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!