My Dad Has Dementia

It is time for school to begin.  My husband and I, at our different employment areas, are back preparing to open the doors to students this week.  My son is preparing to take his driver test so he can drive himself to school his senior year. (When did that happen? I need to lie down a moment.)

But my father has dementia.  It's an affliction that older people get. The brain starts to focus on activities such as walking and not so much on remembering. My dad was born a few days after Pearl Harbor, was in Vietnam, left the military after 28 years and worked in the medical field for almost twenty more years before he finally hung up his white coat.  He said that his intention was to pester my mother. He has achieved that goal.  They are both in their 80s, but my mother has her bowling teams, and she has her errands to run, and the house to clean, and laundry, etc. What she has been doing her entire life. Her routine, now that she does not have children in the house, has been a well-oiled machine with nary a hiccup, just how she likes it.   

My dad does not have a bowling league. He does not have errands to run. He just sits. He did try to clean the house to help my mom, but he didn't complete the task correctly and was shooed away. As I said, my mom has a routine.  My father did like to complete woodworking tasks, such as creating bookshelves and entertainment centers made of Oak that will survive a nuclear explosion and put your back out if you try to move it. But when he had his heart valve replaced, that all seemed to go away due to the long recovery.  All that equipment sits now, covered with dust and a few deceased wasps. My dad used to like to work in his garden and spent a lot of time outside, but now he "falls down out there". He says that he is watering every day, but the condition of the plants tells the story.

My dad used to pick up my son from school.  He would get into his humongous Ford 350 truck, roll down his windows and play old-timey country music very loud while in the car pool lane, because he enjoyed annoying people (his words).  Then he started to get lost while driving, so he was only allowed to drive around the block and secretly buy beer for homeless people.  My mother wanted to know why my dad didn't buy food for them, but he said that it was his money, so she let it slide.  Except when my dad was talked into driving one of those homeless people to his house over by Mission Concepcion, and he didn't know how to get back home. My brother "borrowed" Nelly the truck, and it sits in his driveway now.  My mother drives both of them.  For now.   

What my dad LOVES to do right now is talk to people. When we go out to eat on Sundays, my dad stops at every table to say hi and to tell a joke or two.  Most individuals are gracious and accommodating while my father tells one of the two jokes he remembers, and stands there while they try to make small talk in return.  Both of his jokes are slightly off color, so there's always a chance that someone will be offended.  My father is no longer allowed in one of the local libraries, for example, to my mother's horror. When I try to get him to move along so we can sit down, he gets irritated with me and tells everyone that I am "no fun".  I agree with him.  It is no fun chasing your dad around like he's a toddler who has wandered into the kitchen and wants the treat of someone's attention.  And he won't remember any of it ten minutes later. 

It has been hard watching my dad.  The guy I used to go to for answers about everything (because he was Dad, and dads know everything) doesn't remember my name. He doesn't remember a lot of names.  He does remember that I am his daughter, and that will have to do for now.  We could all wear nametags or buy shirts with our names on them, but given the number of people in the family and their fashion preferences, there might be a brawl. Fortunately we all live close to one another. My brother has started to come over more to visit my parents, and we have spent time over there during the summer talking, sitting, and walking with my dad so my mom can go to church and have a little respite.  They've installed cameras and alarms, so that my mom knows when my dad decides that he is going for a walk and leaves the house.  And we have spoken to my mom about options for her to consider, such as hiring a caregiver to help her.  She's the decision-maker now.  

The Fine Art of Ghost Hunting

October is the spooky month, when the first report cards are sent home to terrify parents.  The temperatures are dropping into comfortable-almost-chilly.  And ghost hunting becomes the local past time, at least until it becomes too cold.  Too cold for the people, I mean.  Not the ghosts.  I imagine that ghosts are beyond being irritated by mere temperatures.  

"I feel sorry for famous ghosts," my son says.  When he mentioned that, I had to agree. I watch a lot of ghost hunting shows. Ghost hunters are all over the place, demanding that Lizzie Borden "speak" or Wyatt Earp "turn on this flashlight" if he wants everyone to leave.  Of course, no one ever actually leaves when a ghost says to leave.  Why bother to ask?  

I understand that people want to know about ghosts. I understand that somebody needs to capture the next big video of a ghost on camera.  I believe that there are things that happen that I can't explain, but I'm not going to say that there is no explanation. But with ghost hunting, as in all things, there's a right way, and a very wrong way.  

1. Be respectful.  A very wise man once said that if you come before the king, you best come correct.  That is true with ghosts.  Most of these spirits are way older than the people "hunting" them.  In their day, young whippersnappers were supposed to respect their elders.  No sassing.  Some of these ghosts that people are looking for were noblemen, and they don't care whether you believe in the monarchy.  They expect to be treated as they were when they were alive, and they aren't going to spend the energy to appear to a bunch of disrespectful youngsters running amok in their house.  

2.  Speak their language.  Hey, did you know that Germans who lived in Munich in the 1800s did not speak English?  Yes.  They spoke German.  Yet here I am, watching these ghost hunting shows, and these guys are speaking English where English is not the language of the household.  Even Ghost Adventures, where Zak has mentioned that he understands Spanish, does not have anyone asking questions in Spanish, only English.  How can you coax a Spanish ghost out of hiding and onto camera?  Speak Spanish to them!  Otherwise they will just say, "Oh it's that crazy gringa again!" and go back to whatever ghosts do to pass the time.  Also, because it's Dia de las Muertas soon, wouldn't it make sense to build an ofrenda with all the treats so the unattached ghosts have somewhere to feel loved?  Or is that just me?  

3. DO.NOT. POKE. THE. GHOSTS.  Seriously. If you want to see a ghost, great, there's no reason to be a jerk about it. You don't have to be submissive, but aggressive is never a good idea when hunting things that you can't see.  Emphasis on not being able to see what you are taunting.  The attempt is made to provoke a reaction, I get it.  However, since there's no way of actually knowing WHAT is in the room with you, why would anyone do that? You THINK it's a ghost, but it could be an interdimensional being who has had enough of your nonsense.  Also, haven't you seen ANY horror films?  The one who taunts, the one who rolls their eyes, is usually dead pretty quickly.  Don't be that person. 

4. Ghosts were people, not circus animals.  Don't show up at their house expecting to see an episode of Ghost Ninjas.  "Hey, if you're a ghost, go over and smack Shane upside the head, then go into the kitchen and make me some cookies."  See number 1 above.  Unless the ghost is of Julia Child, she's not about your cookie obsession.  What would ghost cookies taste like, anyway?  I guess they would be no calorie, but likely tasteless, but you would have to sit there and eat EVERY SINGLE ONE of those cookies, because Julia Child doesn't suffer fools.  If she makes you some cookies, you WILL eat them and love them.  

The main point of ghost hunting is to hang out with your weird friends and see what is out there in the dark.  More power to all of you, I would be terrible at it.  Newbies, perhaps read this post before you head to the Island of the Dolls in Mexico, and behave accordingly.  Good hunting.

Not My Proudest Parenting Moment

Zane and I were walking to our car in the school parking lot, as were several other parents who had picked up their children. I asked Zane about his day, just like I do every school day. My boy responded with the usual nonresponse that most kids produce on command.

And then...

"Oh!  I remembered my first bad word!" My boy said, loud and proud.  A few heads turned our way. Usually I would tell Zane to lower his voice, but I was in "tired mom" mode.  It's exhausting some days, to work 8 hours at a job and then work another shift as a parent.  It's completely understandable that I made a tactical error on this particular day. At least that is my story. 

"Really?" I said.  "What word was that?"  As soon as the words left my mouth I wanted to call them back. I winced, then looked around at the other parents in the parking lot.  To my surprise, nobody else was staring disapprovingly in our direction.  Whew! 

"'Sexy' was my first bad word!" Zane was out of the gate, his mouth running.  I just had time to register the thought that "sexy" wasn't a horrible awful word and then--

 "The NEXT bad word I learned was sh**!"  

Now those other parents were listening, and glaring at me as they tried to hurry their own children along to their own vehicles.  I smiled and waved at them.  I was winging it.

"Lower your voice, Zane!" I hissed, reaching over to grab at his hand. I frantically tried to get Zane's attention, calling his name, but he was going to finish his thought come heck or high water.  It was actually the longest time I'd ever heard him speak on a single topic that wasn't Nerf-related.  I might have been proud, if under different circumstances. Now I feared I would be getting a stern phone call from the principal about allowing my child to corrupt small children in the school parking lot.  I braced myself for the next word, certain it would be the most egregious.  

"...THEN I learned the word FOCK..."

Wait--what?  Did he just mispronouce the BIG BAD F WORD?   My child did NOT actually drop an F bomb in the school parking lot? I was not a terrible mom after all!   I couldn't help it--I giggled with relief.  I then made an effort to cover up my laugh with a cough or two.  As we got into the car, I reminded Zane that those words were not nice words, and that he should not ever say them at school.

Or in church.

Or in front of his grandparents.

Or in polite company.

Well, maybe when discussing politics.

A Little Toilet Humor

A comedian named Bill Engvall once told us that stupid people should wear a sign explaining that they suffered from such a malady, just for our convenience. His reasoning was that if they were wearing some indication of their affliction we would not rely on them to help us.  I completely agreed with Mr. Engvall.  It is very difficult to get productive answers from some people, who are not endowed with common sense. We all know this.   

I found this sign in a bathroom, and I had questions.  Questions about why someone might feel a need to flush a toilet in a public place for an extended period of time, for instance. Did they think that holding down the handle for so long would mean that their deposit would move more quickly out of sight?  I wonder what that said someone might do in said public facility when their attempts to dispose of the "evidence" come back to haunt them. Certainly it was not anyone's intent to deliberately flood the restroom, but accidents happen.  Did they immediately run, to avoid getting their shoes wet?  Or did they stand there, shocked beyond thought, while the water quickly swirled out of the bowl and around their feet?   I think that such an event would warrant a trip back home to change shoes, at least.   

I also wonder how the sign makers arrived at the exact conclusion of three seconds.  Did they break out the stop watch?  I would have. Did they stand by with a mop, clipboard, and pencil, encouraging another person to "just hold down that handle for FIVE seconds now, okay? GO!!!" Did they draw straws, or do paper, rock, scissors, to determine who got to clean up after the experiment?  Was a lawyer consulted on the wording of the sign, so as to avoid lawsuits?  How would a lawyer bill for such advice?  I think that he or she should have only billed for three seconds, but I'm sure the American Bar Association would disagree.

The mind boggles, or at least mine does such boggling.  Because you know that somewhere, someone, did cause this particular toilet to overflow by holding down the handle longer than necessary.  Something happened, some squishy event occurred, necessitating the need for this sign. 

Whatever it was, I hope that it was as hilarious as I imagined it was.

A Great Shirt, With An Exception

This is a great shirt.

It's a comfy, soft shirt, for one.  The kind of shirt that hugs you gently and makes you feel relaxed the second that you put it on.  This sort of shirt is a wonderful stress release at the end of a horrible day.  My son calls these sorts of shirts his "softees", and I think that is an appropriate term.  A shirt like that is indeed a comfort in its soft, cottony goodness.

This shirt has bacon on it.  Not real bacon, of course.  That would make the shirt a greasy mess; not comfortable at all, and probably a bit stinky after hanging in your closet for a couple of days. It's just a picture of bacon, but that is enough.  I have fond memories of visiting my grandparents on their farm, my grandmother cooking bacon and eggs for my grandpa before he went out into the fields.  The smell of the bacon, the sizzle of it in the skillet, would draw me out of bed at the crack of dawn without any complaints or arguments.

This shirt is marvelous because it has a new word on it: snaccident.  This word is what is called a sniglet, 'a word that is not in the dictionary, but should be'.  I remember a few sniglets from the 1980s, such as 'margraine'(the headache you get from drinking a frozen margarita too fast), so seeing this word 'snaccident' brings up some pleasant memories.  Mostly about the times that I did NOT have a 'margraine'. But I have snaccidents all the time, like when I see an open bag of  of those Almond Joy candy bars.  Who can resist that wonderful chocolate covered coconut magnificence? 

However, the words on this shirt imply that a person might eat bacon by mistake.  How can this be?  Bacon is never a mistake, under any circumstances.  Except tofu bacon.  That is a crime against humanity.  But all the other bacon is never a mistake.  Bacon is always delicious, and to think about bacon is a joy for most people, even if they don't eat it.  So this shirt should say that bacon is never a mistake, or come up with another food that someone might eat by accident that is not bacon.

But then the shirt wouldn't be as great.  Not without bacon. 

I Play With Toys

The only time there will be a DC/Marvel crossover

Occasionally at work, I have to make phone calls.  I hate making phone calls,  but it's part of the job.  I have to call parents, other schools, or call doctor's offices, etc.

And I get put on hold.  It's not a pretty situation.  There's no really good "on hold" music these days, just commercials or silence.  It gets old.

I don't do well with waiting, I think I've mentioned, even under the best of circumstances.  I get bored listening to the music or commercials or whatever, especially if it plays more than once.

It's not as though I can do something else while I'm waiting.  I can't get up and run to the bathroom, or get a drink of water, or microwave my lunch.  I can glance at my computer screen, but I can't really work on a report or anything requiring concentration.  The second I get focused, the other person on the phone will want my attention.

I suppose that I could put the phone on speaker and then move around, but I'm a little afraid to do that.  I'm afraid that I'll hit the wrong button and hang up.  Or worse, that I'll forget that I'm on hold and burp or pass gas or something mortifying

So...I play with my desk toys.

I highly recommend desk toys.  Mine are little items that I've collected over the year.  A minion here, a ninja there.  Some toys I've "borrowed" from my son, whenever he lost interest.  People have given me some toys, such as my beloved Daryl Dixon(The Walking Dead) dolls--action figures.  I even have a few random Legos in my desk drawer that I occasionally take out and assemble.

I used to hide my toys.  I'm a professional, after all! That means serious business, with no time for frivolity.  Nose to the grindstone, and all that.

Except that I don't work well like that.  I need mental breaks in my day, just like everyone else.  If I choose to play with toys while I'm on hold, where's the harm?  Perhaps if adults played a little more often, maybe they wouldn't be so cranky all the time.  Maybe everyone needs a ninja.

Or a minion. Everybody needs one of those. 

Overconfidence Causes Baldness

I've often been accused of overconfidence.  I'm one of those people who looks at a piece of jewelry, furniture, clothing, or a particular entree', and immediately thinks "I can do that."   This thought is immediately followed by a second thought: "It can't be that hard."  This tendency is genetic, because I grew up hearing my father actually say these exact same sentences.  Overconfidence can be a great trait for a person to have.  It can make you try new adventures that you might never, ever be brave enough to attempt, like trying out for a play. 

Overconfidence can be not so great.  Not everything that looks easy is actually that simple.  Talent takes hard work and skill.  Some people have dedicated their entire lives to making particular sports look easy, for instance, and I'm certainly never going to think that I can dunk a basketball like Michael Jordan or play soccer like Lionel Messi.  That would just be stupid. But my tiny brain hasn't quite figured out which activities look simple due to talent and hard work, and those which I might actually be able to do.  So occasionally, my tendency toward overconfidence gets me into trouble. Especially when I am trying very hard to impress a person.

It was 2000.  My then-fiance' was going through chemo(yes, we've dealt with cancer before), and his wonderfully curly hair became too hot to bear.  Larry asked me to cut it for him, using these clippers that he bought with an adjustable guard.  The commercials regarding these clippers made everything look so simple. You adjusted the guard to a certain number, say '3', and went to work.  The lady in the commercial clipped her way through her entire family of eight in the span of 30 seconds!

Easy, right?  That's what I said.  I didn't even blink, because I thought it would be so simple.  I'd watched the commercial.  How hard could it be?   I was very overconfident. 

I wasn't even nervous.

Larry sat in a chair in the back yard of our duplex, and began chatting about something.  I plugged in the clippers, set them to '2', and turned them on.  Confidently, I began with the back of Larry's head.  And promptly shaved down to scalp right there in the back of his head.  A rectangular strip of pink skin glared at me as the sun hit it.

I was horrified. 

I first looked at the clippers in accusation. That wasn't a '2'!!!  I then looked down at the hank of hair that had fallen to the ground, willing it to float back up and reattach.  It did not respond to my will.  I panicked a little. What had I done?

Other people would have just kept going. Other people would have been certain that they could fix their error, or at least cover it up.  Not me. I had already hit skin; images of how bloody head wounds can be floated through my brain. Nor could I fix this particular issue with a comb over of any kind.  It was time to face the music, so I began the time honored tradition of accepting responsibility and being accountable.

"Oops."

"What do you mean, 'Oops'?" Larry stopped talking and turned around hurriedly.  I stood there looking sheepish, the clippers now held behind me. 

"Um, I cut it shorter than I was supposed to?" I offered hesitantly.  People have strange relationships with their hair.  Would this be a deal breaker in our relationship?   What if he was angry?  What if he decided that an overconfident woman was not the kind of wife he wanted, all because of my error.  I winced a little, in anticipation of the big blow up.

Larry just stared at me.  I sighed.  It was time to be me, and just be frank.

"You have a bald spot now."  I said. "I screwed up. We need to go find someone else to fix it."

To my surprise, Larry took the news rather well.  He even laughed a little about it, reminding me that he had wanted his hair cut short so his head would be cooler.  Such a sweetie!  We had to drive around town a little to find someone who would "fix" my mistake. After they stopped laughing, of course.  I also had to deal with an entire salon of stylists pointing and laughing at me while Larry sat in the chair.  I took it all in stride.

"Not so easy, is it, now?"  They teased, and I had to agree. 

The Phantom Boob

When I was in school, I read all about Phantom Limbs for a psychology class or two.  People who have had limbs or appendages amputated still feel as those those body parts are still attached to them somehow.  There's a neurological basis to the experience. Even if the mind clearly understands that the limb is no longer there, even if the person can simply look down and see that the limb is gone, they still report feeling the same sensations as though the appendage is still there.  I remember thinking, how interesting, that the mind worked in such ways.  And then I turned the page and read the next chapter of my textbook.

What can I say?  I was in college.  That's what college kids do.  Everything in college is interesting, but only on the surface, like watching the circles flowing away from the rock that you throw into a pond.  You're exposed to everything, and it's only later, when you start to apply what you've learned, that things start to make sense, and you see below the surfaces.

When I first learned that I was going to have to have a mastectomy, I cried.  I wasn't crying about losing my breast.  I was crying about having to have yet another surgery.   I was, and still am, ambivalent about my boobs.  Always have been.  I think most women are.  Some days I liked them, such as when they filled out an outfit just so and made me look awesome. Some days they made me feel downright sexy.  And my breasts were a very big help when I had my son, boosting his immunity and helping him grow. 

But most days my boobs just annoyed me.  Bras didn't fit right some days, so I was constantly adjusting my "accoutrements".   The fact that my nipples sometimes ended up in opposite directions occasionally made me look as though Mad Eye Moody from Harry Potter was on my chest.  The ache in the middle of my back from the weight of D cups.  The minor aches and pains my breasts experienced once or twice each month weren't great, either. Most days my opinion of my breasts was a simple "meh".

My left breast is gone now.  I look down at my chest, and it's not there.  Instead there is a neat row of stitches, with strips of tape covering them.  There's some flap of skin, that will be used for breast reconstruction at some point, and below that is the drain tube, where lymphatic fluid and blood is still draining.  But that breast is gone, severed from my body and sliced into microscopic pieces for examination, along with five of my lymph nodes.  Intellectually, I know that.  And yet, I feel as though it is there.

I have a phantom boob.

If I am not looking directly at it, I feel the same as I did before the surgery.  When I cross my arms under my boob(s), I have the sensation that there are still two there, not one.   I still have that ache between my shoulder blades at the end of the day, even though the weight has been halved.   I still have the hormonally random aches and pains.  And bras still don't fit right, and they won't, until I get a prosthesis or a box of tissue stuffed in there.  However, my boob is not there, no matter what my brain thinks.  My left breast had cancer in it, and it had to go.

I didn't expect to have a phantom boob. It's ridiculous, really. I could completely understand the body missing a hand, or a foot, or an eye.  Those are extremely useful appendages, completing a multitude of tasks during our lifetime. It is completely logical that the brain would want those particular appendages.  But missing a breast?  When you think about it, a boob is not really useful for much beyond feeding babies, or those weird fetishes that you read about on certain parts of the internet.  *cough*  Why would my brain have fond feelings for a breast?

A phantom boob?

Maybe I should start looking for a curandero to exorcise this particular ghost.  Perhaps they might perform a ceremony involving protection from the evil eye, chanting and rolling an egg over me.  Maybe there'd be sage burning. I don't know how these sorts of things work.  I am not sure how I would even bring up the topic.  Perhaps I should hold a seance'?  Who would I invite to the table to hold hands and call up the spirit of my lost boob?  I'd probably get laughed out of the room.

Nobody takes phantom boobs seriously these days.

It Was The Fruit Salad That Did It

A little red

It must have been terrifying for the colonists to leave the comforts of England.  To sail off into the world, leaving everything they had ever known behind them to find a new home?  I get upset if I can't sit in my favorite chair--I can't even imagine the courage it took to even leave port.

And then to form a new colony from nothing?  To face hardships, disease, and Native Americans who weren't too happy to have their land taken?  Scary.

A little white

But just think about this for a moment. This week, which we celebrate today, our forefathers sat in a room and agreed to break away from the only government they had ever known.  They defied a King, told him to go away, and created the government that we have today.  The people who signed that Declaration of Independence knew that they were committing treason against the powerhouse that was Britain.  They were about to go up against what was at that time the greatest Army in the world.

And a little blue!

Impossible. Scary. Terrifying.  Those guys in that room were signing their death warrants.  They were putting their names to a document that would ensure that they would be hung for treason...if the American Revolution had gone the other way.

And they did it anyway.  Think about that for a minute, about the courage it took to risk so much.  I often contemplate their bravery, their heart, their certainty in their right to govern themselves.


Why did they do it?  What singular thing solidified their resolve, and gave them the courage to stand up to the might of Britain?

I know the answer.  It was the fruit salad.  Those founding fathers tasted all that the New World had given them--strawberries, pineapples, blueberries, bananas, oranges, and grapes. (Yes, I know that pineapples didn't show up until much later--I'm working a metaphor here.) Mixed together in an assortment that predicted what America would become, joined with an elegant orange-lemon-vanilla syrup.

Fruit salad did it. The rest is history.  Happy Fourth!

Lollygagging

I am decisive about many things in my life.  It helps that most of the time, an answer is immediately apparent.  Child is sick?  Go to doctor.  Rip in pants?  Don't wear those pants.   Coffee or tea?  Coffee, followed by tea.  $47.50 for a pair of flip flops?  Hell no.   But some decisions that are easy for most people are difficult for me.  I waffle, completely indecisive, about the silliest things, and it may take me weeks to make a decision one way or another, and then another six months to decide whether I am actually happy with my decision.  It drives me nuts, but I cannot seem to help myself.

I need a haircut.

My hair is now so long that it only does one thing well.  Unfortunately, that one thing is to hang flatly as close to my head as possible.  Since I have a moon-pie face(which I think means that my face is as round as the moon, and I like pie, both very true),  the very last thing that all the fashion magazines advise is that my hair hang flatly anywhere.  Those fashionista-types insist that all hair be shiny, silky, and luxuriously full at all times. I am on board with those concepts, as long as I don't actually have to work at it, which is where the fashion magazines and I part ways.

Who hired these people to tell us what to do again?  Nobody has hours to spend on their hair!  If they do, that person is obviously single and childless. When I was single and childless, I often did spend weeks getting my hair to look perfect, but now? Pfft! I get approximately twenty minutes to myself in the morning to shower, dress, and do my hair, with a minute or two to slap on some eye shadow.  I just have one child; I am sure that the time allotted for grooming is reduced for multiple children.

My hair is longer than it needs to be, and I need to get it cut.

I am not sure what I want.  I know what I don't want--a bob.  As far as I've seen, everyone and her grandmother has that haircut.  And why not?  It's an easy to care for haircut, and it looks fetching on most people.  Except I don't want to pay someone to cut my hair like every other person out there.  I want to look like myself.

So my hair is longer than it needs to be and I want to get a haircut, but I don't know what kind of haircut I want, except not a bob.

And not too short.  I know those damn fashion magazines say that women with fine hair should keep it cut short, and that women with moon-pie faces should wear their hair short, and fat chicks should wear their hair short, etc.  I don't like how I look in short hair.  Anything shorter than chin length, and I look like that Alfred P. Neuman guy from Mad. I am scary enough, thank you!

I want a haircut that is not a bob, that is not shorter than chin length, that does not make me look like Alfred P. Neuman or scary in any way.  I'll settle for not scaring small children.  And this haircut must take less than five minutes to fix up in the morning, including the drying. 

I will likely make a decision about all this somewhere around the end of 2015.  Maybe.

 

Clean Out The Fridge Salad

I like salad. Not for every meal, of course. All that masticating would give me a headache.  I don't know how the cows do with all that chewing. 

A couple of times a week, however, especially in the summer, a salad is quite lovely. It's not hot, at least, and is quite refreshing.  Since I am the only one in the house regularly acquainted with most fruits and veggies, I not only get to make the salads, I get to eat them.  I don't have to worry about anyone wanting to hog the spinach leaves or stealing all of my cherry tomatoes. I am also a bit of an experimental eater, mixing things together as the mood hits me.  As a result, I have developed my own salad making style, which I would like to share with you on this fine day. 
 

1. Be hungry.  Some people eat on a time schedule instead of listening to their tummies.  Cut that out.  If you're not hungry, don't eat!  But if your tummy is rumbling and growling at you, a salad may be in order. 

2. Raid the fridge.  Open that door and squat down at eye level, so that you can see all of the shelves.
What is in there that may be salad worthy?  Try to be open minded.  On this particular occasion, I find spinach leaves, mandarin oranges that are about to expire, and mozzarella cheese. I also find expired salad dressing. It is a Caesar dressing, which is a shame.  But I come not to bury expired Caesar, but to eat his nearest and dearest fridgemates. Caesar hits the trash can, as does any number of expired foods that are within reach, hence the name of the salad.

3. Raid the pantry.  Walk in there and really look at what you have.  What is in there that is salad worthy? Cereal can make a great addition to a salad, for instance.  Peanuts and other nuts are also yummy.  On this day, I find a can of diced fire roasted tomatoes, green beans, and croutons. Perfect.

4. Mix everything together in a big bowl. Don't forget to drain the tomatoes, green beans, mandarin oranges.  Nobody likes a soggy, soupy salad, especially croutons!

5. Drizzle your preferred dressing all over.  Don't go crazy, just focus and aim on the bowl of salad.  Don't use all of the dressing, keep a bit to the side until after you've tasted your work.  As they say in the South/Midwest/West, sometimes ranch dressing/ketchup/BBQ sauce cures all ills, particularly in the kitchen.
 
6. Eat.  If the salad doesn't taste good, add more dressing or maybe pepper.  I felt that my salad on this particular day would have tasted excellent with Caesar dressing, but whatever.  You now have a healthy salad, and once you're done with that, there's some pudding cups hiding behind the butter on the top shelf.  Help yourself.


How do you make a salad at your house?

First Annual Bring Your Ironman To Work Day

We dropped off Zane at the daycare, and then I dropped off Larry at his school. I got into the car and looked back. There he sat, looking back at me: Ironman.



I felt kind of bad for a few moments, since he rode a good 30 minutes in the car not safely restrained. Then I thought that perhaps the fact that he's Ironman would render him impervious to most automobile crashes. I decided to take him with me. To work. I've always wanted a lackey.



We had a brief discussion over who got the comfy chair, which I won, and then I put Ironman to work. Or rather, I tried to. He flat-out refused to go and get me coffee. He just stood there. I felt that this was certainly not the proper way for a lackey to behave.



Ironman apparently has an extreme aversion to filling out forms, which I found odd for a bazillionaire. It was probably some paper cut related trauma. I can totally understand that. That's why I hate filling out forms, too.



Ironman's spelling is atrocious! Hadn't he ever heard of spellchecking? Ironman responded that he was a physicist, not a dictionary. I told him to stop channelling Leonard McCoy from Star Trek.



Ironman was as bad at speaking on the phone as I am. I can't tell you how many people he 'accidentally' hung up on(Sorry, Mom!)! This was very frustrating, as I had such high hopes for our office relationship. However, toward the end of the day, I did find one thing that Ironman could do in my office that really came in handy.



He was a great pen holder.

Are We There Yet?

Getting ready to go anywhere is a major ordeal, mostly because I am just plain disorganized. Also, I am easily distracted by shiny objects. So I am usually rushing around, trying to get myself ready, Zane ready, all the little things that Zane will have to have ready, and get out the door not too late for whatever it is we are supposed to be punctual.

I am not a morning person. This is actually the understatement of the century. Grass is more sentient than I am before ten in the morning. I usually don't even speak until I've had at least two cups of coffee. Yet somehow I ended up being responsible for getting the entire household up and ready for the day.

I try. I really, really try. Those books on organization make it all sound so easy. I lay clothes out the night before. I get the coffeemaker ready the night before. I put Zane's clothes out, get my lunch ready, gather up my work-related items, etc., all the night before, so I don't have to worry about them in the morning. I do this in the mistaken belief that this will make us all magically become better people who are actually on time.

What usually ends up happening:

I get up ten minutes after I am supposed to because I don't hear the alarm which is right next to my head. I go to wake up Larry so he can get into the shower. He swats at me, and mumbles something incoherent, which I wrongly interpret as "I am awake, my love. I will get out of this bed post haste." I go downstairs and make coffee, make Larry a cup and go back upstairs to find him still asleep. I try again, punching him in his hip and pulling the covers off of him. Larry again mumbles, and I hear his mumble as "I am so very sorry that I did not immediately get out of bed the last time you were up here, darling. I will endeavor to obey your every wish from this moment forward." I go back downstairs.

About halfway through my second cup I realize that Larry is still not awake and go back up stairs. This time I whisper-yell his name, trying not to wake up Zane. Larry shoots straight up in bed and acts like he's having a major coronary, then gets mad at me for "scaring" him. I stand over him until he actually gets out of bed.

I get my lunch from the fridge, put it by the door. I pour Zane a glass of apple juice, pour a cup of coffee into a travel mug for Larry. I eat a quick breakfast of whatever is handy, and inevitably the second I sit down, Larry comes down the stairs and starts yelling at me to hurry up or we are going to be late.

I run around frantically trying to get ready. I rush downstairs. Zane is ready to go, Larry is ready to go, I am ready to go. We open the door to leave and--Zena runs out the door. We have to go and get her. We corral under a car and finally succeed in snaring her. We pick her up, put her in the house and--

"Want apple juice," my son says. *sigh* I unlock the door, Zena explodes from inside the house to the Great Outdoors. I go in the house to get more juice. I bring it out to my son, who is now strapped into his seat.

"Oh, I forgot I'm supposed to bring a movie for after the test," my husband says. "I'll be right back." He goes in, says but can't find it. I know exactly where "it" is; on the shelf in the laundry room. I tell Larry this. Larry goes back in, and comes back out again to tell me that he still couldn't find what was needed. I usually end up going back in the house to get the item, which is exactly where I said it was. By the time we finally get to where we are going, it's time to go home!