Tim was 8 when we decided to enlist the help of a neuro-developmental therapist to help us incorporate sensory-therapies into Tim's home school program. It involved 6 to 8 hours of total time with Tim, when lumped with his academics. To say we were both tired at the end of a day would be accurate.
One particularly wearisome day towards the end of that very, very long year, we were in the middle of eye exercises wherein we covered one of Tim's eyes while he tracked with the other. He put his little hand on my shoulder and said, "Mommy, has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?" They weren't dry after that, I'll say that much. Sweet balm to a mother's heart. And next week? We have a counseling appointment at Palomar Jr. college to get him enrolled for the fall. Who'd a thunk?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
back in the saddle, or "bike seat"
I'm going to try really hard to write more often, really I am. Maybe I'll make a deal with Tim; every time he practices riding his bike, I'll try and come up with something to write, which, if I WATCH him practice, will be no problem whatsoever.
Because, here's how it went.
Most kids jump on a two-wheeler equipped with training wheels sometime around age 7 or 8. All those kinds of experiences were lost on Tim, who at the time was still struggling with large motor issues. So, here we go, Round Two at the nicely matured age of 19. That's right; we got him a brand new bike of his own for his 19th birthday.
He was cautiously enthusiastic about it, remembering back to other failed efforts, but also acknowledging that those were long ago and that he could probably master the skill this time around.
A) The crotch on his shorts was a little on the long side that day and it took 3 flinging tries with plenty of "Uuuughooof's!" to get his leg swung up high enough to clear the seat and land Over Yonder, though the seat was as low as it would go. I had to turn around and have a silent howl, putting myself at significant risk of wetting my panties. I had to clap my hands over my mouth to sufficiently suppress the deep chuckles. Hernia risk, for certain.
B) Really, the bike was too high for him, so getting his hulk settled on the seat without a do-it-yourself-prostate-exam being the accidental result was quite a feat in and of itself. Poor chappie. He was very good-natured about it and stuck with it for as long as we encouraged him to, but the overall assessment was that he needed a shorter bike to conquer this particular skill.
C) We found one! Sent the blue one back in exchange for a beautiful, short red fellow, cheery and far less threatening. Tim has at least got balancing on it down now, which was accomplished by sitting on the seat and sticking both legs out off the pedals while rolling down our sloped driveway, applying the handbrakes whenever acceleration got a little on the brisk side. I left him doing that because sometimes you learn better when there's no audience. He came in some fifteen minutes later declaring, "Don't get too excited Mom, but I think I managed two or three actual pedals up the driveway that time." I'll keep you "posted" on the progress......
Because, here's how it went.
Most kids jump on a two-wheeler equipped with training wheels sometime around age 7 or 8. All those kinds of experiences were lost on Tim, who at the time was still struggling with large motor issues. So, here we go, Round Two at the nicely matured age of 19. That's right; we got him a brand new bike of his own for his 19th birthday.
He was cautiously enthusiastic about it, remembering back to other failed efforts, but also acknowledging that those were long ago and that he could probably master the skill this time around.
A) The crotch on his shorts was a little on the long side that day and it took 3 flinging tries with plenty of "Uuuughooof's!" to get his leg swung up high enough to clear the seat and land Over Yonder, though the seat was as low as it would go. I had to turn around and have a silent howl, putting myself at significant risk of wetting my panties. I had to clap my hands over my mouth to sufficiently suppress the deep chuckles. Hernia risk, for certain.
B) Really, the bike was too high for him, so getting his hulk settled on the seat without a do-it-yourself-prostate-exam being the accidental result was quite a feat in and of itself. Poor chappie. He was very good-natured about it and stuck with it for as long as we encouraged him to, but the overall assessment was that he needed a shorter bike to conquer this particular skill.
C) We found one! Sent the blue one back in exchange for a beautiful, short red fellow, cheery and far less threatening. Tim has at least got balancing on it down now, which was accomplished by sitting on the seat and sticking both legs out off the pedals while rolling down our sloped driveway, applying the handbrakes whenever acceleration got a little on the brisk side. I left him doing that because sometimes you learn better when there's no audience. He came in some fifteen minutes later declaring, "Don't get too excited Mom, but I think I managed two or three actual pedals up the driveway that time." I'll keep you "posted" on the progress......
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Ziplocks
The slow ocean waves of Del Mar were soothing the four of us into a lovely afternoon pre-coffee stupification yesterday when Clay turned to our friends Joe and Michelle; "You guys have been our inspiration in remaining a pet-free household. We haven't caved."
There was a time when Tim desperately wanted a dog, and we went so far as to research what breed our allergy-prone household could manage, but the sticker-shock of some sort of Boxer (I've since put the exact name of it out of my mind) put a kabash on that project. Additionally, while we had a dog living with us for a bit, Tim experienced first hand that there are responsibilities that will nag your conscience if not tended to, and anyone who knows Tim understands that his conscience works in overdrive as it is.
I was hanging some laundry over the railings of my bedroom balcony for the San Diego sunshine to dry one Saturday morning, after we'd had the cute little Scnhoodle (hypoallergenic Schnauser-poodle) staying with us for some weeks, when I spotted Tim down on the back lawn below, clad in his jamies and his rust-colored terry cloth robe; hair in full bed-head disarray. He had the kitchen tongs in one hand and a gallon-sized ziplock baggie in another.
No.
Oh, but yes.
I already knew the answer, but I ventured the question anyway, "Tim? What are you doing?" He looked up and said, "Uh, I thought I should pick up some of Coco's you-know-what's since there seem to be kind of a lot of them at the moment." And he waved the ziplock baggie up at me to demonstrate the boon of harvest he already had.
ACK! My KITCHEN TONGS!
We reviewed that the particular procedure of picking up doggie poopies should use lesser valued *tools* and receptacles, and that both items were to go immediately into the outside trash. Tim, a soul reluctant to waste a single thing said, "Are you sure I couldn't just wash the tongs in really hot water?"
Nope. My brain will not accept that. Even after purchasing a shiny new pair of tongs, I still can't look at them without thinking of Tim's alternate, though thoughtful usage for them.
To clarify, no one had been falling down on the job of poop picking-up; our friends were away at the time and we just hadn't assigned it to anyone. Because nobody at our house is all that keen on poop.
There was a time when Tim desperately wanted a dog, and we went so far as to research what breed our allergy-prone household could manage, but the sticker-shock of some sort of Boxer (I've since put the exact name of it out of my mind) put a kabash on that project. Additionally, while we had a dog living with us for a bit, Tim experienced first hand that there are responsibilities that will nag your conscience if not tended to, and anyone who knows Tim understands that his conscience works in overdrive as it is.
I was hanging some laundry over the railings of my bedroom balcony for the San Diego sunshine to dry one Saturday morning, after we'd had the cute little Scnhoodle (hypoallergenic Schnauser-poodle) staying with us for some weeks, when I spotted Tim down on the back lawn below, clad in his jamies and his rust-colored terry cloth robe; hair in full bed-head disarray. He had the kitchen tongs in one hand and a gallon-sized ziplock baggie in another.
No.
Oh, but yes.
I already knew the answer, but I ventured the question anyway, "Tim? What are you doing?" He looked up and said, "Uh, I thought I should pick up some of Coco's you-know-what's since there seem to be kind of a lot of them at the moment." And he waved the ziplock baggie up at me to demonstrate the boon of harvest he already had.
ACK! My KITCHEN TONGS!
We reviewed that the particular procedure of picking up doggie poopies should use lesser valued *tools* and receptacles, and that both items were to go immediately into the outside trash. Tim, a soul reluctant to waste a single thing said, "Are you sure I couldn't just wash the tongs in really hot water?"
Nope. My brain will not accept that. Even after purchasing a shiny new pair of tongs, I still can't look at them without thinking of Tim's alternate, though thoughtful usage for them.
To clarify, no one had been falling down on the job of poop picking-up; our friends were away at the time and we just hadn't assigned it to anyone. Because nobody at our house is all that keen on poop.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Under Construction
Don't worry! I'm just fussing around because I'm sick to death of the boredom that is my blogpage. Utterly uninspiring and pedestrian. It might look different yet again when next you sign on to see if anything is out there to tickle your funny bone. I have TWO things to tappety-tap; TWO, so check back later.
The Incident of the Skating Rink and New Uses For Ziplocks coming to your computer screen very soon.
Happy Valentines Sunday to everyone! Give your loved ones reason to have a twinkle in their eye by doing something special for them.....
The Incident of the Skating Rink and New Uses For Ziplocks coming to your computer screen very soon.
Happy Valentines Sunday to everyone! Give your loved ones reason to have a twinkle in their eye by doing something special for them.....
Saturday, November 28, 2009
"I need my family!"
That is a direct and shameless quote from my little 3-year-old nephew, Nicolas, who stated this little piece of true wisdom at the Thanksgiving table after they had returned home from the frenzied wedding weekend at our house.
Ahhh! SUCH a glorious time! I have to tell the world (or at least the small followers of this teensy blog) how impressed/proud/humbled I was by the sight of our entire extended family heaving-to and making this wedding not only HAPPEN, but making it a beautiful, personal, creatively touched event. My family....my family. Couldn't have done it without my family and a few of our dearest, generous friends who gave of themselves with their selfless, seemingly tireless, loving and joyful contributions on every front; from floral arranging to fancy sandwich making to sign-design to makeup artistry on what seemed to be an endless stream of cheerful bridesmaids and the utter grunt-work of set up and tear down involved in a backyard reception. It was this beautiful, warm event that none of us will ever, ever forget. The culmination, of course, was sitting on that golf green and hearing Heidi and Scott pledge their lives and love to one another as the ocean breeze ruffled Heidi's dress and hair. I'm fairly certain that the only dry eyes in the house were those of the worms underground, waiting for some peace and quiet.
At any rate, I echo Nicolas' sage remark, "I need my family!" Because, they are the best people on the planet.
Basking in the memory and wishing you all a happy and blessed holiday season,
Candy
Ahhh! SUCH a glorious time! I have to tell the world (or at least the small followers of this teensy blog) how impressed/proud/humbled I was by the sight of our entire extended family heaving-to and making this wedding not only HAPPEN, but making it a beautiful, personal, creatively touched event. My family....my family. Couldn't have done it without my family and a few of our dearest, generous friends who gave of themselves with their selfless, seemingly tireless, loving and joyful contributions on every front; from floral arranging to fancy sandwich making to sign-design to makeup artistry on what seemed to be an endless stream of cheerful bridesmaids and the utter grunt-work of set up and tear down involved in a backyard reception. It was this beautiful, warm event that none of us will ever, ever forget. The culmination, of course, was sitting on that golf green and hearing Heidi and Scott pledge their lives and love to one another as the ocean breeze ruffled Heidi's dress and hair. I'm fairly certain that the only dry eyes in the house were those of the worms underground, waiting for some peace and quiet.
At any rate, I echo Nicolas' sage remark, "I need my family!" Because, they are the best people on the planet.
Basking in the memory and wishing you all a happy and blessed holiday season,
Candy
Sunday, November 8, 2009
It is a GOOD reason.
Really, this time, I TOTALLY have a good reason for not attending to my writing assignments. As in, Heidi is getting MARRIED in less than 2 weeks and we are working QUITE hard to make it a completely glorious day for her and Scott.
So.
Naturally, in the process of getting things ready, one has to make sure everyone's got proper wedding gear for the special day. I've finally found my dress, Clay is on his way to a full suit, and today, we made it our aim to get Tim all situated. Always an adventure; always.
Erstmahl (which means, "first of all" in German) as you've read in previous posts, you know that Tim only has 2 speeds to his metabolism; "slow" and "reverse". He's just a very laid-back, mellow type of fellow; methodical, if you will. Make no mistake; he gets things done and they get done well; there's just never a sense of *hurry* about him. Which can be good for the rest of us who sometimes tear through life at a pace that keeps our hair streaming out behind us.
So, we fetch a few pairs of pants and a shirt and shuffle off to the dressing room. I don't know what it is about Target's dressing rooms, but both times Tim has had to try things on there, he nearly blows the doors off with one of his hydrogen-bomb sneezes. It certainly marks the time of day for whatever unsuspecting attendant is at the service desk. This time, the startled woman looked up at me and then and yelled, "Bless you!" around the corner. Good. We are already leaving an impression.
I am the hare and Tim is the tortoise. I don't know WHY, I really don't, WHY it takes so frightfully long to climb in and out of a pair of pants and shirt. I feel my life slipping away from me as I leeeeeean all over my cart alternating weight on my feet, praying a little and contemplating the universe. FINALLY he emerges, and now I have a clue as to why it took a long time -- the pants are, well, "snug" is being kind. I shooed him out of the public eye and told him to hurry a little bit with the remaining things, which he did.
We finally settled on THIS:
He looks pretty spiffy, no? Le Vest hides away Le Love for cheesecake and makes him look nice and manly. We were wending our way out of the men's department when he spotted HATS and begged to try on a few fedoras. So we got one to finish off his outfit, but he is verboten from wearing it TO the ceremony. He'll have to wait until the reception to add that little flourish.
Heidi ok'd the outfit, so we've got that down. Yay. Have to hem the pants, but I'd say we did well, even efficiently grabbing 3 linen tablecloths on our way to the men's department so that the food tables are well outfitted also.
It's going to be a great day.
Don't expect to hear from me between now and then or anytime shortly thereafter.....
So.
Naturally, in the process of getting things ready, one has to make sure everyone's got proper wedding gear for the special day. I've finally found my dress, Clay is on his way to a full suit, and today, we made it our aim to get Tim all situated. Always an adventure; always.
Erstmahl (which means, "first of all" in German) as you've read in previous posts, you know that Tim only has 2 speeds to his metabolism; "slow" and "reverse". He's just a very laid-back, mellow type of fellow; methodical, if you will. Make no mistake; he gets things done and they get done well; there's just never a sense of *hurry* about him. Which can be good for the rest of us who sometimes tear through life at a pace that keeps our hair streaming out behind us.
So, we fetch a few pairs of pants and a shirt and shuffle off to the dressing room. I don't know what it is about Target's dressing rooms, but both times Tim has had to try things on there, he nearly blows the doors off with one of his hydrogen-bomb sneezes. It certainly marks the time of day for whatever unsuspecting attendant is at the service desk. This time, the startled woman looked up at me and then and yelled, "Bless you!" around the corner. Good. We are already leaving an impression.
I am the hare and Tim is the tortoise. I don't know WHY, I really don't, WHY it takes so frightfully long to climb in and out of a pair of pants and shirt. I feel my life slipping away from me as I leeeeeean all over my cart alternating weight on my feet, praying a little and contemplating the universe. FINALLY he emerges, and now I have a clue as to why it took a long time -- the pants are, well, "snug" is being kind. I shooed him out of the public eye and told him to hurry a little bit with the remaining things, which he did.
We finally settled on THIS:
He looks pretty spiffy, no? Le Vest hides away Le Love for cheesecake and makes him look nice and manly. We were wending our way out of the men's department when he spotted HATS and begged to try on a few fedoras. So we got one to finish off his outfit, but he is verboten from wearing it TO the ceremony. He'll have to wait until the reception to add that little flourish.
Heidi ok'd the outfit, so we've got that down. Yay. Have to hem the pants, but I'd say we did well, even efficiently grabbing 3 linen tablecloths on our way to the men's department so that the food tables are well outfitted also.
It's going to be a great day.
Don't expect to hear from me between now and then or anytime shortly thereafter.....
Thursday, September 3, 2009
ADHD Ruminating
Wow guys, it's been so long. It's really only because I've actually been LIVING life, rather than commenting on it, though I've had some pokes from people insisting that I muscle enough time into my schedule to manage BOTH. I'm out of the habit, even as I'm out of the habit of taking my vitamins because one of them backs up on me throughout the day, coloring over any other culinary treats trying to make their way down, but that's another post.....
Here's where I really need help getting my blog up to snuff and not looking quite so incredibly blah. Because I need a picture for you to really get the full impact of this little Tim-ism.
We recently wallowed in a glorious vacation to the Bay Area to see family and friends. During one of our family gatherings, Tim was petting Kylie, my sister's dog. She's a beautiful mix of German Shepherd and something else (Kylie, not my sister) and has endeared herself to all our hearts with her attentive personality. If she knows you, she loves on you as soon as you come through the door and expects you to behave in like manner, namely that you rub her back and as she rolls over, her belly as well.
Tim, being the compassionate and giving lad that he is, was dutifully paying her these attentions, when he noticed that this activity was producing a small hill of shedding hair. Jen offered to let Tim brush her, which sounded harmless enough to him. However, when Jen returned holding a gadget that looked no less frightful than one half of a toothy bear trap, he reluctantly took it from her, his face registering increasing alarm. He took a few steps back towards Kylie and then looked over his shoulder, asking, "Uhhh; are you SURE about this?" He gingerly bent over Kylie's back and just barely brushed the surface of her, certain that this just could NOT be right. He was expecting a BRUSH, not a semi circle of glinting shark's teeth.
But of course, those of you who own a dog know that this is just fine, that doggies actually love the way this feels, and indeed, Kylie seemed to enjoy being rid of an extra pound or so of drifting fur and having every itch; past, present and future, completely tamed as Tim finally bore down on the thing with less fear of puncturing a major artery. I'm wondering if I need to get one for myself, actually. I have a perpetual need to have my back scratched.......
See? I need pictures.
Here's where I really need help getting my blog up to snuff and not looking quite so incredibly blah. Because I need a picture for you to really get the full impact of this little Tim-ism.
We recently wallowed in a glorious vacation to the Bay Area to see family and friends. During one of our family gatherings, Tim was petting Kylie, my sister's dog. She's a beautiful mix of German Shepherd and something else (Kylie, not my sister) and has endeared herself to all our hearts with her attentive personality. If she knows you, she loves on you as soon as you come through the door and expects you to behave in like manner, namely that you rub her back and as she rolls over, her belly as well.
Tim, being the compassionate and giving lad that he is, was dutifully paying her these attentions, when he noticed that this activity was producing a small hill of shedding hair. Jen offered to let Tim brush her, which sounded harmless enough to him. However, when Jen returned holding a gadget that looked no less frightful than one half of a toothy bear trap, he reluctantly took it from her, his face registering increasing alarm. He took a few steps back towards Kylie and then looked over his shoulder, asking, "Uhhh; are you SURE about this?" He gingerly bent over Kylie's back and just barely brushed the surface of her, certain that this just could NOT be right. He was expecting a BRUSH, not a semi circle of glinting shark's teeth.
But of course, those of you who own a dog know that this is just fine, that doggies actually love the way this feels, and indeed, Kylie seemed to enjoy being rid of an extra pound or so of drifting fur and having every itch; past, present and future, completely tamed as Tim finally bore down on the thing with less fear of puncturing a major artery. I'm wondering if I need to get one for myself, actually. I have a perpetual need to have my back scratched.......
See? I need pictures.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Eavesdropping
Evidently, Gary, being of the "Inquiring Minds Want To Know" type, has cleverly figured out how to fit an ear trumpet against a wall in the heavenly realms, caught the following exchange and passed it on to me. I especially loved discovering that the personal angel currently assigned to me is a nasaly Hispanic dude. I feel kinda sorry for him. It would appear that I'm a somewhat troublesome charge:
"Candy needs a break; I want her to stop for a bit. So, put a "hold" on the Snells and Beardsleys vist; will that do it? [No boss. She not stop for nuting.] Ya, I know; that's my Candy. Any other ideas? [No boss. She no stop ever. You know dis'. We hava debilitate har.] Tsk, tsk. I hate doing that. OK, I'm not watching...".
And you know the rest of the story. I AM enjoying my rest, by the way. Not so much the clumpy boot, but I'm getting some extra reading done (more on that later), and I actually have a strappy sandal for my good foot that matches the clumpy boot in color, so at least my stylin' sensibilities aren't too deeply offended. Plus, I'm still allowed to swim, so all the chocolate I'm eating won't hang on quite as tenaciously as it might have otherwise.
Thanks for the insight, Gar. Maybe I'll think twice about stressing Hector out next time I push myself to work quite so hard.....
"Candy needs a break; I want her to stop for a bit. So, put a "hold" on the Snells and Beardsleys vist; will that do it? [No boss. She not stop for nuting.] Ya, I know; that's my Candy. Any other ideas? [No boss. She no stop ever. You know dis'. We hava debilitate har.] Tsk, tsk. I hate doing that. OK, I'm not watching...".
And you know the rest of the story. I AM enjoying my rest, by the way. Not so much the clumpy boot, but I'm getting some extra reading done (more on that later), and I actually have a strappy sandal for my good foot that matches the clumpy boot in color, so at least my stylin' sensibilities aren't too deeply offended. Plus, I'm still allowed to swim, so all the chocolate I'm eating won't hang on quite as tenaciously as it might have otherwise.
Thanks for the insight, Gar. Maybe I'll think twice about stressing Hector out next time I push myself to work quite so hard.....
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Unexpected Couch Time
Hey Everybody,
So, Debbie, you don't need to read this one with close scrutiny, because it's what I scribbled to you and THEN hit on the idea that, "Oh yeah, I should maybe write something on my blogsite sometime this year; this qualifies as Material."
I had a birthday recently and our dearie friends living in Mexico blessed us by coming up Monday and staying the night, which is always a heartwarming thing for me. I love little persons tucked into all the nooks and crannies of our house, possibly dreaming of pool extravaganzas and limitless hours of Polly Pocket play in the living room. We all had a great time. Except for little Anna, who vigorously reviewed a week's worth of meals as she bent dutifully over one of our potties at 3am. The poor, poor thing. Needless to say, the morning was spent in hurriedly gathering All Things Fruin and they beat a hasty retreat back to Mexico, stopping first at Costco for 2 new tires, because the one with the nail in it hissed out the bulk of it's air in our driveway. (Tuesday morning's entry in the Fruin Log did not conclude with, "And It Was Good") Anna continued hurling into our borrowed blue bucket all the way across the border, but was fine by nightfall (I don't want that bucket back, by the way.....). That's good, that she's better. We're glad for that. So far, no one else's intestines have engaged in the same colorful tango.
Heidi admitted last night that as soon as she heard that Anna had lost it, she secretly said to herself, "You guys don't know it, but as soon as the front door closes on you, Mom will Clorox the entire house down to the rebar under the tile floor...." and of course, she was right (only now, I use an environmentally friendly cleaning agent, for the most part). So, I was busy, not disinfecting (I had already finished that), but pulling the coffee table away to vacuum under it when I over-estimated it's weight and yanked it full bore into my pinky toe. Well, that stopped me for a sec, to be sure, but then I finished the job, went on to mop the tile with an accommodating limp and then slithered into the tub where I noticed that something was really not so right with my foot altogether. 'Cuz, getting in, I screamed involuntarily when I stepped in and put pressure on it, which isn't really all that normal for me, unless there's a bee underneath, which there wasn't.
I kept ice on it after that (my chores were done, I didn't have to leave the couch) and when Clay got home at 8, he suggested all kinds of helpful things, including calling one of his pals, who happens to be an ER doc. I declined each thing, because, really, it was just a bad stubbing. Besides, Paul, the ER doc, is a sweet young man and I've only ever had all of 3 conversations with him, and I didn't think thrusting my foot in his face and saying, "Dude, does this look weird to you?" would be anything less than awkward and taxing on such a new friendship. Plus, they're in our brand new foodie group, and that vision for him, every time we got together to eat, might spoil any wish to continue being IN the foodie group, and we need him in there, because his absolutely charming wife owns the much-coveted William's Sonoma crock pot in which she makes succulent pulled pork.
When I woke up this morning, though, the pretty blue color had crept way up my foot and there was absolutely no stepping on it. So, I got myself appropriately groomed and drove to Urgent Care where I spent no less than 3 riveting hours in the waiting room yawning and reading amongst other souls in various states of disrepair, some vomiting into ziplock baggies (fun times!), others unabashedly ensconced in Swine-Flu-repelling masks. I'm not even kidding. The UC staff at least had the courtesy to divide the waiting room in half and have the Flu-symptomatic folks on one side with the rest of us sorry schlepps on the other.
A hobble down to "Imaging", 3 x-rays later and, Ta-Da! Pinky is broken. GAH! Can you BELIEVE it? I don't even have a good sporting story to go with it. I mean, WHO breaks their toe VACUUMING? Even the doctor had to mask his stupification with a purposefully blank expression before moving on in the conversation. This sort of reputation lands me squarely in the "CLUTZ" category. "Most traffic accidents occur within 1 mile of your own driveway." My personal version: *Right Inside The Comfort Of Your Own Home* After comparing notes, Jen and I figured out that we get this, plus our insatiable love of high heels, from our German grandmother. (Jen broke her foot falling off a curb. At least she was OUT, having FUN.) Our grandmother regularly tripped and splatted down to the sidewalk with absolutely no visible obstacle in sight to cause such mishaps, and her feet were permanently Barbie-shaped because even her HOUSE slippers were these fabulous gold wedge heels trimmed with white boa at the toes. (Believe me, they underwent close scrutiny on my part.) Our sister, Steph, on the other hand, has never broken anything in her foot region (correct me if I'm wrong, Steph) and also trots around in Sensible Shoes that defy those sorts of accidents. She and our mother excel in "Being A Lady". Not Jen and I. Nope. However, heels are not to be blamed in either of my breakages (yes, I broke the ball of my OTHER foot a few years ago, also at home, decorating for Christmas.....)
So, there you go. The blog might get a few entries this week, as I've been instructed to keep my foot elevated and iced for the next day and then no real walking on it for days afterwards (read: COUCH AND CHOCOLATE FEST), beCAUSE, I broke it right into the joint and if I don't give that time to heal properly, it will be prone to early arthritis. Anybody got any other good news??? Oh yeah; my house is spotless!
Cheers.
So, Debbie, you don't need to read this one with close scrutiny, because it's what I scribbled to you and THEN hit on the idea that, "Oh yeah, I should maybe write something on my blogsite sometime this year; this qualifies as Material."
I had a birthday recently and our dearie friends living in Mexico blessed us by coming up Monday and staying the night, which is always a heartwarming thing for me. I love little persons tucked into all the nooks and crannies of our house, possibly dreaming of pool extravaganzas and limitless hours of Polly Pocket play in the living room. We all had a great time. Except for little Anna, who vigorously reviewed a week's worth of meals as she bent dutifully over one of our potties at 3am. The poor, poor thing. Needless to say, the morning was spent in hurriedly gathering All Things Fruin and they beat a hasty retreat back to Mexico, stopping first at Costco for 2 new tires, because the one with the nail in it hissed out the bulk of it's air in our driveway. (Tuesday morning's entry in the Fruin Log did not conclude with, "And It Was Good") Anna continued hurling into our borrowed blue bucket all the way across the border, but was fine by nightfall (I don't want that bucket back, by the way.....). That's good, that she's better. We're glad for that. So far, no one else's intestines have engaged in the same colorful tango.
Heidi admitted last night that as soon as she heard that Anna had lost it, she secretly said to herself, "You guys don't know it, but as soon as the front door closes on you, Mom will Clorox the entire house down to the rebar under the tile floor...." and of course, she was right (only now, I use an environmentally friendly cleaning agent, for the most part). So, I was busy, not disinfecting (I had already finished that), but pulling the coffee table away to vacuum under it when I over-estimated it's weight and yanked it full bore into my pinky toe. Well, that stopped me for a sec, to be sure, but then I finished the job, went on to mop the tile with an accommodating limp and then slithered into the tub where I noticed that something was really not so right with my foot altogether. 'Cuz, getting in, I screamed involuntarily when I stepped in and put pressure on it, which isn't really all that normal for me, unless there's a bee underneath, which there wasn't.
I kept ice on it after that (my chores were done, I didn't have to leave the couch) and when Clay got home at 8, he suggested all kinds of helpful things, including calling one of his pals, who happens to be an ER doc. I declined each thing, because, really, it was just a bad stubbing. Besides, Paul, the ER doc, is a sweet young man and I've only ever had all of 3 conversations with him, and I didn't think thrusting my foot in his face and saying, "Dude, does this look weird to you?" would be anything less than awkward and taxing on such a new friendship. Plus, they're in our brand new foodie group, and that vision for him, every time we got together to eat, might spoil any wish to continue being IN the foodie group, and we need him in there, because his absolutely charming wife owns the much-coveted William's Sonoma crock pot in which she makes succulent pulled pork.
When I woke up this morning, though, the pretty blue color had crept way up my foot and there was absolutely no stepping on it. So, I got myself appropriately groomed and drove to Urgent Care where I spent no less than 3 riveting hours in the waiting room yawning and reading amongst other souls in various states of disrepair, some vomiting into ziplock baggies (fun times!), others unabashedly ensconced in Swine-Flu-repelling masks. I'm not even kidding. The UC staff at least had the courtesy to divide the waiting room in half and have the Flu-symptomatic folks on one side with the rest of us sorry schlepps on the other.
A hobble down to "Imaging", 3 x-rays later and, Ta-Da! Pinky is broken. GAH! Can you BELIEVE it? I don't even have a good sporting story to go with it. I mean, WHO breaks their toe VACUUMING? Even the doctor had to mask his stupification with a purposefully blank expression before moving on in the conversation. This sort of reputation lands me squarely in the "CLUTZ" category. "Most traffic accidents occur within 1 mile of your own driveway." My personal version: *Right Inside The Comfort Of Your Own Home* After comparing notes, Jen and I figured out that we get this, plus our insatiable love of high heels, from our German grandmother. (Jen broke her foot falling off a curb. At least she was OUT, having FUN.) Our grandmother regularly tripped and splatted down to the sidewalk with absolutely no visible obstacle in sight to cause such mishaps, and her feet were permanently Barbie-shaped because even her HOUSE slippers were these fabulous gold wedge heels trimmed with white boa at the toes. (Believe me, they underwent close scrutiny on my part.) Our sister, Steph, on the other hand, has never broken anything in her foot region (correct me if I'm wrong, Steph) and also trots around in Sensible Shoes that defy those sorts of accidents. She and our mother excel in "Being A Lady". Not Jen and I. Nope. However, heels are not to be blamed in either of my breakages (yes, I broke the ball of my OTHER foot a few years ago, also at home, decorating for Christmas.....)
So, there you go. The blog might get a few entries this week, as I've been instructed to keep my foot elevated and iced for the next day and then no real walking on it for days afterwards (read: COUCH AND CHOCOLATE FEST), beCAUSE, I broke it right into the joint and if I don't give that time to heal properly, it will be prone to early arthritis. Anybody got any other good news??? Oh yeah; my house is spotless!
Cheers.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
On Being Unoriginal
I don't think much about my titles; they just sort of spill out. It was the same with "Ruminations". I accidentally entered it into the computer incorrectly getting to my blog page and came across another blog titled "Ruminations, thoughts from a weary mind". I'm not naive enough to think it's never been used before, but that was kind of a "hey-you're-very-average" moment.
We are each unique and there's a vague hope inside all of us that we might leave some kind of mark on the earth as we clump along, but this is a little reminder that we are indeed just a puff of wind in the larger scheme of things. It's unimportant that we gain notariety. It is essential that we live our days well, that we serve those we love with honest cheer, that we love those within our reach lavishly and with abandon. Those are the harder things to do in a way, because they include acts of self-denial, service gone unnoticed and embrace the risk of rejection and worse, the disgusting self-realization that we aren't entirely generous or noble, as we wish to be. Our true selves are revealed when nobody is looking -- isn't that a famous quote?
I love this observation from Frederick Faber: "Kind thoughts are rarer than either kind words or deeds. They imply a great deal of thinking about others. This in itself is rare. But they also imply a great deal of thinking about others without the thoughts being criticisms. This is rarer still."
The entry is a little sober today, but then my baby just turned 18 on Wednesday and I'm allowed a few moments of reflection, don't you think? As mom would say, "It's good for your character."
We are each unique and there's a vague hope inside all of us that we might leave some kind of mark on the earth as we clump along, but this is a little reminder that we are indeed just a puff of wind in the larger scheme of things. It's unimportant that we gain notariety. It is essential that we live our days well, that we serve those we love with honest cheer, that we love those within our reach lavishly and with abandon. Those are the harder things to do in a way, because they include acts of self-denial, service gone unnoticed and embrace the risk of rejection and worse, the disgusting self-realization that we aren't entirely generous or noble, as we wish to be. Our true selves are revealed when nobody is looking -- isn't that a famous quote?
I love this observation from Frederick Faber: "Kind thoughts are rarer than either kind words or deeds. They imply a great deal of thinking about others. This in itself is rare. But they also imply a great deal of thinking about others without the thoughts being criticisms. This is rarer still."
The entry is a little sober today, but then my baby just turned 18 on Wednesday and I'm allowed a few moments of reflection, don't you think? As mom would say, "It's good for your character."
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Merciful hearts
Hi all,
Clearly, I've been consumed with other things, and unable to tend to Ruminations for a number of months now. Apologies for the silence, but sometimes It Is Golden, and leaves space for true ruminations. I can't claim that for myself at the moment, but it sounds good, eh?
However, something Tim said today while on our 6 mile hike jolted me into the recording mood and so here is a little something for your edification and entertainment.
We have company, and for any of you who have managed a trek down here, you know we enjoy discovering new places and interesting sights with those who grace us with their presence. We decided to try a trail that promised to end in waterfalls, something that seems somewhat unlikely and certainly a sight to behold in this near-desert climate. So off we marched. Saw the gurgling brook that modestly, almost shyly, tumbled over a pretty rock formation, thus "water" and "fall" could reasonably be squashed into the same sentance, but it's a stretch to call what we witnessed anything much akin to "falling". Whatever. Which is pretty much how Tim felt about the entire event. Let's just say that hiking falls somewhere between "cleaning out my closet" and "picking empty snail shells out of the yard" on his list of "favorite things to do".
We were on our way out of the reserve, chatting about our next stop, Burger Lounge. Now, for any of you who live in San Diego, or have come to visit and have been schlepped there by us, you know what sorts of delicious thoughts run through a person's mind when thinking about Burger Lounge. The rest of you just need to come and experience it.
In an effort to make conversation with Tim, thereby distracting him from the agonizing complaints of his heavy and aching legs, I asked him if he was going to get the basil-turkey burger or regular grass-fed beef burger. He says, huffing, "Oh the beef. I think the turkeys should just be left to go free." "You mean just have them at Thanksgiving only?" I asked. "Actually, I was thinking of something more merciful; you know, let them frolick about and mate so we don't deplete their numbers. Say, Mom? What does 'frolicking' mean? I mean, is there anyone who actually DOES that?"
Ahhh. Sometimes, a conversation with Tim is all the refreshment a body needs for a good while. I would so love to be a fly on the wall in his classes, as we've been led to understand that he actively participates in discussions. All his teachers report that they enjoy having him in class and I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because he inserts these kinds of colorful punctuations into whatever the subject matter is, and therefore, genuinely enlivens their day.
Have a good one yourself!
Candy
Clearly, I've been consumed with other things, and unable to tend to Ruminations for a number of months now. Apologies for the silence, but sometimes It Is Golden, and leaves space for true ruminations. I can't claim that for myself at the moment, but it sounds good, eh?
However, something Tim said today while on our 6 mile hike jolted me into the recording mood and so here is a little something for your edification and entertainment.
We have company, and for any of you who have managed a trek down here, you know we enjoy discovering new places and interesting sights with those who grace us with their presence. We decided to try a trail that promised to end in waterfalls, something that seems somewhat unlikely and certainly a sight to behold in this near-desert climate. So off we marched. Saw the gurgling brook that modestly, almost shyly, tumbled over a pretty rock formation, thus "water" and "fall" could reasonably be squashed into the same sentance, but it's a stretch to call what we witnessed anything much akin to "falling". Whatever. Which is pretty much how Tim felt about the entire event. Let's just say that hiking falls somewhere between "cleaning out my closet" and "picking empty snail shells out of the yard" on his list of "favorite things to do".
We were on our way out of the reserve, chatting about our next stop, Burger Lounge. Now, for any of you who live in San Diego, or have come to visit and have been schlepped there by us, you know what sorts of delicious thoughts run through a person's mind when thinking about Burger Lounge. The rest of you just need to come and experience it.
In an effort to make conversation with Tim, thereby distracting him from the agonizing complaints of his heavy and aching legs, I asked him if he was going to get the basil-turkey burger or regular grass-fed beef burger. He says, huffing, "Oh the beef. I think the turkeys should just be left to go free." "You mean just have them at Thanksgiving only?" I asked. "Actually, I was thinking of something more merciful; you know, let them frolick about and mate so we don't deplete their numbers. Say, Mom? What does 'frolicking' mean? I mean, is there anyone who actually DOES that?"
Ahhh. Sometimes, a conversation with Tim is all the refreshment a body needs for a good while. I would so love to be a fly on the wall in his classes, as we've been led to understand that he actively participates in discussions. All his teachers report that they enjoy having him in class and I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because he inserts these kinds of colorful punctuations into whatever the subject matter is, and therefore, genuinely enlivens their day.
Have a good one yourself!
Candy
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Familiar Faces in a Strange Land
I'm really going overboard to call San Diego "A Strange Land", but then, waggling atop a shimmying surfboard in shark-patrolled waters and calling it entertainment is quite foreign to my concept of "fun", so it is a bit strange, to me at least. The truth of the matter is that I hear more English spoken around me than I did while living in the culturally diverse Bay Area.
One thing mind-boggling about our new location is that you can't go to the grocery store without tripping over a tanning salon, usually adjacent to a nail salon as well, but my summary on those require another post entirely.
What? Are we not getting ENOUGH sun in this particular latitude filthy with UV rays, but have to go have a lie-down under an artificial mechanism to further the leathering process? Someone clue me in. During the winter, I noticed several women trotting through their errands in workout shorts sporting evenly golden legs, "KFC, Crispy-Style", I dubbed them, but then, with markedly white arms and faces. Spot-tanning??? Why? My mother's brilliant comment to this would be, "Repeat after me; we are all STUPID."
All that is to say that we gleefully welcome friends from the past who pop in to say "hello" and sit a while. It brings a sense of comfort and security when those who knew us in our "other land" and believe we are somewhat normal, stop in and have a cuppa something hot and visit and allow us to feel comfortable in our own, not-very-dark-by-San-Diego-standards skin for some moments. It's a treat; one we've been blessed by at least once a month, as people have been so kind as to pass through and ring the bell.
One of my favorites is when our long time pals stop in with their 9 children. It's just a delight from the moment they tumble through the front door in all sizes, ranging from wee baby diminutiveness to Andrew's towering 6'4" (or are you taller, Andrew? You're so tall, I'm afraid I can't accurately judge hovering in my own lower altitude.). Every nook of the house chirps with happy little kid sounds as games and toys from our own children's pasts are taken down, dusted off and spread out for serious and inventive scrutiny. Inevitably, mouth-watering tasties are produced in the kitchen. This last time, the big girls giggled their way through making homemade apple pies for breakfast. I'm not kidding. We had to ply a few of the hungrier set with buttered toast til the pies were done bubbling in the oven, but the novelty to us Stokeses of being served dessert for breakfast was enough to make the day quite perfect.
I'm not saying I won't enjoy your visit unless you make me apple pie for breakfast, but Sarah and Mary raised the bar for company standards pretty high with that stunt. I can hardly wait for them to come again.
In the meantime, I'll keep trying to figure out the tanning salon phenomenon, but I'm pretty sure you won't find me stooping to PAYING to crisp up my legs or taking up surfing in order to accomplish my ultimate goal of successfully assimilating into the culture down here. I'll find other ways......
One thing mind-boggling about our new location is that you can't go to the grocery store without tripping over a tanning salon, usually adjacent to a nail salon as well, but my summary on those require another post entirely.
What? Are we not getting ENOUGH sun in this particular latitude filthy with UV rays, but have to go have a lie-down under an artificial mechanism to further the leathering process? Someone clue me in. During the winter, I noticed several women trotting through their errands in workout shorts sporting evenly golden legs, "KFC, Crispy-Style", I dubbed them, but then, with markedly white arms and faces. Spot-tanning??? Why? My mother's brilliant comment to this would be, "Repeat after me; we are all STUPID."
All that is to say that we gleefully welcome friends from the past who pop in to say "hello" and sit a while. It brings a sense of comfort and security when those who knew us in our "other land" and believe we are somewhat normal, stop in and have a cuppa something hot and visit and allow us to feel comfortable in our own, not-very-dark-by-San-Diego-standards skin for some moments. It's a treat; one we've been blessed by at least once a month, as people have been so kind as to pass through and ring the bell.
One of my favorites is when our long time pals stop in with their 9 children. It's just a delight from the moment they tumble through the front door in all sizes, ranging from wee baby diminutiveness to Andrew's towering 6'4" (or are you taller, Andrew? You're so tall, I'm afraid I can't accurately judge hovering in my own lower altitude.). Every nook of the house chirps with happy little kid sounds as games and toys from our own children's pasts are taken down, dusted off and spread out for serious and inventive scrutiny. Inevitably, mouth-watering tasties are produced in the kitchen. This last time, the big girls giggled their way through making homemade apple pies for breakfast. I'm not kidding. We had to ply a few of the hungrier set with buttered toast til the pies were done bubbling in the oven, but the novelty to us Stokeses of being served dessert for breakfast was enough to make the day quite perfect.
I'm not saying I won't enjoy your visit unless you make me apple pie for breakfast, but Sarah and Mary raised the bar for company standards pretty high with that stunt. I can hardly wait for them to come again.
In the meantime, I'll keep trying to figure out the tanning salon phenomenon, but I'm pretty sure you won't find me stooping to PAYING to crisp up my legs or taking up surfing in order to accomplish my ultimate goal of successfully assimilating into the culture down here. I'll find other ways......
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
I'm Not The Only One Who Does This
Friendies,
Some of you have admitted this to me behind cupped hands, as though it were something to be embarrassed about. I prefer to think of it as "multi-source information gathering" (MIG, for short, which also happens to play perfectly into my military jet fettish). I'm talking about those of you who read 3 and 4 books simultaneously and sometimes, don't finish any of them. Of course, the perilous disadvantage to this method is that you are bound to credit a quote to the wrong author and really exasperate the people who run out to get the book, only to find that the wit and wisdom they're thirsting for is nowhere to be found in the weighty Mayo Clinic's Digestive Health tome you so enthusiastically recommended. They won't come back to you for another book suggestion very soon. At least that's been my experience.
However, this week, even though I'm MIGing at full throttle (oh, I crack myself up), I have the book I'm going to quote from, right HERE, next to me, so I don't get the author, the title or even the page number and paragraph location messed up.
In the early era of our wedded bliss, watching M*A*S*H was an integral component of our Cheap Evenings At Home. We feasted on the quick-witted humor and longed to be in a life-setting that fostered the kind of camaraderie sported on the show. I knew Alan Alda helped direct the later episodes and had directed movies as well, but I had no idea that he'd taken up his pen to deliver his wry humor into books, until I spied one at Costco yesterday; "Things I Overheard While Talking To Myself". Is that not one of the BEST titles ever? Oh come ON. ALL of you talk to yourselves. I've heard you. He's just had the wherewithal to write his mutterings DOWN. They didn't have his other book, "Never Have Your Dog Stuffed", which, I admit, conjures up some disturbing images, but sounds intriguing nonetheless. So I settled for this one in addition to one on Autsim, which rounded up my current MIG book total to 4; Stepping Heavenward and The Shack, also a Costco purchase, are the others splayed out on my nightstand in various stages of dog-earedness. (I'm not sure The Shack is going to make it onto the "finished it!" list; it gets corny and corny makes my eyes roll involuntarily. Sorry if some of you found it to be life-changing. I can be hyper-critical about my reading material.)
Anyhooo, I'm actually underlining some of Mr. Alda's overheard snippets of himself. It's more of a humorously inspirational book than what I expected, but I am so touched by a few of these that I feel compelled to share them with you, because they are beautifully put. Here goes:
"I had always been moved by Alan Jay Lerner's lyric from Camelot's "How to Handle a Woman." The way to handle a woman, he said was to love her, simply love her. Love her. Love her." p. 14
(That's my favorite. Probably because I very much relish being loved. It's nice.)
"Love your work. If you always put your heart into everything you do, you can't lose. Whether or not you wind up making a lot of money, you will have had a wonderful time, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you." p. 17
(Welllll, that sounds really pleasant, anyway. I'm not sure everyone has the opportunity to implement that one. A certain Cisco employee-wanna-be-chef comes to mind.....)
"Knowing what you care about and then devoting yourself to it is just about the only way you're going to be able to have a sense of purpose in your life." p. 36
"It can be surprising when you try to rank your values. Ask yourself what's the most important thing in the world to you. When you come up with an answer to that ... ask yourself how much time you actually spend on your number one value and how much time you spend on what you thought was number five . . or number ten. What in fact, is the thing you value most?" p. 38
Ooooh, simple truths to *ruminate* on.
I promise, I won't quote from The Shack tomorrow. I'll have no eye-rolling on my watch. But if I manage to get my mitts on a copy of Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, watch out.
In the meantime, to all of you who MIG, be proud of it. Your membership acronym is totally awesome, the condition of your nightstand indicates impressive mental gymnastics and you have a lot more food for thought than the average one-at-a-time bookworm. You might not absorb as much or keep your authors straight, but my money is on the fact that you are having more FUN. I am.
Some of you have admitted this to me behind cupped hands, as though it were something to be embarrassed about. I prefer to think of it as "multi-source information gathering" (MIG, for short, which also happens to play perfectly into my military jet fettish). I'm talking about those of you who read 3 and 4 books simultaneously and sometimes, don't finish any of them. Of course, the perilous disadvantage to this method is that you are bound to credit a quote to the wrong author and really exasperate the people who run out to get the book, only to find that the wit and wisdom they're thirsting for is nowhere to be found in the weighty Mayo Clinic's Digestive Health tome you so enthusiastically recommended. They won't come back to you for another book suggestion very soon. At least that's been my experience.
However, this week, even though I'm MIGing at full throttle (oh, I crack myself up), I have the book I'm going to quote from, right HERE, next to me, so I don't get the author, the title or even the page number and paragraph location messed up.
In the early era of our wedded bliss, watching M*A*S*H was an integral component of our Cheap Evenings At Home. We feasted on the quick-witted humor and longed to be in a life-setting that fostered the kind of camaraderie sported on the show. I knew Alan Alda helped direct the later episodes and had directed movies as well, but I had no idea that he'd taken up his pen to deliver his wry humor into books, until I spied one at Costco yesterday; "Things I Overheard While Talking To Myself". Is that not one of the BEST titles ever? Oh come ON. ALL of you talk to yourselves. I've heard you. He's just had the wherewithal to write his mutterings DOWN. They didn't have his other book, "Never Have Your Dog Stuffed", which, I admit, conjures up some disturbing images, but sounds intriguing nonetheless. So I settled for this one in addition to one on Autsim, which rounded up my current MIG book total to 4; Stepping Heavenward and The Shack, also a Costco purchase, are the others splayed out on my nightstand in various stages of dog-earedness. (I'm not sure The Shack is going to make it onto the "finished it!" list; it gets corny and corny makes my eyes roll involuntarily. Sorry if some of you found it to be life-changing. I can be hyper-critical about my reading material.)
Anyhooo, I'm actually underlining some of Mr. Alda's overheard snippets of himself. It's more of a humorously inspirational book than what I expected, but I am so touched by a few of these that I feel compelled to share them with you, because they are beautifully put. Here goes:
"I had always been moved by Alan Jay Lerner's lyric from Camelot's "How to Handle a Woman." The way to handle a woman, he said was to love her, simply love her. Love her. Love her." p. 14
(That's my favorite. Probably because I very much relish being loved. It's nice.)
"Love your work. If you always put your heart into everything you do, you can't lose. Whether or not you wind up making a lot of money, you will have had a wonderful time, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you." p. 17
(Welllll, that sounds really pleasant, anyway. I'm not sure everyone has the opportunity to implement that one. A certain Cisco employee-wanna-be-chef comes to mind.....)
"Knowing what you care about and then devoting yourself to it is just about the only way you're going to be able to have a sense of purpose in your life." p. 36
"It can be surprising when you try to rank your values. Ask yourself what's the most important thing in the world to you. When you come up with an answer to that ... ask yourself how much time you actually spend on your number one value and how much time you spend on what you thought was number five . . or number ten. What in fact, is the thing you value most?" p. 38
Ooooh, simple truths to *ruminate* on.
I promise, I won't quote from The Shack tomorrow. I'll have no eye-rolling on my watch. But if I manage to get my mitts on a copy of Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, watch out.
In the meantime, to all of you who MIG, be proud of it. Your membership acronym is totally awesome, the condition of your nightstand indicates impressive mental gymnastics and you have a lot more food for thought than the average one-at-a-time bookworm. You might not absorb as much or keep your authors straight, but my money is on the fact that you are having more FUN. I am.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Nothing But Crickets and Weensy Washers
For those of you who are curious, I haven't heard back from Restoration Hardware about my beloved chandelier. I ventured to write them and let them know I slightly noticed their pre-sale price jack-up, and that I'd be deliriously happy to give them a check today if they took a true $100 off the original price, the one I've been watching for months.
Nothing but crickets on the other end, even though their customer service policy is to respond to all emails within 24 hours. It's been 72. I wasn't mean; I was what you might call, "good-natured" about it. I'll keep you posted. (Does this count as "tattling"?)
On another note, I find two other things puzzling.
We've moved into a much larger abode than any of us ever thought we'd rest our heads in and call home. (Don't get me wrong; that part's delicious.) In a neighborhood littered with 4, 5, and 6 bedroom homes, you would think that builders would readily acknowledge that people purchase homes like these because SOMETIMES, they have a lot of kids. A lot of kids generally precludes that a large-ish vehicle will need a space in one of the garages. Several of the floor plans in our development include tandem garages, where you park two cars end to end, vs. side by side. All good. A little inconvenient, but still good. EXCEPT, the doors to the tandem garages were not sized with a large people-mover in mind. HELLOWWWW.
Actually, our single car garage is equally as narrow, come to think of it. There is zero possibility of me parking my van in one of these, unless I remember to roll down the windows, pull the mirrors in and proceed with eyebrows up, engage in frenetic side-to-side eye swishings and coordinate precise steering wheel/gas pedal applications. Actually, I only pull in the driver's side mirror now because I figured out how to shimmy my fatty van verrrry carefully til I've gotten the passenger mirror safely in without scraping it. It requires a slight angle upon entry, which is tricky, because then I'm also negotiating with an unforgiving stone wall. You have to know what you're doing in order to avoid a replay of that scene in Galaxy Quest when the kid is taking that spaceship out for it's first spin but eeeeeeerrrraaaaack - scraaaaaaapes the side of the hangar along the way. Phew. I mean, would it have cost THAT much more to give 4 extra inches? Two, even? Please!
Item Two:
In said home, with said offspring population, do we not also brilliantly predict that a high volume of laundry is inevitable? And so then WHY, I beg, WHY, did the builders find the very most diminutive washer and dryer set on the market to install in the amply spacious laundry room? Seriously, I have to get DOWN on the floor on my knees to empty the washer (it's a front loader). I've never seen anything like it. Not at Home Depot; certainly not at Costco. These HAVE to have been meant as stackables for an apartment. I'm not even going to tell you that I can only insert two bath sheets and a couple of washcloths in there, can barely close the door and hope that some kind of motion is going to render them clean. The end result is that the washer operates for most of the day, on most days. I've tried to ease the electricity drain by hanging stuff out on our balcony rather than using the dryer, which of course, being part of the set, is also Barbie Doll size. This presents a whole different problem, as I have to dance lightly around the HOA rules which state, "No Clothes Lines Of Any Kind May Be Installed On Any Part Of Any Property". (The entire HOA document is liberally peppered with the word "Any".)
They are SO NOT green......
I didn't INSTALL a laundry line -- I avoided that by purchasing a laundry RACK, which I dutifully clatter down to it's folded position and haul away inside when our stuff is dry, which here in perpetually sunny San Diego, takes less time than running it through the dryer. So, I hope I'm still within HOA compliance. No one has complained and our names have not come up in the monthly HOA Newsletter, aka, "tattle sheet". (Did I mention that we are forbidden from leaving our garbage or recycling bins out on the street after dusk on the day of trash pick up? People have been reprimanded for doing so. And for letting the stain on their fences fade, but that's another thing.)
Suffice it to say that I'm not impressed with this cutting corners attitude; not by RH and their chandelier pricing and not by builder *save-a-buck* tactics.
Maybe tomorrow's blog will be less cranky and more about Tim, or hey, about an actual CONCERN. (This is what you get when I'm uninspired and Holly peeks around the bedroom door; "Have you blogged yet today?")
Nothing but crickets on the other end, even though their customer service policy is to respond to all emails within 24 hours. It's been 72. I wasn't mean; I was what you might call, "good-natured" about it. I'll keep you posted. (Does this count as "tattling"?)
On another note, I find two other things puzzling.
We've moved into a much larger abode than any of us ever thought we'd rest our heads in and call home. (Don't get me wrong; that part's delicious.) In a neighborhood littered with 4, 5, and 6 bedroom homes, you would think that builders would readily acknowledge that people purchase homes like these because SOMETIMES, they have a lot of kids. A lot of kids generally precludes that a large-ish vehicle will need a space in one of the garages. Several of the floor plans in our development include tandem garages, where you park two cars end to end, vs. side by side. All good. A little inconvenient, but still good. EXCEPT, the doors to the tandem garages were not sized with a large people-mover in mind. HELLOWWWW.
Actually, our single car garage is equally as narrow, come to think of it. There is zero possibility of me parking my van in one of these, unless I remember to roll down the windows, pull the mirrors in and proceed with eyebrows up, engage in frenetic side-to-side eye swishings and coordinate precise steering wheel/gas pedal applications. Actually, I only pull in the driver's side mirror now because I figured out how to shimmy my fatty van verrrry carefully til I've gotten the passenger mirror safely in without scraping it. It requires a slight angle upon entry, which is tricky, because then I'm also negotiating with an unforgiving stone wall. You have to know what you're doing in order to avoid a replay of that scene in Galaxy Quest when the kid is taking that spaceship out for it's first spin but eeeeeeerrrraaaaack - scraaaaaaapes the side of the hangar along the way. Phew. I mean, would it have cost THAT much more to give 4 extra inches? Two, even? Please!
Item Two:
In said home, with said offspring population, do we not also brilliantly predict that a high volume of laundry is inevitable? And so then WHY, I beg, WHY, did the builders find the very most diminutive washer and dryer set on the market to install in the amply spacious laundry room? Seriously, I have to get DOWN on the floor on my knees to empty the washer (it's a front loader). I've never seen anything like it. Not at Home Depot; certainly not at Costco. These HAVE to have been meant as stackables for an apartment. I'm not even going to tell you that I can only insert two bath sheets and a couple of washcloths in there, can barely close the door and hope that some kind of motion is going to render them clean. The end result is that the washer operates for most of the day, on most days. I've tried to ease the electricity drain by hanging stuff out on our balcony rather than using the dryer, which of course, being part of the set, is also Barbie Doll size. This presents a whole different problem, as I have to dance lightly around the HOA rules which state, "No Clothes Lines Of Any Kind May Be Installed On Any Part Of Any Property". (The entire HOA document is liberally peppered with the word "Any".)
They are SO NOT green......
I didn't INSTALL a laundry line -- I avoided that by purchasing a laundry RACK, which I dutifully clatter down to it's folded position and haul away inside when our stuff is dry, which here in perpetually sunny San Diego, takes less time than running it through the dryer. So, I hope I'm still within HOA compliance. No one has complained and our names have not come up in the monthly HOA Newsletter, aka, "tattle sheet". (Did I mention that we are forbidden from leaving our garbage or recycling bins out on the street after dusk on the day of trash pick up? People have been reprimanded for doing so. And for letting the stain on their fences fade, but that's another thing.)
Suffice it to say that I'm not impressed with this cutting corners attitude; not by RH and their chandelier pricing and not by builder *save-a-buck* tactics.
Maybe tomorrow's blog will be less cranky and more about Tim, or hey, about an actual CONCERN. (This is what you get when I'm uninspired and Holly peeks around the bedroom door; "Have you blogged yet today?")
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Self-Developed Micro-Climates
For those of you who aren't aware; dressing room stalls are NOT soundproof. Neither does your voice travel singularly to your best friend in the next stall over, but rather, your personal observations regarding fit and your discussions on Metamucil intake results are quite likely to be amplified and projected throughout the entire changing area.
For instance:
(Guys, don't worry; this is totally decent.)
Today I was streaming through dress 5 of about 10 in an effort to find the perfect evening attire for our upcoming vacation. I was glad I had double checked the door to be sure the latch was securely fastened, because some bold woman shoved on it, drawing a frightful creaaaaak from the moorings of the thing before giving up and mumbling "oh, I'm sorry" when she realized the planet wasn't going to budge under her persistence and the door was in fact LOCKED. Yeesh. She decided to install herself in the booth next to mine (which, was CLOSER to the entrance to the dressing rooms -- why'd she push on MY door?) and then her pal chirped, "I'll take this one on down here".
So, just as an aside, I know this entry might slightly bore the men and make them roll their eyes, because pretty much, there's never a call in the entirety of their lives for them to go clothes shopping WITH A BUDDY. For instance, can any of you fathom a trip wherein Gary and Mike would venture into a men's dressing room, only to have Mike trot out of his stall in his socks and a crisp pair of charcoal slacks and quiz, "Gary, do these pants make my butt look big?" No. Not in this universe or any other one that God is planning on blowing into existence. But, you might want to read on anyway, because it's kind of interesting down at the bottom.
Some general chit-chat ensued between the two ladies about Frank's dog, somebody's kidney and how stressful it was that sizes were never consistent. During all this, there was a lot of huffing and blowing going on next to me, so I gathered that the gal on the other side of my wall was what my mother would dub, "a substantial woman". I was scurrying into dress 9 when the topic switched to whether or not it would be worth it to lose an extra 5 pounds just to get into these elastic-waisted pants.....lots more "Ooof"s, "Phew"s, and a couple of "Oh My Word"s floated over the wall, punctuated by wall-rattling encounters with elbows and other parts giving way to some kind of unsuccessful balancing situation (was she stuck in the pants?). I stopped my own find-the-right-dress project for a moment to contemplate asking whether I needed to render aid, but just then Gladys over in the far yonder piped, "How are you doing? I'm about ready to go get some more stuff to try on." And my wall-mate cheerfully chuffed, "Oh, I'm all done in. I can't see a thing. My glasses are completely fogged over because I'm just sweating SO much. Whoo."
They left before I could get out of gown 10 and back into my street clothes, so I can't tell you anything more except that I still don't have an evening dress, but then, neither does my stall-mate have her coveted elastic-waist pants, so it's a wash for everyone today. I hope the rest of her day was much better than her strenuous dressing room gymnastics, poor dear.
For instance:
(Guys, don't worry; this is totally decent.)
Today I was streaming through dress 5 of about 10 in an effort to find the perfect evening attire for our upcoming vacation. I was glad I had double checked the door to be sure the latch was securely fastened, because some bold woman shoved on it, drawing a frightful creaaaaak from the moorings of the thing before giving up and mumbling "oh, I'm sorry" when she realized the planet wasn't going to budge under her persistence and the door was in fact LOCKED. Yeesh. She decided to install herself in the booth next to mine (which, was CLOSER to the entrance to the dressing rooms -- why'd she push on MY door?) and then her pal chirped, "I'll take this one on down here".
So, just as an aside, I know this entry might slightly bore the men and make them roll their eyes, because pretty much, there's never a call in the entirety of their lives for them to go clothes shopping WITH A BUDDY. For instance, can any of you fathom a trip wherein Gary and Mike would venture into a men's dressing room, only to have Mike trot out of his stall in his socks and a crisp pair of charcoal slacks and quiz, "Gary, do these pants make my butt look big?" No. Not in this universe or any other one that God is planning on blowing into existence. But, you might want to read on anyway, because it's kind of interesting down at the bottom.
Some general chit-chat ensued between the two ladies about Frank's dog, somebody's kidney and how stressful it was that sizes were never consistent. During all this, there was a lot of huffing and blowing going on next to me, so I gathered that the gal on the other side of my wall was what my mother would dub, "a substantial woman". I was scurrying into dress 9 when the topic switched to whether or not it would be worth it to lose an extra 5 pounds just to get into these elastic-waisted pants.....lots more "Ooof"s, "Phew"s, and a couple of "Oh My Word"s floated over the wall, punctuated by wall-rattling encounters with elbows and other parts giving way to some kind of unsuccessful balancing situation (was she stuck in the pants?). I stopped my own find-the-right-dress project for a moment to contemplate asking whether I needed to render aid, but just then Gladys over in the far yonder piped, "How are you doing? I'm about ready to go get some more stuff to try on." And my wall-mate cheerfully chuffed, "Oh, I'm all done in. I can't see a thing. My glasses are completely fogged over because I'm just sweating SO much. Whoo."
They left before I could get out of gown 10 and back into my street clothes, so I can't tell you anything more except that I still don't have an evening dress, but then, neither does my stall-mate have her coveted elastic-waist pants, so it's a wash for everyone today. I hope the rest of her day was much better than her strenuous dressing room gymnastics, poor dear.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Who Are They Trying To Kid?
Normally, I comfy myself into one of my favorite spots in our new house, the front sofa, and enjoy a slow perusal through the Restoration Hardware catalog when it comes in the mail. I have an undeniable penchant for clean lines, and the catalog is pure eye candy for me. For the last few months, though, you would have found me standing outside our community mailbox station, eagerly rifling through a freshly arrived edition or thumbing it as I walked back home, one eyeball on the catalog and the other on the sidewalk, so as not to be embarrassed by an unscheduled splatting of myself in front of the neighbors, most of whom I haven't met.
There's a chandelier in there that they've advertised for some months, and being the frugal wife that I am, I've kept my eye on it for the inevitable sale. It's perfect. I want it. I want it to replace the baroque-twirly atrocity hanging in the dining room right now. I think these things came with these homes, because I've spotted them in other houses sporting this floor plan. It's supposed to be on the Italian side of things, but it just doesn't suit us (not a clean line to be found amongst the swirls and curliques), and besides, the spiders are having a hay-day trapezing from one arm of it to the other while I'm not looking, making it seem much more a Halloween prop than something that should grace our dinner foodstuffs with light (which it does poorly, by the way). At any rate, I've been very patient in waiting for The Perfect Chandelier to come down in price.
I've taken to checking the website on a weekly basis, rather than waiting for the catalog in the mail. Two weeks ago, my eyebrows bolted well up under my hairline upon espying that my beloved chandelier had gone UP in price by $50. What's this now? Usually, the fall brings about a clearance fever and instead they're jacking things UP? What sort of marketing ploy is this, particularly given the state of the economy? Pretty uppity, if you ask me. I'm sorry, but unless the thing folds my laundry for me and mows the lawn for Clay, NO chandelier of this style is worth the dollar figure they slapped on that puppy. I checked again a week later; fathom this.......it's on SALE! And the price DROPS by $100! Oh, I see now. So, this way, they can list the inflated price, cross it off with an elegantly thin, crisp, diagonal red line and declare the sale price at a riveting, hurry-up-and-buy-it $100 savings, which is still too much for as simple of a lamp that it is. Tricksy, tricksy, they are. I want a TRUE $100 markdown. In fact, I think as a reward for my patience, I'd be MOST satisfied fetching it AT COST. I think I need to write a letter. Blogging this is just not going to cut it.
I'm positive this is a marketing strategy used by every company in America, but for me, watching and waiting and observing the duping of the public made me a little ill. It's just not nice to lie, ok? Stop it. And give me my chandelier.
There's a chandelier in there that they've advertised for some months, and being the frugal wife that I am, I've kept my eye on it for the inevitable sale. It's perfect. I want it. I want it to replace the baroque-twirly atrocity hanging in the dining room right now. I think these things came with these homes, because I've spotted them in other houses sporting this floor plan. It's supposed to be on the Italian side of things, but it just doesn't suit us (not a clean line to be found amongst the swirls and curliques), and besides, the spiders are having a hay-day trapezing from one arm of it to the other while I'm not looking, making it seem much more a Halloween prop than something that should grace our dinner foodstuffs with light (which it does poorly, by the way). At any rate, I've been very patient in waiting for The Perfect Chandelier to come down in price.
I've taken to checking the website on a weekly basis, rather than waiting for the catalog in the mail. Two weeks ago, my eyebrows bolted well up under my hairline upon espying that my beloved chandelier had gone UP in price by $50. What's this now? Usually, the fall brings about a clearance fever and instead they're jacking things UP? What sort of marketing ploy is this, particularly given the state of the economy? Pretty uppity, if you ask me. I'm sorry, but unless the thing folds my laundry for me and mows the lawn for Clay, NO chandelier of this style is worth the dollar figure they slapped on that puppy. I checked again a week later; fathom this.......it's on SALE! And the price DROPS by $100! Oh, I see now. So, this way, they can list the inflated price, cross it off with an elegantly thin, crisp, diagonal red line and declare the sale price at a riveting, hurry-up-and-buy-it $100 savings, which is still too much for as simple of a lamp that it is. Tricksy, tricksy, they are. I want a TRUE $100 markdown. In fact, I think as a reward for my patience, I'd be MOST satisfied fetching it AT COST. I think I need to write a letter. Blogging this is just not going to cut it.
I'm positive this is a marketing strategy used by every company in America, but for me, watching and waiting and observing the duping of the public made me a little ill. It's just not nice to lie, ok? Stop it. And give me my chandelier.
Friday, September 19, 2008
I Can't Find My Pumpkins
As most of you know, we're in the midst of month 9 after making a mind-blowing move to the warmer climes of southern Cal. As hard as it is to recover from leaving behind all the people and a life we loved, I will say that the balmy air has acted as a salve to our sore hearts. It's a kindness to the eyes to look out our living room window at lilting palm fronds and blue sky. That part, along with having a few extra bathrooms, is good.
Seasons? What seasons? There's "sunny" and "less sunny". You might need an umbrella on the odd day out in February or March, and those whose blood is truly thin will fling a scarf around the neck of a trench coat, while their bare legs and bermuda shorts peek out from under (it would not be unusual to see the trench creatively punctuated by a pair of velcro-strappy Tevas or flip-floppy Reefs). Suffice it to say, anything with lining or thicker than 2mm is hanging in the way back of my closet, untouched. Ergo, imagine my surprise when Holly and I headed north and found ourselves surrounded by reddening leaves and tastefully placed pumpkin decor, in anticipation of the fall holidays. I wore my one pair of long pants into a fray, having stupidly forgotten that there are seasons elsewhere and generally, the month of September in the SF area brings along morning and evening chill, necessitating more than the coverage offered by cute bermudas. Brrr.
At the end of our trip, my sweet mother rang in the crisp fall by gifting all her daughters with absolutely charming ceramic pumpkins, nostalgic to me because they are crafted by a local artisan. I was looking forward to getting back to the new house, rooting out other things of that nature and nurturing a bit of holiday cheer. I spent the better part of this morning hunting EVERYWHERE for the other pumpkin she had given me some years ago. Understand that we had many generous-hearted hands helping us move in this place, and wonderfully, things are generally exactly where they should be. Except my pumpkin/Thanksgiving decor. Where is it? Do any of you recall unpacking a few ceramic pumpkins and goofy looking pilgrims? (They've always looked slightly cross-eyed to me, but then after a rolling Atlantic crossing via the leaky Mayflower sans Dramamine, wouldn't you be?) The only thing I can figure is that those things somehow ended in with the Christmas stuff as we were packing up, and those boxes didn't get unpacked.
Botheration. I eventually found my turkey gravy boat around 11:15, way back with the serving trays, but I don't need him just yet. I stood in the garage for a few moments, contemplating the inconvenience of one of the top shelves in there, which is where all the Christmas things are stacked.
"This is too much trouble," I decided. I'm getting lazy, because there was a day when not only would I have teetered atop a ladder to take the whole lot down (the ladder is upstairs in Heidi's 1/2 painted room right now), but I would have cheerfully relished re-organizing all the boxes to boot. Instead, I satisfied myself by retreating back into the safety of the house, leafing through a West Elm catalogue for some mild inspiration, pulling out a few orange candles for the coffee table and setting the lone pumpkin under the oil painting of our old home, which graces the space over our piano. The oil was painted while our house was up for sale in the late fall with plenty of color on the trees, so technically you could say it flaunts autumnal sensibilities. I wouldn't say we're rife with fall decor, but it's better than nothing, and since I'm back in my shorts and swaying palms are constantly in my periphery, it'll do for now.
Rest assured; for those of you visiting over the Christmas holidays in hopes of a generous smattering of festive decor, I'll certainly not be this lax. I know EXACTLY where THOSE boxes are........
Happy Fall
Seasons? What seasons? There's "sunny" and "less sunny". You might need an umbrella on the odd day out in February or March, and those whose blood is truly thin will fling a scarf around the neck of a trench coat, while their bare legs and bermuda shorts peek out from under (it would not be unusual to see the trench creatively punctuated by a pair of velcro-strappy Tevas or flip-floppy Reefs). Suffice it to say, anything with lining or thicker than 2mm is hanging in the way back of my closet, untouched. Ergo, imagine my surprise when Holly and I headed north and found ourselves surrounded by reddening leaves and tastefully placed pumpkin decor, in anticipation of the fall holidays. I wore my one pair of long pants into a fray, having stupidly forgotten that there are seasons elsewhere and generally, the month of September in the SF area brings along morning and evening chill, necessitating more than the coverage offered by cute bermudas. Brrr.
At the end of our trip, my sweet mother rang in the crisp fall by gifting all her daughters with absolutely charming ceramic pumpkins, nostalgic to me because they are crafted by a local artisan. I was looking forward to getting back to the new house, rooting out other things of that nature and nurturing a bit of holiday cheer. I spent the better part of this morning hunting EVERYWHERE for the other pumpkin she had given me some years ago. Understand that we had many generous-hearted hands helping us move in this place, and wonderfully, things are generally exactly where they should be. Except my pumpkin/Thanksgiving decor. Where is it? Do any of you recall unpacking a few ceramic pumpkins and goofy looking pilgrims? (They've always looked slightly cross-eyed to me, but then after a rolling Atlantic crossing via the leaky Mayflower sans Dramamine, wouldn't you be?) The only thing I can figure is that those things somehow ended in with the Christmas stuff as we were packing up, and those boxes didn't get unpacked.
Botheration. I eventually found my turkey gravy boat around 11:15, way back with the serving trays, but I don't need him just yet. I stood in the garage for a few moments, contemplating the inconvenience of one of the top shelves in there, which is where all the Christmas things are stacked.
"This is too much trouble," I decided. I'm getting lazy, because there was a day when not only would I have teetered atop a ladder to take the whole lot down (the ladder is upstairs in Heidi's 1/2 painted room right now), but I would have cheerfully relished re-organizing all the boxes to boot. Instead, I satisfied myself by retreating back into the safety of the house, leafing through a West Elm catalogue for some mild inspiration, pulling out a few orange candles for the coffee table and setting the lone pumpkin under the oil painting of our old home, which graces the space over our piano. The oil was painted while our house was up for sale in the late fall with plenty of color on the trees, so technically you could say it flaunts autumnal sensibilities. I wouldn't say we're rife with fall decor, but it's better than nothing, and since I'm back in my shorts and swaying palms are constantly in my periphery, it'll do for now.
Rest assured; for those of you visiting over the Christmas holidays in hopes of a generous smattering of festive decor, I'll certainly not be this lax. I know EXACTLY where THOSE boxes are........
Happy Fall
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Who's with me here?
I hope this finds you all well and thriving in your various environments. I've had lots of things twirling in my brain; a dangerous volume teetering on overload, thus the radio silence. But then, isn't that everyone's story?
Holly and I are anticipating a trip up north, leaving at a downright unseemly hour in order to jet through LA ahead of the perpetual traffic that seems to start at 6am and continue through til 10pm. I ask you, why is it that no one seems to have the impetus to apply tax dollars towards a mondo, time-saving overpass going directly from San Diego to the outlying regions of northern LA? This would solve so many problems. No exits; simply a direct overpass for those who have no need to stop and would rather just roll down the window and wave gleefully to the poor creepers below. Doubly beneficial; it would ease the down-below congestion so that residents could actually GET to where they wanted to go. I'd happily pay $5, nay, $10 to jump on and use it. Who do I call? You have to agree; it's a brilliant idea and we've certainly got the engineering wherewithal to pull it off.
I honestly don't understand what the big issues are with the traffic. Most often, there's no apparent reason for any sort of slowdown, but rather, people seem to engage in some sort of Vehicle Christmas Tree Light Competition to see who can get their brake lights blinking at siezure-inducing rates. Is this some part of LA culture that the rest of us aren't privvy to? Is it their ploy to keep the rest of the world's population discouraged from enjoying their beaches and pestering their movie stars? And haven't we all tried keeping up a skilled and patient 3 mph in the hopes that if we started a trend like that then slowly, it would catch on and at least everyone would be MOOOVING? The last time Heidi and I drove down from the Bay Area to SD, I was heard to be commenting loudly, "DON'T STEP ON THAT WIDE MIDDLE PEDAL UNLESS YOU REALLLLLLY MEAN IT." SO irritating. You can see why I'm insisting on a 4am departure time. Off we go.......
Holly and I are anticipating a trip up north, leaving at a downright unseemly hour in order to jet through LA ahead of the perpetual traffic that seems to start at 6am and continue through til 10pm. I ask you, why is it that no one seems to have the impetus to apply tax dollars towards a mondo, time-saving overpass going directly from San Diego to the outlying regions of northern LA? This would solve so many problems. No exits; simply a direct overpass for those who have no need to stop and would rather just roll down the window and wave gleefully to the poor creepers below. Doubly beneficial; it would ease the down-below congestion so that residents could actually GET to where they wanted to go. I'd happily pay $5, nay, $10 to jump on and use it. Who do I call? You have to agree; it's a brilliant idea and we've certainly got the engineering wherewithal to pull it off.
I honestly don't understand what the big issues are with the traffic. Most often, there's no apparent reason for any sort of slowdown, but rather, people seem to engage in some sort of Vehicle Christmas Tree Light Competition to see who can get their brake lights blinking at siezure-inducing rates. Is this some part of LA culture that the rest of us aren't privvy to? Is it their ploy to keep the rest of the world's population discouraged from enjoying their beaches and pestering their movie stars? And haven't we all tried keeping up a skilled and patient 3 mph in the hopes that if we started a trend like that then slowly, it would catch on and at least everyone would be MOOOVING? The last time Heidi and I drove down from the Bay Area to SD, I was heard to be commenting loudly, "DON'T STEP ON THAT WIDE MIDDLE PEDAL UNLESS YOU REALLLLLLY MEAN IT." SO irritating. You can see why I'm insisting on a 4am departure time. Off we go.......
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Bob-N-Float Fridays
I promised you this some days ago, but since my washer qualifies as a model engineered to fit in Ken and Barbie's pink condo, I got myself tangled up in pre-company laundering rotations that kept me conveniently away from my computer. This whole blogging business feels like homework, although I DO like the sound and responsiveness of my laptop keys. That's a perk that'll keep me going.
I may have mentioned that every Friday is swim day for the PE kids at Westview. Tim, who has suddenly discovered within himself the ability to take all things in stride and look for the positive in the events of his life, was less concerned about navigating that first day than I had anticipated. He was way less nervous than I was, I can tell you that. Two things; he's terribly bashful, AND his version of swimming does not run along the lines of say, a Michael Phelps sort of end result. We recently went to the San Diego Zoo and those of you who had noses glued to the underwater viewing glass at the hippo display will recall that one of the hippos had his forelegs resting on an underwater rock as a stabilizing factor, whilst his back legs were afloat along with his ample backside. Just his little ears and eyes were above water, giving off a blissfully relaxed, near-napping attitude. This would be more akin to Tim's version of swimming.
When we badger him to get in our lovely pool, a pool where you can see the bottom very clearly without the application of rubber-rimmed goggles, he complains that his imagination gets the better of him in the deep end and all he can think about are sharks, which increases his breathing rate to uncomfortable levels. So, he "swims" back and forth across the shallow end, a lackluster event at best, simply for the fact that it takes all of one hop and a single arm flail to get from one side to the other.
You can see why I was nervous.
Happily, Tim's special ed team is absolutely stellar and makes accommodations for some of his anxieties. When asked if he would mind changing in a locker room with all the other boys, he didn't even let the sentence get finished before barking a surprisingly firm, "YES." Usually, his responses start with a head scratch and a "Welllllll," but he was definitely solid on his ideas about this one. So, they generously made provisions for him to change in a private, poolside bathroom; one of those that has a potty & sink and locking door. He can change there on ALL PE days, and I'm telling you, had I known such an option was available when I was in high school, I would have seriously comtemplated hailing myself as autistic as well, just to avoid the trauma of the high school locker room.
The first day he used the room was NOT a swim day, as it fell on a Wednesday, which is Football Day. He got in there, discovered the floor awash in leftover swimming puddles from some previous offender and looked in vain for a hook, a flat, dry surface of some sort to put his things on. Nada. He couldn't even use the door handle as a makeshift safety zone, because the more aggressive contingency of San Diego ants were staking claims all around the door frame and knob, as well as the sink. After waggling his legs out of his pants whilst hopping one socked foot after the other atop his unlaced shoes (with his backpack hoisted on his back, mind you), he opted for hanging his pants over the edge of the sink, not realizing there was a bit of swill left in there just waiting for the absorbing agents of an unsuspecting pair of jeans. He managed to hobble through the rest of his dressing routine, tie up his chlorine-sopped laces, stick all his stuff in his locker and was able to report later that the rest of the time was pretty fun, aside from requisite scrunches and sprints on the football field. Only, when he went to put his pants back on, and here, with typical Tim Demonstration Maneuvers, he stuck his hip out Betty Boop style, slapped his rump and said, "They were totally wet, RRRRRRRRRight HERRRRRE," blinking and rolling his "r"s for effect. But as I said, he's taking all these things in stride and not sweating it. Which is good. It's a broadening of his spirit that we are all happy to see. He's turning into an infinitely patient and calm individual.
"Bob-n-Float Friday" actually went relatively well for him, except that he mourned always being last at every event. That, and despite the two of us being the only ones in the whole upstairs of our house, he leaned closer to me, put his hand to one side of his mouth and whispered, "Oh, and, uh, my nipples really hurt afterwards." After some discussion, we concluded that this may have been the result of kickboard friction plus excessive amounts of chlorine on his poor sensitive skin. You can be assured that I beat a hasty retreat from his room at the first polite opportunity, sought out the farthest opposite corner of the house and indulged in as loud a chuckling session as I dared. I came frightfully close to wetting myself.
Ahhhh, Tim, Tim, Tim. Every day, such a sweet addition to my life. I checked with his swim teacher, and she said he's really doing fine; definitely the caboose of the pack, but she loves having him in her class; he's kind to others and takes her instruction and immediately improves. Of course, since he's starting from a leisurely float, there's pretty much nowhere to go but forward......
Til the next installment,
Candy
I may have mentioned that every Friday is swim day for the PE kids at Westview. Tim, who has suddenly discovered within himself the ability to take all things in stride and look for the positive in the events of his life, was less concerned about navigating that first day than I had anticipated. He was way less nervous than I was, I can tell you that. Two things; he's terribly bashful, AND his version of swimming does not run along the lines of say, a Michael Phelps sort of end result. We recently went to the San Diego Zoo and those of you who had noses glued to the underwater viewing glass at the hippo display will recall that one of the hippos had his forelegs resting on an underwater rock as a stabilizing factor, whilst his back legs were afloat along with his ample backside. Just his little ears and eyes were above water, giving off a blissfully relaxed, near-napping attitude. This would be more akin to Tim's version of swimming.
When we badger him to get in our lovely pool, a pool where you can see the bottom very clearly without the application of rubber-rimmed goggles, he complains that his imagination gets the better of him in the deep end and all he can think about are sharks, which increases his breathing rate to uncomfortable levels. So, he "swims" back and forth across the shallow end, a lackluster event at best, simply for the fact that it takes all of one hop and a single arm flail to get from one side to the other.
You can see why I was nervous.
Happily, Tim's special ed team is absolutely stellar and makes accommodations for some of his anxieties. When asked if he would mind changing in a locker room with all the other boys, he didn't even let the sentence get finished before barking a surprisingly firm, "YES." Usually, his responses start with a head scratch and a "Welllllll," but he was definitely solid on his ideas about this one. So, they generously made provisions for him to change in a private, poolside bathroom; one of those that has a potty & sink and locking door. He can change there on ALL PE days, and I'm telling you, had I known such an option was available when I was in high school, I would have seriously comtemplated hailing myself as autistic as well, just to avoid the trauma of the high school locker room.
The first day he used the room was NOT a swim day, as it fell on a Wednesday, which is Football Day. He got in there, discovered the floor awash in leftover swimming puddles from some previous offender and looked in vain for a hook, a flat, dry surface of some sort to put his things on. Nada. He couldn't even use the door handle as a makeshift safety zone, because the more aggressive contingency of San Diego ants were staking claims all around the door frame and knob, as well as the sink. After waggling his legs out of his pants whilst hopping one socked foot after the other atop his unlaced shoes (with his backpack hoisted on his back, mind you), he opted for hanging his pants over the edge of the sink, not realizing there was a bit of swill left in there just waiting for the absorbing agents of an unsuspecting pair of jeans. He managed to hobble through the rest of his dressing routine, tie up his chlorine-sopped laces, stick all his stuff in his locker and was able to report later that the rest of the time was pretty fun, aside from requisite scrunches and sprints on the football field. Only, when he went to put his pants back on, and here, with typical Tim Demonstration Maneuvers, he stuck his hip out Betty Boop style, slapped his rump and said, "They were totally wet, RRRRRRRRRight HERRRRRE," blinking and rolling his "r"s for effect. But as I said, he's taking all these things in stride and not sweating it. Which is good. It's a broadening of his spirit that we are all happy to see. He's turning into an infinitely patient and calm individual.
"Bob-n-Float Friday" actually went relatively well for him, except that he mourned always being last at every event. That, and despite the two of us being the only ones in the whole upstairs of our house, he leaned closer to me, put his hand to one side of his mouth and whispered, "Oh, and, uh, my nipples really hurt afterwards." After some discussion, we concluded that this may have been the result of kickboard friction plus excessive amounts of chlorine on his poor sensitive skin. You can be assured that I beat a hasty retreat from his room at the first polite opportunity, sought out the farthest opposite corner of the house and indulged in as loud a chuckling session as I dared. I came frightfully close to wetting myself.
Ahhhh, Tim, Tim, Tim. Every day, such a sweet addition to my life. I checked with his swim teacher, and she said he's really doing fine; definitely the caboose of the pack, but she loves having him in her class; he's kind to others and takes her instruction and immediately improves. Of course, since he's starting from a leisurely float, there's pretty much nowhere to go but forward......
Til the next installment,
Candy
Monday, August 25, 2008
Best quote of the day
From my very astute mother:
"This earth is the only hell that a believer has to endure." That's actually a very comforting statement for any who are in the throes of suffering. I appreciate it.
You are entirely right, Steph; if Tim ever reads some of the funny things I've written about him, he might be quite embarrassed. Be assured that if I decide to submit anything for the general public, I'll respect his privacy; ie, NAME CHANGE and all that. Witness Protection Program, if it's really bad. He very fortunately, though, is blessed with a good sense of humor about himself, and knows that he is charmingly funny. I find myself dropping everything and paying close attention when he sidles up with his, "Uh, Mom? I hate to bother you, but......" Inevitably, something entertaining comes of it and I am pretty much guaranteed a smile, if not a chuckle out of the conversation.
You will all be relieved to know that he has made it through his second day of active PE successfully. Today was football, and I will admit, I was an eensy bit nervous about how he would do, because as you know, Tim has 2.5 gears only; 1st gear, which is a plodding forward motion; 1st and-a-half, which is a sort of side-to-side trotting attempt at acceleration; and the ever-useful REVERSE (back AWAY from the green peas...). However, his case manager very wisely placed him in a class with a teacher who has had several special ed kids in her care and knows how to reel folks back in from the distractions of gnats in a field, an untied shoelace or disturbingly uneven swim kickboards. In review of his second day of actual PE, Tim had the following comments: "I really enjoyed the long walk to the football field because it has good views along the way. Big sky and open spaces with no buildings. Besides that, it's nice to have a break from sitting in a classroom. And I had a good conversation with my teacher about the rules of football and rattlesnakes. Some kids have bumped into rattlesnakes on the field, but not today." KEEN.
The email from his teacher reports that he's doing fine and that she's heard him introduce himself to different kids several times. So, he's trying. He's trying. I'll get myself together tomorrow and let you know how the changing routine in the soggy bathroom went, because that requires some special vocabulary massaging to bring out the best of it........The Trials and Tribulations of Changing For PE......coming soon.
"This earth is the only hell that a believer has to endure." That's actually a very comforting statement for any who are in the throes of suffering. I appreciate it.
You are entirely right, Steph; if Tim ever reads some of the funny things I've written about him, he might be quite embarrassed. Be assured that if I decide to submit anything for the general public, I'll respect his privacy; ie, NAME CHANGE and all that. Witness Protection Program, if it's really bad. He very fortunately, though, is blessed with a good sense of humor about himself, and knows that he is charmingly funny. I find myself dropping everything and paying close attention when he sidles up with his, "Uh, Mom? I hate to bother you, but......" Inevitably, something entertaining comes of it and I am pretty much guaranteed a smile, if not a chuckle out of the conversation.
You will all be relieved to know that he has made it through his second day of active PE successfully. Today was football, and I will admit, I was an eensy bit nervous about how he would do, because as you know, Tim has 2.5 gears only; 1st gear, which is a plodding forward motion; 1st and-a-half, which is a sort of side-to-side trotting attempt at acceleration; and the ever-useful REVERSE (back AWAY from the green peas...). However, his case manager very wisely placed him in a class with a teacher who has had several special ed kids in her care and knows how to reel folks back in from the distractions of gnats in a field, an untied shoelace or disturbingly uneven swim kickboards. In review of his second day of actual PE, Tim had the following comments: "I really enjoyed the long walk to the football field because it has good views along the way. Big sky and open spaces with no buildings. Besides that, it's nice to have a break from sitting in a classroom. And I had a good conversation with my teacher about the rules of football and rattlesnakes. Some kids have bumped into rattlesnakes on the field, but not today." KEEN.
The email from his teacher reports that he's doing fine and that she's heard him introduce himself to different kids several times. So, he's trying. He's trying. I'll get myself together tomorrow and let you know how the changing routine in the soggy bathroom went, because that requires some special vocabulary massaging to bring out the best of it........The Trials and Tribulations of Changing For PE......coming soon.
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