksgiving Hello to Deb in Japan

You Can Take The Girl Away From The Ocean . . .

But you’d better take her back to visit at the first possible opportunity. (Sorry Lake Michigan—you’re just not the Pacific Ocean).

 

                                              Cabrillo National Monument

 

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

Tuesday Randominity

I am going through something in my personal life that I can’t blog about (no divorce or jailed kids), which just makes me realize all the more how I’ve come to count on blogging as a way to process my life and how when I can’t do that it is almost as though I’m coping with my hands metaphorically tied behind my back.

I received a passing grade on the last of the high-stakes State of California Teaching Performance Assessments this morning. I’m three weeks from being completely done with my K-8 credential. I bought a study guide at Barnes and Nobles for the CSET English test (which qualifies you to teach high school) while I was out today. Hmmm.

The big Thanksgiving shop was actually fun. Grownup Girl did the inventory and list and she and her friend accompanied me. Somehow new jeans got added to the shopping list. Then we had a delicious dinner of Fettucine with Pesto and roasted butternut squash topped with sunflower seeds. Yum.

 

               They dressed a little more casually for the shopping trip!

Oh yeah! I almost forgot. You so will not believe this story.

Picture this—the Costco parking lot on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. A BMW takes exception to the speed at which I’m crossing across the lane right in front of the store. Yes, I’m going slower than normal, but I had elected not to mow down the slower-moving group in front of me or to dart around them. I am chill.

BMW-driver guns his car and drive toward me in a most rude, stalker-y manner. I stop. turn and look at him with disbelief. He moves his car slowly forward until his bumper is actually touching my leg.

He tells me I should have walked faster.

The look of disbelief spreads to the onlookers. I have a word with him and then head into the store. Because my brain is fuzzy from aforementioned personal situation I don’t think to get his license plate number to call the Sheriff's.

The whole “I Cannot Even Believe This Happened” aspect of the situation is increased when a shopper in the store stops me to assure me that she also cannot believe what she saw.

I guess I should be giving thanks that he didn’t actually mow me down.

Salad Days

What do these two photos (the Waldorf-Astoria and my Grandma) have in common?

If you remember this post you probably correctly guessed Waldorf salad. Many of you were intrigued by the mention of the marshmallow dressing on our traditional Thanksgiving Waldorf salad.

Since my Grandma’s Waldorf Salad is the only one I know, I decided to look into the history of this illustrious dish and discovered it was originally made with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise? In a chicken salad I can see, but I’m going to have to say that I think (without tasting the Waldorf-Astoria’s Waldorf salad) my Grandma’s recipe would win in a blind taste test.

I can’t say for sure how the switch from mayo to a marshmallow dressing was made, but I have my suspicions. You see, my Grandma was from Kansas and if you’ve ever perused a church or Junior League cookbook from one of the plains states, you know that the fine women of the Midwest never met a salad that they couldn’t improve by sweetening it. Snickers salad anyone?

The beauty of this recipe is that the dressing can be made early and stored in the fridge for two weeks.

Grandma Cunningham’s Waldorf Salad

Toss

• cut-up Granny Smith apples
• chopped Celery
• walnut pieces

Mix with Marshmallow Dressing

• 1 egg
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1+1/2 cups hot water
• 2 tablespoons flour
• juice of 1 lemon
• 8 to 10 large marshmallows
• 2 tablespoons butter

Beat egg: add sugar and flour. Add hot water gradually. Cook on low heat until thick. Add lemon and butter. Remove from fire. Add marshmallows and stir until dissolved.

A Little Ego Stroke

We’ve had parent conferences all week. I have been introducing myself and asking if the parents mind if I sit in.

Mrs. Parent: Of course! Sweet girl just loves you—she talks about you all the time.

Me: That’s so sweet. I love her too. She’s great.

Mrs.Parent: You have a kid in college?

Me: Two.

Mrs. Parent: When she said there was a student teacher I was assuming you were young. Then she said, “No, Mom. Her daughter is in college. I think she’s like 35.” So I did the math and thought, “Okay, maybe you had a child when you were 18 and now she was 18.”

Me: Haha. No, I am definitely not 35. But I love her even more now!

Let the Cooking (and the Tears) Begin

Tomorrow afternoon will find me making a big pot of chili and stocking up on some of MVP’s favorite foods. It’s a balancing act to make sure he gets his regular favorite foods in a week that includes Thanksgiving—the fridge is only so big. But I’ll try.

I decided to make chili on Friday for Saturday night’s homecoming dinner because Social Butterfly and I, along with OMomK and Bear, will be attending a memorial mass on Saturday. For the third time in 18 months and the second time in the last couple of months my heart will break as I watch a young lady, barely more than a little girl, deal with the loss of a parent. And I’ll try to find words to comfort a spouse who has lost the love of her life.

Life is just so inexplicable, random and unfair sometimes.

For us, this will be a week of homecoming and Thanksgiving—GrownUp Girl and MVP are both home and my nephew will be down from Seattle—while for three other families just like ours it will be a week of coping with the absence of a beloved parent.

Random. Inexplicable. Unfair.

 

 

Swine flu update: The Tamiflu has worked wonders. While his three friends that had H1N1 had fevers of 103 lasting for an entire week, DB is on the mend with not much more than residual exhaustion and a lingering and chest-rattling cough.

My Eyes were Bigger than my Stomach . . . Metaphorically Speaking that is.

I love to buy books—that way I can pass them around to my friends. However, it’s not very economical for a voracious reader without a paying job to satisfy her book hunger on her own dime.

I have been devouring the author interviews at The Women’s Colony Library along with Mrs. G.’s and the authors and commenters book recommendations, but a trip to a bookstore (independent or otherwise) for a spending spree just was not in the offing. What’s a girl to do?

Enter that most venerable of American institutions . . . the public library.

From the comfort of my own laptop I toggled between the San Diego Public Library site and The Women’s Colony and ordered up some books to be put on hold for me at my local branch.

I had them all within three days. Let’s see—if I renew I can keep them for 6 weeks. I average about 600 pages of reading a week. Thanksgiving week I don’t have to work . . . Okay, I did go a little overboard. Still, I don’t have to wonder what I’m going to read for a while.

Did I mention the library also has books on tape?

As of the writing of this post I have read The House on Fortune Street by Margot Livesay and Black and White by Dani Shapiro. Two thumbs up on both!

What’s on your “To Read” list?

This was originally published at TWC last week.  Since then I’ve added The Cradle Robbers, Because I Love Her and Above Us Only Sky to my finished list. Also, I listened to all 13.25 hours of Laura Moriarty’s The Center of Everything. It was stunning.