Way Above Par

Tonight I'm going to our end-of-season bowling league fun night. I'm not too sad about having a few months off after achieving a lame 129 average this year. But the end of bowling, where my high game was a 192, means the beginning of golf season, where my low game might be 192. I haven't golfed much over the years because I'm lousy at it; ergo, it's not much fun. To be fair, I decided to do a point-by-point comparison before deciding whether to pick up the clubs this summer.

1. B--Anyone of all ages and skill levels can have fun bowling.
G--Golf is only fun if you don't keep score and play with people as bad as you are.

2. B--Cheering, jeering, and applause are standard behavior on the alleys.
G--You get shushed for that on the links.

3. B--I always know what ball to use.
G--I seldom know what club to use.

4. B--Ten frames of bowling costs $2 to $3.
G--Nine holes of golf costs $15 or more and your pride.

5. B--The ball return sends my ball back.
G--The sand traps and water hazards never send my ball back.

6. B--I get hot and sweaty.
G--I get hotter and sweatier, plus sunburned.

7. B--I throw one or two balls a frame, like everyone else.
G--I whiff 5 times when teeing off and get a 19 on a par 3.

8. B--I beat Fred occasionally.
G--I will never beat Fred.

9. B--I can dress in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.
G--Bending over in shorts to tee up might cause a 3-cart pile-up behind me.

10. B--Beer is readily available from the fat guy behind the bar.
G--Every couple hours, a girl in skimpy clothes carts out cold drinks and flirts with your husband.

OK, golf loses. But I'll still probably go a few times. It's fun riding around in the carts, and it's easy to fudge my score. Hitting something with a club relieves more stress than rolling a ball. There might even be a gift shop in the clubhouse! And it's just a little better than staying home alone to mow the lawn.

Get Your Motor Runnin'

It seems like I have one of our vehicles in for repairs almost every week. Last week I got a windshield ding fixed and had some windshield wipers repaired from their chronic upright position. My car is currently sitting wounded in the driveway after the ignition wouldn't turn completely off. I managed to yank the key out, but now the battery is dead. I'm on a first-name basis with several mechanics, all of whom probably think that someone as automotively impaired as me should not be allowed to drive.
The first time I was asked how many cylinders my car had, I was out on the sidewalk with the hood up, trying to count them. I didn't even know what they look like. Some kind-hearted guy finally stopped and told me. I've seen a tire changed many times, but have never done it myself. I know that if the car is overheating, I should turn the heater on high and stop as soon as possible. When the serpentine belt breaks, bad things happen. If the alternator light comes on, don't turn off the engine! (I think)
My vehicle deficiencies have been passed on to the girls. Erica drove her car to Green Bay one summer, four hours each way. When I used her car shortly after that, it sounded like a plane taking off. $1500 worth of work later, I asked her if she hadn't noticed that something was wrong. "I did think it was a little loud," she agreed.
Last summer we were out of town when Katie called in a panic. "I'm in Elk Mound and I have a flat tire!" It didn't even cross my mind to tell her to change it herself--she has my genes, after all. I suggested that she go to the town shop--there must be a man there who would help her. (My apologies to liberated female drivers everywhere!) She called back 10 minutes later, no longer a damsel in distress--the tire was changed, and she hadn't even gotten her hands dirty!!
Fred has given tire-changing lessons, explained warning lights and meanings--but I'm not sure anything has stuck. Sometimes taking an "Auto Basics for Dummies" class crosses my mind, but I don't want the public humiliation of displaying my ignorance. (Crying by the side of the road next to my broken-down car is less humiliating?!)
This afternoon I'm taking Fred's car in because--I'll tell the mechanic in technical terms--"It sounds like a pack of wolves howling, and people stare at me when I go by." Hopefully it won't cost too much to make me a secure--and cool!--driver again.

How to be Happy with the Same Person for Eternity

Since Erica got engaged to Craig in January, I've only given serious thought to the wedding a couple times. The first was upon realizing that I'd have to shop for a MOB (mother-of-the-bride) dress. The second was when I received the e-mail from her about wedding costs, a subject line that read "Hope you're sitting down." With both her and my nephew Ryan getting married within the next 15 months, I thought I could provide some valuable advice about succeeding at a long-term relationship. Fred and I will celebrate our 25th in October, and while I'm by no means an expert, I have learned some things about what makes a marriage happy or unhappy.

1. Have fun together. This sounds like an automatic thing, but there will be times when you have to schedule it.
2. Be honest with each other. Not when the question is "Does this make my butt look big?" but for all the important stuff.
3. Communicate. Don't keep things inside to fester. I learned early in our marriage that the silent treatment is a stupid strategy.
4. Really listen to each other, without a remote or book in hand,
5. Remember birthdays and anniversaries. A gift isn't mandatory, but remembering is.
5a. Corollary: a food processor is not a good first Christmas gift.
6. Support each other's endeavors. That's why I'm living in Rhinelander, and Fred helps me with packages for the troops. Be each other's #1 cheerleader.
7. Call if you're going to be late or your plans change. Don't cause unnecessary worry!
8. You're on your own about sex, unless you talk to me later!
9. Put yourself in your spouse's shoes during an argument. This has made me change my position on things more than once.
10. If you have a bad day, don't take it out on each other.
11. Don't make it your spouse's problem when you can't find your hunting license.
12. True forgiveness means leaving the past in the past.
13. Avoid ruts. They're easy to get stuck in.
14. If you have kids, make joint decisions about them.
14a. Corollary: Don't chew crackers when your wife is in labor.
15. In the heat of anger, don't say anything you can't take back.
16. Develop mutual interests (see Friday's blog).
17. Take showers together once in awhile. It saves water, too.
18. Give compliments. "You look nice today" can lift a mood for hours.
19. Never say the potato salad is dry in front of dinner guests.
19a. Corollary: Call before bringing home last-minute dinner guests.
20. Share the same political views. (oops!)
21. Compromise. "Ok, you can buy a new Harley if I get a wrap-around seat."
22. Touch base throughout the day. Phone, text, e-mail, a note in the lunch bag. No need to be "apart" for 8+ hours.
23. Let him/her win at cards once in awhile.
24. A diamond upgrade never hurts.
25. Say "I love you" every day. Some days you may feel it less than others, but don't miss the opportunity.

I hope you are enjoying this exciting time. You will learn your own marriage lessons as time goes by. And hopefully you won't look back in a few years and say "Mom was full of crap!"

Mushy for Huskies

Fred and I have had at least one Siberian Husky for most of our marriage. They are the most beautiful dog in the world, and certainly make life interesting. Last year we lost Beatle to kidney failure and Kimo to old age, but the remaining three are a big part of my daily life.
Kaya is black and white, blue-eyed, and the mother of the other two. She has had two litters of puppies--one by C-section--is overweight, rags at anyone who even glances at her food dish, and has gotten increasingly cranky in the past six months. (Is it any wonder I relate to this dog??) She is alomost 91 in dog years, but still has more energy than I do.
Her sons, Bum and Koko, almost 9 now, are all-white with blue eyes. They could be twins, but have very different personalities. Bum is the alpha male--macho, hyperactive, and often silly. Every morning he greets me with the expectant look that means "Is today a walk day?! Is today a walk day?!" When I pick up the red harness, he jumps all over me and slathers my face with kisses the whole time I'm putting it on him. He loves belly rubs and dancing.
Koko is more quiet and reserved, standing quietly for the harness and only taking off after I give the ok. For being a sturdy 75-pounder and bigger than Bum, he is a fraidy cat and defers to his brother and mom in most things. He's a handsome dog who would look studly on the cover of Dog Fancy--and he loves hugs and ear scratches.
Those are their endearing qualities. These boys have caused me plenty of pain and humiliation over the years. The literal pain of scrapes and bruises from being dragged down the hill at our Elk Mound house, the end of their 20-foot leash tied around my waist. However, I'd prefer the pain to the humiliation. Though they've settled down more now, in their prime they were regular Houdinis at slipping their harnesses and escaping their kennel. They chewed through the wire fence, pulled the gate off its latches with their teeth, and stood on each other's backs to try the Berlin Wall Break-out. (I saw this more than once!!) They got out of the shed through a 6-inch gap of loose siding--I honestly thought they'd disappeared into thin air!
One March, apparently wild with spring fever despite having no testicles, they got out 3 days in a row. Beatle was alive then, too, and the three of them made a beeline for the farm a mile down the road. The first day they killed $70 worth of chickens. The second day I stood in the barnyard, ankle-deep in cow crap, begging Bum to come to me. He ran by me with a look that said "Can't you see I'm chasing a goose??!" The third day, I could tell that the man-of-few words farmer thought I was nuts to be controlled by 3 delinquent canines. I followed them up hill and down, hot dogs and bacon treats in hand, promising chew bones or ear scratches to no avail. They could obviously read between the lines that I really wanted to wring their furry necks. Over the years a "phone tree" developed through the valley--we were probably on the neighbors' speed dial. "Your dogs are out!" "They just went over the hill to the farm!" "They're after my cats!" I cursed the mutts and plotted dire punishments, at my low point telling the girls I was going to give them away.
It didn't happen. No matter what they do, I love them. I'd pay for the damage, clean the crap off my shoes, and forgive them. Like having kids--but that's a story for another day.

HOG Heaven

For several weeks now, I've been suffering from PMS--Parked Motorcycle Syndrome. The Harley is calling from the garage, but it's still too cold and muddy here to take it for a spin. Sometimes I can't believe I now love riding the machine that terrified me when Fred bought it in 1994. My first ride was less than 15 miles, and I was almost in a panic. I clutched Fred, watching the pavement fly by Right There Next to Me! All I could picture in my mind was Erica and Katie becoming orphans and living on gruel due to their parents' foolishness. That was the temporary end of my reluctant role as a Harley Mama.
Fast forward 10 years. Fred made plans for us to join two other couples for the Circle Tour around Lake Superior. I was going from a 15-mile rider to a 1400 miler in one 4-day weekend. Maybe it was because the girls were older now and less dependent--but I suddenly loved the feeling of being on that bike! The wind in my face, the smells of late summer so fragrant and immediate--I relaxed so much that I actually dozed off!
Of course, the trip wasn't a total picnic. After the first day, I was walking like John Wayne and was so sunburned that my lips swelled up. We rode across the 5-mile long Mackinac Bridge between upper and lower Michigan--a suspension structure that sways in the wind. I was leaning at such an angle away from the railing that Fred had to yell at me to straighten up. We got behind schedule when one bike broke down, so to make up for lost time we rode long after dark through moose country. Eyes big as saucers, I searched the darkness and waited to slam at any moment into Bullwinkle.
But we made it home, and I was hooked. I've ridden in shorts and in a snowmobile suit, in rain gear and in buttless chaps. (just kidding) Down the Mississippi, up the North Shore of Lake Superior, around Door County, the Copper Country of the U.P., over the Mindoro Cut, in downtown Milwaukee for the Harley 105th anniversary last summer. We want to take some longer trips now and see more of the U.S. from the vantage point of a bike. On my wish list are North Carolina, Maine, and the Pacific Coast Highway.
But until it warms up, I'll have to keep waiting--and looking for a deal on buttless chaps.

**I'm trying to fix the big picture at the top!

Hell's Kitchen

Yesterday I created a new recipe: peanut butter mint bars. Sounds like a great flavor combination, doesn't it?! I was trying something new--Peanut Butter Cake Bars--from my first issue of Simple & Delicious magazine. I had all the ingredients mixed together, and then I poured in the bag of chocolate chips. As I stirred, the unmistakable scent of mint wafted out of the bowl. More befuddled than usual, I dug the chocolate chip bag out of the wastebasket and saw "Mint Baking Chips" boldly written on the label. Great! The chips were completely stirred into the batter already. Sigh. I pressed them into the pan anyway and threw it into the oven. Martha Stewart, that's me.
Another screw-up in the kitchen that some days make me think I should hang up my oven mitts. In a dessert that called for egg whites, I separated the whites into the sink and tossed the yolks into the bowl. Trying to multi-task by making a cake and a salad at the same time, I poured chocolate batter into the salad bowl full of lettuce. I lost count of the cups of flour I was adding to the poppy seed bread mixture because I was singing along with Shania Twain. ("Man, I Feel Like a Moron")
I used to turn out successful meals every night while dealing with two little kids and a full-time job. I don't know if now I'm just careless, preoccupied, or suffering from middle-aged mental lapses. Probably all of the above. At least I haven't set the house on fire--which I may owe completely to the oven timer. I just started using it since getting a new stove, and it's easier than turning off the smoke alarm.
As for the bars, they don't taste that bad. I'm sending them to Eau Claire with Fred today for Katie--college kids will eat anything.

Grandma's Comfort

After I mentioned my grandma in yesterday's entry, I was thinking about her all day. We called her "Ma" because that's what our dad called her, and I spent a big chunk of my childhood hanging out at her house. Maybe that's why I became a big chunk. Ma was a terrific cook, and she specialized in carbs and fats. Every meal included homemade bread and jam, with cream right from the cow on my breakfast cereal. Or maybe I'd have her fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and coffee cake with apple slices. She made me thin egg pancakes with sugar on them, bread pudding, and egg custard. Her noodles for soup were from scratch, and I remember them hanging in sheets over the backs of chairs. We'd make ice cream sometimes when I spent the night, after a roast beef dinner with creamy mashed potatoes and thick gravy. Oink.
Ma was my protector from mean uncle Mike and cousin Chuck. Once they hung me out of the barn loft window by my ankles. I ran screaming to Ma, and she let them have it good as I made faces at them from behind her. She let me clean the eggs that she sold, using sandpaper brushes. I broke my share, but she didn't yell at me. My 5th birthday party was at her house because my mom was in the hospital having my brother, and I had a slumber party there in junior high, too.
Ma was a Cubs fan (yes, Erica! you have Cubs' genes!) and would listen to the games on the radio after I went to bed. Of course I had to be a Cubs fan, too, and followed them faithfully in my early teen years.
Ma and Grandpa came along when I moved to Eau Claire for college, both crying in the parking lot when they said goodbye. She wrote me letters from college on, many of which I still have. When I was pregnant with Erica, she assured me that childbirth wasn't that bad. After my 23 hours of labor and a C-section, she felt terrible--thought she'd let me down. I used to give her a calendar towel every year for Christmas, and she used them to make me a beautiful quilt when Erica, her first great-granddaughter, was born.
Ma has been gone for 22 years now, and I still miss her. She called me Annie and would give me a nickel to scratch her back. I was lucky to have her in my life for 27 years--but thank God she didn't leave me her recipes! I'd more likely be on The Biggest Loser than Dancing with the Stars!

Dance Fever

I was supposed to be a dancer. Deep inside of me, next to the skinny woman, is a dancer screaming to get out. When I was about 7, I used to watch Lawrence Welk at my grandma's. I would put on my slip, rub Dippity Do into my hair for glamor, and tie a couple of Ma's silk scarves around my wrists. Then I'd enter the living room, prepared to dance with Bobby and Cissy and the rest of the Champagne Orchestra. My uncle Mike was 16 at the time, and not at all impressed with my graceful twirls in front of the TV. (What was a 16-year-old boy doing at home on a Saturday night watching Lawrence Welk anyway?!) He would yell at me to knock it off, occasionally swat me, and my grandma would tell him to leave me alone. I'd trail my scarves across his face and continue the performance.
My sisters and I used to gallop around the Legion Hall at wedding dances, thinking we were doing the polka. We improved with age, but by high school I was more into slow dancing with boys. College brought me into the disco era, and I embraced it enthusiastically, usually fueled by a few bravery drinks. I had Saturday Night Fever, and my dancing dreams were Stayin' Alive, though more than once I ended up on the floor from too much spinning and moves never made before. I tried more than once to take ballroom dancing classes for my phy ed requirements, but they were always full. After I started teaching, the only dance memory I have is doing a solo performance to "Wipeout" after the union Christmas party. Of course there is dancing involved in my "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights" routines, but those are more about the singing, my other God-given talent.
Now I watch "Dancing with the Stars" and wish I were out there doing the salsa, the jive, and the mambo. I would never have the guts to do what those celebrities attempt on national TV, but if I had my own professional dance instructor I would learn all those dances, teach Fred, and drag him out dancing on weekends. Since that scenario is unlikely, I'm going to see if there is a Dancing with the Stars exercise DVD. That might satisfy my inner dancer AND help the skinny woman next to her. Cha cha cha!

Under the Hormonal Weather

"Rainy days and Mondays always get me down."--the Carpenters Can you imagine what a rainy Monday does to me??! Actually, it's not raining now, but it's so dark and gray that it may as well be. I've noticed that my emotions are increasingly affected by the weather these days. And by songs on the radio...Hallmark commercials....and burnt toast. Sometimes I feel like I'm a different person. Ask Fred, he can tell you. For him it's probably like living with a different person.
Are hormones really this powerful? Is this what the next 5+ years will be like as I begin the great adventure called menopause? Should I just go live in a tent in the back yard until it's over? I remember Archie Bunker on All in the Family telling his wife Edith, "Just change, dammit!" I wish it were that fast and easy!
Last year I read a book called The Female Brain. Its basic premise is that a woman's life is controlled by her hormones from birth through menopause. I could relate to much of what the author described, feeling relieved that I wasn't the "only one." According to her, during menopause women become more about "me." Instead of going along agreeably with the wishes of everyone else as we've done for the past 20 or so years--what movie to see, which restaurant to go to, etc.--we now want to do what we want to do, and we aren't afraid to say so! This is the most obvious change I've noticed in myself. I don't have the patience or desire to censor my responses or defer to someone else's wishes. But that is not "me"!! I hope those who know me best would agree with that! I've always tried to put family and friends first and be agreeable, compromising, compliant...but I sure don't feel that way now. As I told Fred: "This is the new me--get used to it!"
I look back over the years and think of women I've known--family, co-workers, friends--who suddenly morphed into super-bitches when they were in their 40s and 50s. Now I get it. I forgive them all. I hope my nearest and dearest will forgive me, too.

Supporting the Troops

Thanks to my involvement with anysoldier.com, I met some amazing people on my trip to San Diego. Tuesday night Katie and I had dinner with Darrin, a sailor I supported when he was on the USS Essex in the Persian Gulf in 2004-05. I also corresponded with his wife Becky who was at their duty station in Japan with their two little girls while he was gone. We had kept in touch since then, and he is now stationed in San Diego. We met at a restaurant for dinner, and it was like meeting old friends! They brought the kids, and I held their 5-month-old baby boy all through dinner. We talked non-stop, took pictures, and they gave us a mini-tour of Coronado Island before taking us back to the hotel. He is the fourth anysoldier contact I have met in person.

The next afternoon Katie and I went to Mission Beach. The driver who took us was aking what we had been doing in San Diego, and I told him about our dinner the night before and how I'd gotten to know Darrin. It turned out that he is a pilot and has flown medical transports for wounded military personnel after they returned to the States! He told me I was doing a great thing by sending packages and writing to the troops. He also picked us up for our return trip from the beach, and both times he gave back to me the tip I'd given him to "use for your packages."

When we flew back Thursday, I asked a flight attendant if she would pass out blank postcards to any passengers who would like to thank the troops. I would then include them with packages I send to Iraq and Afghanistan. As fate would have it, another flight attendant was also an anysoldier supporter! Her boyfriend is an Army neurosurgeon who has served 3 tours in Iraq. She made an announcement to the passengers about what I was doing and explained the postcard project. Later when she returned the cards to me (I got 50!!) we talked for 15 minutes, and she showed me pictures of her boyfriend with Iraqi children he had operated on. Her name is Molly, she is from Seattle, and she has sent over 1200 packages to the troops!!

After these experiences, I feel energized and eager to continue my letter writing until my hand falls off!! If you want to help, let me know!! www.anysoldier.com

A Week of Firsts

I found out Thursday that I rate an 8 1/2 as a traveling companion, according to my younger daughter. We were at the airport in San Diego awaiting our return flight after 3 days of fun in the sun, and I asked her how she'd rank me on a scale of 1 to 10. She informed me that I had points deducted for loud snoring and "going to the bathroom too often" on our all-day excursions to Sea World and the zoo. Sorry, Katie, but an almost-50-year-old bladder needs frequent release!! Even though I wasn't a 10, I'd give the trip a 10 just for the opportunity it gave me to enjoy Katie's experience of many "firsts".
It was her first time through airport security--but I was the one who set off the metal detector by carrying my wallet/change through! She began her first plane ride with that uncertain, panicky look on take-off, the moment when your stomach drops as you realize you will soon be 37,000 feet above the ground. But it wasn't long before she was looking out the window and taking pictures--and on the way back, she said she was surprised by how much she enjoyed flying. At Sea World she touched a dolphin that swam up to the edge of the pool by her. A gorilla at the zoo strolled down the hill in his habitat and sat down right in front of us, folding his hands and quietly looking her in the eye. Her lifelong affinity for animals made both moments unforgettable. At the beach I watched her take her first steps into the Pacific. I wished the fog hadn't come in to obscure her view to the horizon of the ocean's seeming endlessness and mystery.
Given the choice, Katie would have spent another week there--but it was still a memorable 20th birthday trip. I think it was just the first of many travels she will experience in her second 20 years. And by the way, I rated her an 8 1/2, too. She worries too much, and she doesn't think my jokes are as funny as I do.

More trip highlights tomorrow!

Red Is Not Dead!

Every couple years the theory resurfaces that redheads will become extinct sometime during the 21st century. However, the September '07 issue of National Geographic stated that "while redheads may decline, the potential for red isn't going away." The recessive gene will continue "unless everyone carrying that gene dies or fails to reproduce." WHEW!!
I always felt special to be a redhead from a family of redheads on both my mom's and dad's sides. My whole life I've had people--mostly older ladies--come up to me and say "You have such beautiful red hair!" Yes, I'm vain about it. I was proud to be "rare", and if the boys called me "Carrot-top" in grade school, who cares? It was worth it in later years when a guy would say "Hey, Red" and not mean it as an insult!
I admit I was a little disappointed when the girls were born with thick black hair that later lightened to brown. Both have some reddish tint in certain light--wishful thinking?? Erica gleefully tells me how happy she is NOT to be a "ginger" child--even though she colored her hair auburn before having her senior pictures done. I will be thrilled and smug if she or Katie someday produces a couple red-haired grandkids for us! My sister Tracey's strawberry blond shade skipped her 3 kids, too, but could always reappear in the next generation.
I figure my own red hair will be extinct somewhere around 2020 or after. There seem to be more coarse silver strands springing up every day. When I was younger, I swore that I would not lose the color gracefully--but as I notice more old women with hair colors not found in nature, I have changed my mind. Maroon is just not the look I want in my golden years. I will go gray with all the dignity I can muster, and when someone stops to admire my auburn-haired grandchild, I'll say "Mine used to look like that!"

*The Daily Mom will be on vacation this week. Katie is taking her laptop to San Diego, so I'll pop in if I have time!

If Fitting Room Walls Could Talk

**Men and skinny women do not need to read this.

I made a quick trip to Kohls this morning after trying on my summer clothes yesterday. Many items seemed to have mysteriously shrunk over the winter, and others just looked drab and faded. Wanting something new for the San Diego trip, I went to town for the Early Bird Sale.
@#$$%&*()_+@%&**?"+" First of all, it's almost impossible to even find something I want to try on!! Apparently petites are only for people who are short AND thin. Clothes that look stylish and trendy are made for teenagers and women who haven't yet become pre-menopausal blobs. In the "women's" department I found shapeless tops in vulgar prints that scream "LOOK AT ME!! I'm fat and have no taste!!" Or, tops covered with ruffles, frills, and do-dads to apparently take attention away from the body they are attempting to hide. I picture rail-thin designers sewing sequins on burlap bags and going,"MUUUAAAHAHAHA!! Take that, tubby!"
I made 6 trips into the fitting room. I found a pair of capris I liked right away--it was the shirts that were driving me crazy. In the cubicle next to me was a slender woman in her 50s, her 30-something daughter, and an 8 or 9-year-old granddaughter. They were cheerfully trying on two cartfuls of spring outfits and Easter dresses, raving how cute each other looked. I wanted to kill them. I choked on my own self-critiques as one item after another landed in the reject pile. I wished I had someone with me to bring more clothes so I didn't have to keep getting dressed again--I was sweaty and my hair looked like Einstein's. I hoped while I was fuming in the dressing room, maybe someone had restocked the floor with some things I'd actually want to be seen wearing in public! No such luck.
Well, I came home with 3 tops that I can try on again here and comment on to my heart's content. I hope I don't scare the cats. I do know I've lost any interest in whale watching at Sea World.

Friday the 13th

Before Friday the 13th became an unending series of bad horror movies, it was just a day that some people considered bad luck. My dad was superstitious in general, but he was definitely triskaidekaphobic. The number 13 was something to be avoided at all costs. When I was a kid, I remember him driving around the block a couple times so the odometer wouldn't be on 13 when he parked. He once ran a little bit of gas out onto the ground (it was much cheaper then!) so the total didn't amount to so many dollars and 13 cents! He wasn't happy when Fred and I chose October 13th as our wedding date. My mom and sisters might remember even more examples, but those are the ones that stay with me. I think 3 was a more unlucky number for him--he was hit by a drunk driver and broke his leg one May 3rd, and he died on April 3rd. But--he died at 49, and those two numbers add up to 13.
I've inherited a little bit of his superstitious behavior, but some of it might be considered more obsessive-compulsive. I believe in the power of sitting in the same chair if I'm on a winning streak at gin. I think if I keep wearing my ugly red motorcycle helmet, we'll remain accident-free. I say the same prayer that I said as a kid at bedtime to keep everybody safe. I repeatedly check things that I KNOW I already turned off, packed, put in my purse, etc. JUST TO MAKE SURE! 13 doesn't bother me too much---getting married on the 13th wasn't the predictor of doom that my dad feared. (Right, FRED?!!) But--I am glad Katie and I don't fly on the 13th for our trip to San Diego. I don't like having $13 in my purse, and I NEVER leave 13 e-mails in my in-box!! I don't want a Baker's Dozen--they can keep their extra cookie or doughnut!
Ok, so maybe I AM channeling my dad a little bit...in honor of his memory, I won't tempt fate today with any risky behavior. The 13 chores on my list will just have to wait till tomorrow!
Have a lucky day!!

Hysterics on my Half-Birthday

Six months from today I will turn 50. It was only 6 months ago that I told myself I had a year to get ready for THAT NUMBER, and now half of the time is gone. Yeah, it was real funny last week wrapping Amy's birthday gifts in black, over-the-hill paper, addressing cards to friends as "Old Man Smith", and filling them with little 50s confetti. I have a feeling I can dish it out but won't be able to take it.

Turning 30 didn't bother me. Katie was only 4 months old at the time and awake in the wee hours of every morning, so I was a zombie. Erica was 3 and still finding ways to express her indignation over a baby in the family--like plugging the sink and letting the water run. I had bigger worries than starting a new decade--like fitting into my school clothes still carrying baby weight.

At 40 I weighed 125 lbs., had just started my job managing Country Treasures, and was pretty darned pleased with myself. We had a big party to celebrate, and I was off and running. The girls were now old enough to babysit themselves and help more at home. (Though they did call me at work to tell me things like Jasmine was peeing in my shoe!) As the decade progressed, though, I noticed more aches and pains. In my early 40s I started having panic attacks again and went back on medication for it...which again led to gaining weight. (An even bigger reason to panic!) The girls graduated and went off to college, Fred started his job in Rhinelander, I lived over a year mostly by myself, and then we moved here in October. New house, new town, one year before 50 to become a new me.

Well, I have 6 months left and I still feel more used than new. I do have my life list to focus on some goals, most of which will take a lifetime to achieve. I did lose 12 lbs. since Jan. 1, but 5 of it was from the stomach flu and is back, I'm sure. I feel good overall, except for the hormonal insanity that gives me a different personality.

My mantra has to become "50 is only a number" and it will be easier than the milestone decades of the future...so grow up! I may have wrinkles and sags, but I will never look plastic like Joan Rivers. And hey, I'm a Harley chick! What's cooler than that? I can sing every word of "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights", and will do so whether asked or not. I'm on Facebook! I know how to text message!! Monday I'm jetting off to San Diego with a college kid for spring break!

Ok, hysterics over. 49 1/2 is ok. I'm going to go change into one of my no-holes pairs of undies and face the day.

Life List Progress Report

It has been almost two months since I took the class on making a life list. I thought I should take a look at the 110 items I came up with and see how I'm progressing so far.
1. I've read 8 books of the 75 I set as a goal this year. The one I'm reading now has 740 pages--shouldn't that count for 2??
5. I wanted to visit friends/family I hadn't seen in a long time. Last week I got together with Amy, my college roommate, after 8 years.
7. Writing letters to soldiers every week is pretty easy. Yesterday I sent out postcards to someone in Iraq wanting some from every state. Tomorrow I'm sending a package to Theresa, who is from Whitewater, WI. I did 100 Valentines for the troops and hospitalized veterans last month.
9. I want to bowl a 200+ game. Last night I had a 191!
13. Trying new recipes...I did a Mr. Food recipe called No-Fry Honey Chicken. It was ok, but not "Oooh, it's SOOO GOOD!" My mom also sent me one for Warm Winter Lemon Cake. We inhaled that pretty fast.
14. Watching some classic movies was the first thing I did after the class ended. I watched "Rear Window" and "Citizen Kane." UGH! Both were so long, boring, and poorly acted! Maybe I was expecting too much--I mean "Citizen Kane" is on some list as the best film ever made! I must be missing something.
22. I started keeping a journal again on Feb. 1, but it lasted 3 days! It didn't interest me--this blogging stuff is more fun!
29. I'll add one more state to the ones I've visited when Katie and I go to San Diego next week.
39. I HAVE been beating Fred at more gin games than I lose since I started keeping my winnings in a publicly-displayed jar like he does!! My jar has $9.62 in it, and his is down to a measly $3 and some change! In our most recent game, I skunked him!!
55. I want to spend at least 20 nights at the cabin this year, and I've been there once so far.
69. Most of my classmates turn 50 this year, and I want to send cards to all whose b-days I remember. So far I've sent one to Linda S., and Doug K.'s is coming up at the end of the month.
93. Exploring antique stores is one of the most fun things Amy and I did last week! I can't wait to look around the ones in Eagle River, Minocqua, and others in this area.
100. Fred and I have been having a "date" just about every week, I think. We have gone to Klondike Days, out for fish a couple times, to the Rhinelander Cafe for dinner, seen three movies,
gone bowling...does a ride around the yard in the Mule count?!
109. I've been much better at remembering to take my canvas bags when I shop! Still have to eat a grape in the produce section, though!!

I still have a lot of work to do on the list, but spring coming will help me achieve some of the goals...and making plans is much easier on the back of the Harley!!

Bear With Me

As the weather has warmed up and spring teases us here in the Northwoods, I have been thinking about bears. I walk our dogs 4-5 times a week through the woods along Silver Lake Road, and it's a scenic, peaceful place to stroll. But how long will it be before the hungry un-hibernating bears return? We had several bears in our yard in Elk Mound over the years, and I know there are more this farther north. Friends of ours in Rhinelander had a mother bear and two cubs in their garage last summer!! Another saw two lumber through his yard and told us they have become a problem even within the city limits! Fred laughs at my fears, but as I walk I have been formulating emergency plans. I know I can't count on the dogs for protection--Koko is a chicken, and Bum would make it worse with his bravado. Good old mama dog Kaya would probably be my best chance since she will bleed to protect her food dish.
I just read an excerpt from a survival guide that said "Show respect and walk away slowly" when encountering a bear. I can do THAT! "Please, sir, we are sorry for trespasssing. If you go eat that annoying Yorkie up the road, my husky and I will never bother you again." I could start carrying a walking stick with a sharpened end and impale the charging Yogi, like Anthony Hopkins in "The Edge." I always have my cell phone with me, but who am I gonna call with only seconds to plan--Bear Busters?! I have eyeballed one neighbor's dumpster at the end of their driveway, and I think I would fit into it--but don't bears love garbage?
Any suggestions would be appreciated, since big dark stumps seen from the corner of my eye have been inducing adrenaline rushes lately. Scares the porridge out of me!!

A Matter of Life and Death

Last night we had dinner guests, Fred's cousin K. and his two teenage boys, who also live in Rhinelander. K.'s wife died in early January of a brain aneurysm at age 41. I hadn't met the family before, but I had thought for some time what life would have been like for Fred and the girls had something happened to me that young. I made a ton of food since I've never really cooked for teenage boys--but they really didn't eat any more than the girls do! K. talked about his wife throughout the meal, eventually recounting the last few days of her life. A month before she died, she'd told him that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted to be an organ donor. When the doctors told him she had no brain activity, he conveyed her wishes and told them to take whatever organs they could use. He cried as he recited specific details of the sex and location of each recipient now living with her heart, liver, pancreas, and kidneys. After a few months, he will be able to get in touch with the recipients by letter through the transplant coordinator, and in-person meetings are a possiblity after a year. He seemed eager to meet the people who now have a chance at healthy lives through his wife's generous gift.
Fred, the girls, and I all have organ donor stickers on our drivers' licenses. But talking to your family and making your wishes known are essential so that if the unthinkable happens, your organs can help someone in need. I can think of no better way to keep a loved one's memory alive and give their death a positive meaning.
After you convey your intentions, take the time to do something you've been putting off (NOT housework!) ...get in touch with an old friend....read a book...say I love you. And have a happy Monday!!

Today at the Movies

When I watched the Oscar broadcast two weeks ago, I hadn't seen any of the movies nominated for Best Picture. Often those are the films we think are too "artsy" to be entertaining. I had read "The Reader" and knew the the film would be a downer. Until it was nominated, I had never even heard of "Slumdog Millionaire." When it won, I still didn't have a burning desire to see it--until Katie went to it last week and gave it two thumbs up! After seeing it last night, I agree. It reminded me of the underdog movie that won the Oscar when I was in high school--"Rocky." Slumdog is more violent, the slums of Mumbai defy description, but we cheer for Jamal like we did for Rocky Balboa in '76. Don't miss it!
Another film to see--that wasn't nominated but deserved to be-- is "Gran Torino". Clint Eastwood growls his way through it as a racist, bitter old man who redeems himself through a relationship with the two "H-mong" (as he pronounces it) teenagers next door. Clint continues to make quality movies in his 70s, and I hope he keeps it up for a long time! In the meantime I will practice growling, "Get off my lawn!"

What Lies Beneath

Yesterday I cleaned out my underwear drawer. You'd think I would have done that before we moved four months ago, but no--I just shoved the whole pile into a duffel bag and moved it from EM to Rhinelander. As I was putting away laundry, though, I noticed that the drawer barely closed because it was so full. There were 47 pairs of undies in there (I counted), about a dozen of which I actually wear. Why am I such a pack rat? Do I expect an imminent underwear shortage? Some of them probably last fit me in the '80s. Others were brand new but too small--I must have thought my butt would shrink overnight. Others had holes and were missing the cotton crotch lining. "If something were to happen to me, do I want Fred and the girls dealing with these?" I asked myself. So I separated them into 3 piles: wear (12), spare (12), and those with a tear (23). My drawer has more space now, and the torn pile is in the garbage. Fred asked me why I didn't donate them to the Air Force. "Why would I donate my underwear to the Air For-?" Ah, parachutes. What a funny guy.
If this experience makes a single reader take a hard look at his or her underwear drawer, it will be worth it. You never know when you might be in an accident wearing the last clean pair you have. Today I will tackle my socks.

Feeling Peevish

Everyone has pet peeves, those annoyances both large and small that might only cause a momentary eye roll, or completely ruin our day. I started thinking about this yesterday when I was in the 10 items-or-less less lane behind a woman who had about 30 things in her cart--by no means the first time this has happened!
Pet peeves come and go, some fleeting and some life-long. Here are some of mine at the moment:
1. No matter what setting I try on our microwave, it always burns the popcorn.
2. Dish soap suds that last for five minutes.
3. 99% of politicians.
4. Errors on bills that can only be corrected by 20 minutes on the phone listening to Muzak and recorded voices.
5. Movie-makers who turn books into films and change the endings. The latest is My Sister's Keeper, a terrific book by Jodi Picoult. The book ends with a major shock--but the movie is going to be different.
6. Squirrels on my birdfeeders. There are seeds all over the ground--why can't they eat those??
7. People who send me a dozen forwards a day but no real e-mail.
8. Those smelly, biting, drop-dead-all-over-the-house Asian ladybug beetles.
9. The media turning a story into a mega, all-consuming, no-escape-from monster: the "Octo-Mom"!
10. Clothing designers who create for 12-pound teenage girls and old ladies. What's a chubby Baby Boomer to wear?!

I could keep going, but that might make you peevish.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I would love to sleep dreamlessly every night. I might then wake up feeling rested and ready to face the day. But my sleep is filled with vivid, action-packed, exhausting dreams. Last night the stars of my slumber were body-snatcher-type creatures who controlled us humans with a green, laser-shooting device like a stun gun. I watched helplessly as the pod-people disabled everyone around me--until I managed to wrestle a device away and blast one of the invaders in the face. This woke me up with such a jolt that I knocked Jasmine off the bed!
I have two recurring dreams that have plagued me for years. The first is that I discover after years of being a teacher that I didn't really graduate from UW-Eau Claire. I have to give up my job and go back for a semester. Once I get there I can never find the classrooms I need, and I don't get my homework done on time. Several years ago Fred went so far as to give me an "honorary" diploma from UW-Stout so I'd feel more secure in my college education!
My second oft-repeated vision stars Doug K., the boy I pined for from second to eighth grades. He turns up a couple times a month, always in a different plot, but still the object of my unrequited affections. He turns 50 this month, and with my luck will be fat and bald in future appearances.
I really should research what all this means. If I learn anything, I'll let you know! In the meantime, Jazz would be wise to sleep in a different bed.

College Girls

I apologize for not being "daily" yesterday. Sometimes life gets in the way of blogging. My reunion with Amy was a great time! It felt like no time had passed at all, even though it had been at least eight years since we last saw each other. She remembered things we did at UW-Eau Claire that I'd long since forgotten--probably because I was in an alcohol haze more often than she was.
We spent our two days shopping, antiquing, (that word looks weird) eating great meals, reminiscing and talking about our families--but not sleeping much. We were both way too hot during the night--the heater or hormones?!!
When we went our opposite directions yesterday, we agreed that our get-togethers need to be more frequent in the future. One of the goals on my life list is to visit with friends and family I haven't seen in a long time. I recommend it! It reminds us of who we were and clarifies who we are now. I realize I've matured--but not that much!

"Friendship is a sheltering tree." -- Coleridge

Forever Young?

Today I am meeting my college roommate, Amy, in Stevens Point to hang out, spend the night in a motel, and celebrate her 50th birthday. 50??!! How can that be? (Of course, I'm only 49 1/2, but she must be feeling pretty darn old!) Actually, I know she is, because she was appalled that she got the AARP discount when she booked the room! She told me, "I didn't know whether to laugh or cry!" I'm sure I can make her laugh about it with a drink or six. We have a lot to laugh about! We have remained friends for 30 years, even though we've only seen each other a handful of times since college. We may be almost 50, but that's the youngest we'll be in the rest of our lifetimes! We're both healthy (knock on wood), have all our teeth, and our natural hair color (at least I do!) Fifty is just a number (half century); it's the "new 40" (denial); it's irrelevant when you still feel 25 inside (way down deep underneath the sagging stomach and boobs). Tomorrow I'll let you know how the reunion goes--hopefully she'l be able to keep up with the younger me and stay awake till at least 10 PM!!

M-e-o-w!

In my next life, I'm coming back as a cat. Actually, I may have already been one. I like tuna. My initials were CAT before I got married, and I have a sensual feline grace....ok, but I DO have green eyes!
What's NOT to like about being a cat? They sleep much of the day, eat, get high on catnip, chase little jingling balls under the furniture, and sit on a nice warm lap to sleep some more. We have five cats, and the one I would like to emulate in my kitty-life is Jasmine, the half-Siamese. Not because everyone loves her (she thinks they do), but because she is a spoiled, queen-of-the-house super diva. She was the first cat we got, an adorable fluffy-white kitten with blue eyes. She let the girls dress her up in doll clothes, and gamely went along with her role as the "baby" when they played house. But somewhere along the line, she realized that being compliant doesn't get the results that being a b---- does. (Maybe she's going through menopause, Fred?!)
Jazz is almost 15 now, and she HAS to have canned food in the morning and at bedtime or she will DIE. Since I am the canned-food provider, Jazz takes it upon herself to wake me up anywhere from 4 to 6 AM. Her methods vary, but all are effective and make further sleep impossible. She goes into the shower and beats on the wall with her paws like a boxer. She gets up on the dresser and methodically knocks things off onto the floor....picks a fight with whatever other unfortunate cat crosses her path...jumps onto the bed and puts her wet nose in my face, meowing pitifully....I have thrown pillows at her, shot her with a squirt gun, yelled and threatened--but she always ends up getting her way. Today I lasted till 7:20, though the abuse began at 6.
So I hope I come back as a cat--not as a working barn mouser, or a scrounging alley cat--but a pampered house cat that belongs to a pushover like me! I'm going to practice purring, just in case.