I think I have written several times over that one of the proudest things I have done in my life has been to maintain a cordial relationship with my former son-in-law and his family, for the sake of my grandchildren. Fortunately, everyone else has cooperated in that, too. These babies do not have a clue how very fortunate they are to have everyone working hard in their favor! It isn't always easy. Getting bits and pieces of stories from both sides makes it difficult to stay objective, but I try...as does everyone else.
Still, it's hard to explain relationships. Most divorce situations are fraught with animosity for one side or the other. In MY situation, I introduce people in terms of their relationships and simply hope that others figure it out.
This weekend, I hosted my former son-in-law, his wife, her mother, and her daughter here for the 500. Did it last year, too, so we already knew the drill. All I supplied them with was a few snacks to take to the track, clean sheets on the beds, and clean towels for the shower. The rest was up to them. They easily did as much work around here as I did. I had some company and they had a free place to stay. Worked for me!
One of the things I liked best was the fact that these are people who truly appreciate the race--not like people being dragged because of relationships. We can chit-chat about it as the awesome event that it is. My race history goes back to the early 1970s. I can share some of that with them, and they seem to like to hear it. Another thing I like is that I don't really have to do anything for them. They aren't shy and have been here enough to know that, if they need something, all they have to do is ask. Most of the time, they just do it themselves!
Thus, we all enjoyed Race Weekend. The race was dry, safe, and fast. (Fastest one on record.) No one hurt. No excessive temperatures. Everyone was back on Plainfield turf before 4:00 PM (which has to be a record in itself), and we had supper right on time. Good time! All's well that ends well.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Miss Representation
I just happened upon a documentary on the Oprah Winfrey Network today called Miss Representation, and, purely coincidentally, was having an Instant Message conversation with my daughter about the very same topic: gender bias. The documentary proposes (and supports, with many examples) how women in politics and the media are judged by their appearances--almost always by men--and not their abilities. Had I not experienced this first-hand many times over, I might have been suspicious of the premise, but I have lived it.
I was a child of the 60s and a young adult in the 70s--Women's Lib days. It wasn't about man-hating. It was about achieving the same rights as men--rights that even black men achieved in this country before the entire female gender. I think there has always been a bit of rebel in me. During the 60s, I was a hippie sympathizer, but not a hippie. I was too respectful of all that my parents had worked for to consider trashing it by my behavior. (Brother Doug, at least six years younger than I, had no such reservations.) Thus, although I have never participated openly in any rallies or movements, I always had the causes in my heart, and they do get my blood racing.
I think the first time I became painfully aware of the male-right-wing gender thing was during the presidential election of 2000, Bush against Gore, where the votes in Florida had to be counted and recounted several times, and it finally came down to a female judge to determine the winner for that state. At the time, I was still teaching. Every day, I sat with three other middle-aged educators (all male): the district Superintendent, a history teacher, and the government teacher. They used to make outrageous statements in front of me, then watch out of the corner of their eyes to see what I was going to do about what they said. One day, in the midst of the whole Florida vote-counting thing, the history teacher commented something about "that fat-ass, black bitch of a judge". I threw up my hands and said, "But we aren't prejudiced here!!" He promptly went off on me, telling me that he was TIRED of his tax dollars going to pay for black people who don't work and just keep having children in order to take advantage of the welfare system...blah, blah...totally missing the point. It was my cue to understand that it did NOT matter that the judge had a law degree and had jurisdiction over the question at hand. The fact that she was overweight, African-American, and FEMALE meant that she should not have the power to determine a state election. Had she been male, there would have been no such comment from him. Men don't comment on other men's weight, etc.
But they DO comment on appearances of women in the spotlight. How many times have I heard political pundits and others make comments about how women look? I haven't kept count, but the documentary makes it painfully obvious. No one in the media comments on men's hairstyles, outfits, or other physical attributes. No one!
In the last election, I had a distant radio friend make a comment to me on Facebook that he wished I would help Secretary of State Hillary Clinton with her wardrobe and makeup. Roughly quoted: "I wish you could help Hillary. The last time I saw her, she looked like a bag lady." Rather than blast into him for his obvious sexism, I decided to be a smart aleck in my response (also paraphrased): "I didn't know you and Mrs. Clinton were on a first-name basis. When was the last time you saw her? State dinner at the White House? Presidential meeting in the Oval Office? En route somewhere on Air Force One?? I know that affairs of state are determined by how she looks and can be stressful enough that I'm certain she will want to hear from me about how to look better, so I'll be sure to write her as soon as possible with my grooming tips." The only thing I heard back from him on that was that he could see I was doing well as a "smartass". Nothing since, thankfully.
Guess what, boys and girls? One's ability to do a job has NOTHING to do with one's appearance, although I will admit that even I am somewhat biased by tattoos and piercings. To comment on how someone looks is to deny what they would say about you, if you were in the spotlight. 'Tis one reason why I will not be attending my former stepson's memorial services next weekend. I don't want to give fodder for commentary about how old and fat I am. I am still me. It is what it is.
If you don't believe that gender bias exists, I encourage you to look around on TV....find a screening of Miss Respresentation, and draw your own conclusions. I rest my case!
I was a child of the 60s and a young adult in the 70s--Women's Lib days. It wasn't about man-hating. It was about achieving the same rights as men--rights that even black men achieved in this country before the entire female gender. I think there has always been a bit of rebel in me. During the 60s, I was a hippie sympathizer, but not a hippie. I was too respectful of all that my parents had worked for to consider trashing it by my behavior. (Brother Doug, at least six years younger than I, had no such reservations.) Thus, although I have never participated openly in any rallies or movements, I always had the causes in my heart, and they do get my blood racing.
I think the first time I became painfully aware of the male-right-wing gender thing was during the presidential election of 2000, Bush against Gore, where the votes in Florida had to be counted and recounted several times, and it finally came down to a female judge to determine the winner for that state. At the time, I was still teaching. Every day, I sat with three other middle-aged educators (all male): the district Superintendent, a history teacher, and the government teacher. They used to make outrageous statements in front of me, then watch out of the corner of their eyes to see what I was going to do about what they said. One day, in the midst of the whole Florida vote-counting thing, the history teacher commented something about "that fat-ass, black bitch of a judge". I threw up my hands and said, "But we aren't prejudiced here!!" He promptly went off on me, telling me that he was TIRED of his tax dollars going to pay for black people who don't work and just keep having children in order to take advantage of the welfare system...blah, blah...totally missing the point. It was my cue to understand that it did NOT matter that the judge had a law degree and had jurisdiction over the question at hand. The fact that she was overweight, African-American, and FEMALE meant that she should not have the power to determine a state election. Had she been male, there would have been no such comment from him. Men don't comment on other men's weight, etc.
But they DO comment on appearances of women in the spotlight. How many times have I heard political pundits and others make comments about how women look? I haven't kept count, but the documentary makes it painfully obvious. No one in the media comments on men's hairstyles, outfits, or other physical attributes. No one!
In the last election, I had a distant radio friend make a comment to me on Facebook that he wished I would help Secretary of State Hillary Clinton with her wardrobe and makeup. Roughly quoted: "I wish you could help Hillary. The last time I saw her, she looked like a bag lady." Rather than blast into him for his obvious sexism, I decided to be a smart aleck in my response (also paraphrased): "I didn't know you and Mrs. Clinton were on a first-name basis. When was the last time you saw her? State dinner at the White House? Presidential meeting in the Oval Office? En route somewhere on Air Force One?? I know that affairs of state are determined by how she looks and can be stressful enough that I'm certain she will want to hear from me about how to look better, so I'll be sure to write her as soon as possible with my grooming tips." The only thing I heard back from him on that was that he could see I was doing well as a "smartass". Nothing since, thankfully.
Guess what, boys and girls? One's ability to do a job has NOTHING to do with one's appearance, although I will admit that even I am somewhat biased by tattoos and piercings. To comment on how someone looks is to deny what they would say about you, if you were in the spotlight. 'Tis one reason why I will not be attending my former stepson's memorial services next weekend. I don't want to give fodder for commentary about how old and fat I am. I am still me. It is what it is.
If you don't believe that gender bias exists, I encourage you to look around on TV....find a screening of Miss Respresentation, and draw your own conclusions. I rest my case!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Are You Datin'?
Mid-May every year is the Dayton (Amateur Radio) Hamvention. I've gone every year since 1997, except last year, and this. Dayton is the granddaddy of all hamfests, including the ARRL's participation. I used to go as a regular ham operator, but for the last umpteen years, I have gone as the forum moderator and organizer for the Salvation Army Team Emergency Radio Network (SATERN). Since I missed last year for health reasons, I totally planned to be there this year. Even bought a "rollator" to help me with mobility and seating problems. Sadly, it still wasn't to be. When I am at home, I don't challenge myself, physically. It's only when I am out and about that I realize how truly disabled I am....and when I was at my daughter's, I discovered that walking, standing, and breathing were bigger problems than I thought. I probably could have managed the hamvention itself, but the University of Dayton dormitory situation (where we stay) would have been impossible. Thus, I had to decide to stay home. It was the right decision, but ugh!
I did drive over to the east side of Indy on Sunday to meet up with Majors Pat and Carmella (WW9E and KB9YSQ) for a meal on their way home to Michigan after the Hamvention. Patrick is the retired founder of SATERN, a friend of mine for quite awhile, and I have to say that he looked really good! He has put himself on a vegan diet in hopes of ridding himself of various meds that he has to take for cholesterol, blood pressure, kidney disease, etc., and it's working! Over the past couple of months, he has lost well over 30 pounds. His kidneys are now near normal function, and his doctor took him off of one of his BP meds just this week. Good job, Patrick! Keep up the good work! I need to do something as proactive as that, but I'm such a carnivore that I don't think I could follow a vegan diet at all. Not for a single day.
My bro-in-law went in for surgery on Tuesday. It's a guy thing. He's been complaining of abdominal pain for a long time, but no one could find anything wrong...until recently. Apparently his prostate has been "strangling" his bladder, to the degree that the bladder was retaining a lot of urine and was stretched so much that it was pushing on other organs. I'll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say that the surgery turned out to be a bit more than the surgeons thought it would be, but he is doing fine...in fact was released from the hospital after about 24 hours...with an abdominal drain that he will need for at least a month while they determine if the bladder will go back to normal size and function. Roger has some problems with dementia, so keeping things on an even keel falls to my sister (who didn't get nearly enough of a break when he was in the hospital). Prayers, please!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am preparing for Race Weekend company. My former son-in-law and family will be here, as they were last year. The McNary Motel will be open for business to help the race-goers with clean beds and the opportunity to shower...and some food. Which brings me to my next point....
I've probably written about my "angels" before. There is a local young family--a former student, her husband, and their blended family of four kids--who have become dear to me. I have helped them out a time or two, financially, but I have been repaid many times over with labor around my house. Husband James, who is disabled, is a working fool. He has done things around my place that I didn't even ask for, but what a difference they have made! This week, I set aside the usual $20 for mowing, but oh my goodness! James came over with his own gear, blew the maple helicopters off the sidewalk near the house, trimmed the shrubs, weed-eated and hand-trimmed all around the house and fences, mowed the lawn, and cleaned up after himself. He was here for five hours doing all of that. The yard never looked so good! Then he came back the next day with a pressure washer to clean off the front of the house, the gutters, and the driveway in front. And he's not done! He will be back to do my floors tomorrow (something I asked for), and he will do a good job. He always does. I am so blessed!
So, you are probably asking yourself about the "datin'" reference in the title. That's a joke. Datin'...Dayton....get it? It's bad. Sorry!
I did drive over to the east side of Indy on Sunday to meet up with Majors Pat and Carmella (WW9E and KB9YSQ) for a meal on their way home to Michigan after the Hamvention. Patrick is the retired founder of SATERN, a friend of mine for quite awhile, and I have to say that he looked really good! He has put himself on a vegan diet in hopes of ridding himself of various meds that he has to take for cholesterol, blood pressure, kidney disease, etc., and it's working! Over the past couple of months, he has lost well over 30 pounds. His kidneys are now near normal function, and his doctor took him off of one of his BP meds just this week. Good job, Patrick! Keep up the good work! I need to do something as proactive as that, but I'm such a carnivore that I don't think I could follow a vegan diet at all. Not for a single day.
My bro-in-law went in for surgery on Tuesday. It's a guy thing. He's been complaining of abdominal pain for a long time, but no one could find anything wrong...until recently. Apparently his prostate has been "strangling" his bladder, to the degree that the bladder was retaining a lot of urine and was stretched so much that it was pushing on other organs. I'll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say that the surgery turned out to be a bit more than the surgeons thought it would be, but he is doing fine...in fact was released from the hospital after about 24 hours...with an abdominal drain that he will need for at least a month while they determine if the bladder will go back to normal size and function. Roger has some problems with dementia, so keeping things on an even keel falls to my sister (who didn't get nearly enough of a break when he was in the hospital). Prayers, please!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am preparing for Race Weekend company. My former son-in-law and family will be here, as they were last year. The McNary Motel will be open for business to help the race-goers with clean beds and the opportunity to shower...and some food. Which brings me to my next point....
I've probably written about my "angels" before. There is a local young family--a former student, her husband, and their blended family of four kids--who have become dear to me. I have helped them out a time or two, financially, but I have been repaid many times over with labor around my house. Husband James, who is disabled, is a working fool. He has done things around my place that I didn't even ask for, but what a difference they have made! This week, I set aside the usual $20 for mowing, but oh my goodness! James came over with his own gear, blew the maple helicopters off the sidewalk near the house, trimmed the shrubs, weed-eated and hand-trimmed all around the house and fences, mowed the lawn, and cleaned up after himself. He was here for five hours doing all of that. The yard never looked so good! Then he came back the next day with a pressure washer to clean off the front of the house, the gutters, and the driveway in front. And he's not done! He will be back to do my floors tomorrow (something I asked for), and he will do a good job. He always does. I am so blessed!
So, you are probably asking yourself about the "datin'" reference in the title. That's a joke. Datin'...Dayton....get it? It's bad. Sorry!
Monday, May 20, 2013
While I Was Out...
Everyone needs a nosy neighbor. I have one, and I love it. Good Neighbor Fred and his wife Sharon live across the street from me and have been in their house-on-a-slab far longer than I've been here in mine. They are older than I but sure don't look it! Megan and I used to joke that "Freddie knows all" because there isn't too much that goes on in our neighborhood that he doesn't pick up on. Over the course of my years here, if I didn't take my Sunday newspaper out of the newspaper box, he'd get after me by saying, "If you aren't going to read that, I'll just cancel my subscription and read yours!" (I finally canceled my subscription because I never got around to reading the paper.) If the garbage cans don't get moved off the curb fast enough to suit him, I'll find them on the lawn or up by the house. Freddie at work!
But there are advantages to nosy neighbors. When I still had cats but had to be gone for a weekend, he'd come in and check on them. (I watch after their cat when they are gone, too...which isn't often.) Now when I travel up to my daughter's, Fred gets my mail and watches the house. And when I'm home, he looks for signs of life to make sure I'm still kicking.
And now that I'm thinking about it, there are a whole bunch of things that Neighbor Fred has done for me through the years. One summer, we filled up the bed of his truck with yard trash--shrubbery that I had cut down--to haul to the yard waste collection place. He has helped to fill divots in my yard by the curb by adding rocks, as he has them. Whenever there is a sizeable snowfall, he plows a path up my driveway to the front door without my asking. This past December, Meg and family, plus my son-in-law's Russian parents, drove to my house after a 9-inch snowfall. I fully expected that we'd have to park on the street while Denis and Sergey shoveled out the driveway, but when we turned the corner onto Walton Drive, we were very pleasantly surprised to see the entire driveway cleaned off clear down to the pavement. (That was such a blessing!) It was Fred who decided that my front door lock wasn't working correctly when I was gone...and fixed it. I think having a key to my house made for Fred and Sharon was the best $2 investment I ever made!
When I'm away, I stay in email contact with Fred. He only writes if there is something wrong. (I almost dread seeing an email from him in my in-box, for fear the house has burned down or something.) When I was visiting Meg in California for a couple of weeks in February three years ago, Fred alerted me that my car battery was dead. He had tried to start it during a particularly cold spell--God bless him. Having the information was helpful in knowing what I had to do before I even got home. When visiting Meg in Illinois a couple of years ago, it was Fred who alerted me that the electricity to my house had been shut off because, in all of my travels, I had failed to pay the bill. (Oops!) From Illinois, I got the bill paid and the service turned back on. It was too late to save the stuff in the refrigerator/freezer because Fred hadn't seen the sign hanging on the doorknob for a few days, but I am sure glad I got the word before I walked in the door to a total mess. Thank you, Fred!
Last summer while I was gone, a bad hailstorm hit the Plainfield area. Fred wrote that I was lucky to have missed that. Some of my friends suffered some big losses. Friend Ryan had major damage to his house plus broken windshields on cars, etc. It started a spate of new roofs that went up all over the area (except my house, which I think I already wrote about).
Then, this past week when I was visiting Meg, I got a couple of emails from Fred saying that I shouldn't leave town anymore because bad stuff happens when I'm gone. It seems that a bank was robbed down by the Marsh grocery store, and the three bad guys got away but were being chased by PPD and the FBI...into my neighborhood. Gunfire was exchanged, and one of the alleged robbers was shot and killed less than two blocks from my house. The others ran and ended up in the back yard of the lady right across the street, where they were captured. Fred sent pictures. All of the pictures that he sent, plus the ones I saw on news websites, clearly showed police cars and media RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. Not sorry I missed all of that!
The next email from Fred indicated, again, that I was missing all the action. It seems that a neighbor's truck was on fire and the PFD was putting it out.
Of course, now that I'm home, things have settled down. I prefer it that way. Plainfield isn't exactly the crime center of the universe. We have more police per capita than most communities of this size because this is, after all, a "Community of Values". (Wink, wink.)
While I was out, I had a good and nosy neighbor watching my back. I wish that for everyone who lives alone!
But there are advantages to nosy neighbors. When I still had cats but had to be gone for a weekend, he'd come in and check on them. (I watch after their cat when they are gone, too...which isn't often.) Now when I travel up to my daughter's, Fred gets my mail and watches the house. And when I'm home, he looks for signs of life to make sure I'm still kicking.
And now that I'm thinking about it, there are a whole bunch of things that Neighbor Fred has done for me through the years. One summer, we filled up the bed of his truck with yard trash--shrubbery that I had cut down--to haul to the yard waste collection place. He has helped to fill divots in my yard by the curb by adding rocks, as he has them. Whenever there is a sizeable snowfall, he plows a path up my driveway to the front door without my asking. This past December, Meg and family, plus my son-in-law's Russian parents, drove to my house after a 9-inch snowfall. I fully expected that we'd have to park on the street while Denis and Sergey shoveled out the driveway, but when we turned the corner onto Walton Drive, we were very pleasantly surprised to see the entire driveway cleaned off clear down to the pavement. (That was such a blessing!) It was Fred who decided that my front door lock wasn't working correctly when I was gone...and fixed it. I think having a key to my house made for Fred and Sharon was the best $2 investment I ever made!
When I'm away, I stay in email contact with Fred. He only writes if there is something wrong. (I almost dread seeing an email from him in my in-box, for fear the house has burned down or something.) When I was visiting Meg in California for a couple of weeks in February three years ago, Fred alerted me that my car battery was dead. He had tried to start it during a particularly cold spell--God bless him. Having the information was helpful in knowing what I had to do before I even got home. When visiting Meg in Illinois a couple of years ago, it was Fred who alerted me that the electricity to my house had been shut off because, in all of my travels, I had failed to pay the bill. (Oops!) From Illinois, I got the bill paid and the service turned back on. It was too late to save the stuff in the refrigerator/freezer because Fred hadn't seen the sign hanging on the doorknob for a few days, but I am sure glad I got the word before I walked in the door to a total mess. Thank you, Fred!
Last summer while I was gone, a bad hailstorm hit the Plainfield area. Fred wrote that I was lucky to have missed that. Some of my friends suffered some big losses. Friend Ryan had major damage to his house plus broken windshields on cars, etc. It started a spate of new roofs that went up all over the area (except my house, which I think I already wrote about).
Then, this past week when I was visiting Meg, I got a couple of emails from Fred saying that I shouldn't leave town anymore because bad stuff happens when I'm gone. It seems that a bank was robbed down by the Marsh grocery store, and the three bad guys got away but were being chased by PPD and the FBI...into my neighborhood. Gunfire was exchanged, and one of the alleged robbers was shot and killed less than two blocks from my house. The others ran and ended up in the back yard of the lady right across the street, where they were captured. Fred sent pictures. All of the pictures that he sent, plus the ones I saw on news websites, clearly showed police cars and media RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. Not sorry I missed all of that!
The next email from Fred indicated, again, that I was missing all the action. It seems that a neighbor's truck was on fire and the PFD was putting it out.
Of course, now that I'm home, things have settled down. I prefer it that way. Plainfield isn't exactly the crime center of the universe. We have more police per capita than most communities of this size because this is, after all, a "Community of Values". (Wink, wink.)
While I was out, I had a good and nosy neighbor watching my back. I wish that for everyone who lives alone!
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Shifting Gears
Got back from my daughter's a couple of days ago. Now it's time to prepare my OWN home for company! I will have my former son-in-law, his wife, her mother, and her daughter here for Race Weekend. Nathan's parents live just a mile from here, but their extra bedrooms aren't available, so the race-goers stay with me. I'll have to enlist help for some things, but if I start now, I should be able to get it all done in a week, ya think??
At least I won't be making curtains. When I was at Meg's, she wanted curtain valances for her bedroom windows. In order to match her Calvin Klein comforter, she bought a king sized sheet from the set, hoping there would be enough fabric for two valances and two pillow shams. We didn't know how much fabric we had, but we went in search of a pattern. Found one at the local JoAnn Fabrics that she liked--on sale for $1-- brought it home, and we started ciphering on how to cut, etc. Well! What wasn't mentioned on the outside of the pattern envelope was the fact that the pattern called for 325 inches of bias binding that would have to be made from the fabric, times two (because we were making two valances). Do the math. That's 650 inches of bias binding that I didn't think we'd have fabric for and really didn't want to make! We went to a bigger JoAnn's in Vernon Hills, hoping to find bias tape that we could substitute and/or find some cheap fabric that would suffice, but there was none to be found. (It's a really tough color to match.) Back to Square One.
Several days passed. We figured we needed to go back to the local JoAnn's to find a different pattern--which we did, only this time, they were no longer on sale. :( With careful cutting, we found that there would be enough fabric for both valances and shams. I sewed the curtains and the shams, and we got them installed. Looking good! Then Megan, always the perfectionist, decided that the little 24-inch-square window off to the side would bother her sensitivities if it didn't have a valance, too. I found just enough scrap to make a smaller version of the valance and purchased a rod that would work. Voila! But then, Meg decided that she wanted a throw pillow to match. She had some scraps left over from cutting the shams and had a pillow form in storage, so she made a patchwork throw pillow to match--all from that one king sized sheet! I give us an A for creativity and use of materials, but only a C for speed. Still, I have to say that the finished products look really good--better than expected, actually--and put a nice finishing touch on the bedroom.
So now, I need to refocus my energies on my own bedrooms for the company that will be here next weekend. Wish me luck!
At least I won't be making curtains. When I was at Meg's, she wanted curtain valances for her bedroom windows. In order to match her Calvin Klein comforter, she bought a king sized sheet from the set, hoping there would be enough fabric for two valances and two pillow shams. We didn't know how much fabric we had, but we went in search of a pattern. Found one at the local JoAnn Fabrics that she liked--on sale for $1-- brought it home, and we started ciphering on how to cut, etc. Well! What wasn't mentioned on the outside of the pattern envelope was the fact that the pattern called for 325 inches of bias binding that would have to be made from the fabric, times two (because we were making two valances). Do the math. That's 650 inches of bias binding that I didn't think we'd have fabric for and really didn't want to make! We went to a bigger JoAnn's in Vernon Hills, hoping to find bias tape that we could substitute and/or find some cheap fabric that would suffice, but there was none to be found. (It's a really tough color to match.) Back to Square One.
Several days passed. We figured we needed to go back to the local JoAnn's to find a different pattern--which we did, only this time, they were no longer on sale. :( With careful cutting, we found that there would be enough fabric for both valances and shams. I sewed the curtains and the shams, and we got them installed. Looking good! Then Megan, always the perfectionist, decided that the little 24-inch-square window off to the side would bother her sensitivities if it didn't have a valance, too. I found just enough scrap to make a smaller version of the valance and purchased a rod that would work. Voila! But then, Meg decided that she wanted a throw pillow to match. She had some scraps left over from cutting the shams and had a pillow form in storage, so she made a patchwork throw pillow to match--all from that one king sized sheet! I give us an A for creativity and use of materials, but only a C for speed. Still, I have to say that the finished products look really good--better than expected, actually--and put a nice finishing touch on the bedroom.
So now, I need to refocus my energies on my own bedrooms for the company that will be here next weekend. Wish me luck!
Friday, May 10, 2013
Murphy's Law and the Guatemalan Worm
Murphy's Law, in so many words, says that anything that can go wrong in any given situation, will. So true. But Murphy's Law has been at work in my life with just a twist: Anything that can go wrong will happen to the one person who can least handle it.
In our household when I was a kid, dinner was all about my dad. Were it not for him, I'm pretty sure Mom would have just made food that she knew we kids would like. If Dad was expected, however, (which was almost always) dinner was a family meal designed to feed the hungry breadwinner. The rest of us were expected to eat it, whether we liked it or not. My father had been raised in a very poor home, and so, not surprisingly, he was a carnivore--trying to make up for the things he didn't get when he was a hungry kid. We didn't talk about it, but I'm pretty sure my mother planned meals around Dad's likes and dislikes. Even leftovers had a plan. They'd be reworked into something just as yummy as the original meal. It stands to reason that she would want Dad to approve.
My father wasn't much on sweets, but he did like cherry pie. When Mom had access to fresh cherries, she would make one. And this is where Murphy's Law came into play. IF there was a stray cherry pit in the pie, it would be in Dad's piece. Same thing with buckshot in the game he brought home from hunting. Mom and Dad both would go through the squirrel, rabbit, or pheasant carcass, checking for those little lead balls, but if they happened to miss one, it would be Dad whose teeth crunched down on it while eating. It almost became family lore: If there is something that shouldn't be in the food, Dad will get it. He never complained except for the time or two when he crunched down and it hurt.
My very first year of teaching, I was employed at Heyworth High School, Heyworth, IL (1969). The classroom had no air conditioning, of course. One whole wall of that room consisted of a bank of huge windows (with no screens) that went from about waist-height to the top of the 15-foot ceilings. In order to have any comfort at all on hot days, those windows had to be open, leaving my students and I vulnerable to wasps, bees, and the truck noise from the highway that ran right in front of the school.
That year, I had what all teachers have at least one of per year: The Class from Hell. My CFH consisted of juniors--almost all boys (of course)--who prided themselves on their reputation as hellions. (They claimed that they were single-handedly responsible for the firing/resignation of the previous English teacher because they were hanging outside those windows and she couldn't do anything about it.) There was one kid in that class who got picked on a lot. He was on the pudgy side and was a buffoon. Enjoyed his notoriety as the pickee. If anything could go wrong, it would happen to him. It was all I could do to protect him from the others, which was a constant task, not always appreciated.
On one particularly warm day, a hapless sparrow flew into my classroom and fluttered around, trying to find its way back out. Naturally, the CFH got a big kick out of that. My lesson came to a halt while we all tried to figure out how to remove the bird. Around and around the room it flew. As Murphy would have it, that little bird pooped as it flew, and the splat landed guess where--(can you see where I'm going with this?)--right on the shoulder of that one kid! The class hooted with laughter while the boy hopped around, holding the shirt away from his skin with his thumb and forefinger, yelling "Ew! Ew! Get it off of me! How can I get this off of me??" I sent the boy to the office for them to determine what could be done about his soiled shirt; the bird eventually went back out the window. All sense of educational decorum was shot for the rest of the period, however. There would be no American literature lesson that day!
So...who is the pickiest eater in my family? Who is the one person who is the most germophobic and least likely to be able to pick a bug out of her food and keep eating it? My daughter. Thus, Megan is a target for Murphy's Law.
I'm visiting at her house as I type. Two days ago, she fixed a pretty good supper for us all: chicken chunks in a savory sauce, wild rice, and broccoli flowerets from frozen. Before she had even taken that first bite of broccoli, she noticed a tiny little green worm in it. It was a dead worm, to be sure, since the frozen broccoli had to be boiled, but it was a worm, nonetheless. (If you've ever grown broccoli in a home garden, you know that broccoli attracts little green worms that resemble the plant so much that it is hard to spot them. Fresh broccoli has to be soaked in salt water before it can be processed for the freezer or the table, to get rid of the worms.) Well! That was the end of the broccoli for her! Had the worm been in my portion, I would have removed him and continued eating. I mean, he had been blanched before he could have been frozen...then boiled before he could be served. I imagine there are starving people in the world who would have been happy to eat the broccoli, worm and all. Unfortunately, that argument just doesn't fly with well-fed Americans. Meg checked the bag that the broccoli had come in: Product of Guatemala. A well-traveled dead worm that Murphy put in that bag with Megan Shchepetov's name on it for good measure!
I'm not suggesting that my daughter should have eaten the rest of her broccoli--only that I didn't stop eating it just because one lowly little Guatemalan worm had been found in it. I'm just not sure how long it will be before she'll trust frozen broccoli again. Only Murphy knows for sure!
In our household when I was a kid, dinner was all about my dad. Were it not for him, I'm pretty sure Mom would have just made food that she knew we kids would like. If Dad was expected, however, (which was almost always) dinner was a family meal designed to feed the hungry breadwinner. The rest of us were expected to eat it, whether we liked it or not. My father had been raised in a very poor home, and so, not surprisingly, he was a carnivore--trying to make up for the things he didn't get when he was a hungry kid. We didn't talk about it, but I'm pretty sure my mother planned meals around Dad's likes and dislikes. Even leftovers had a plan. They'd be reworked into something just as yummy as the original meal. It stands to reason that she would want Dad to approve.
My father wasn't much on sweets, but he did like cherry pie. When Mom had access to fresh cherries, she would make one. And this is where Murphy's Law came into play. IF there was a stray cherry pit in the pie, it would be in Dad's piece. Same thing with buckshot in the game he brought home from hunting. Mom and Dad both would go through the squirrel, rabbit, or pheasant carcass, checking for those little lead balls, but if they happened to miss one, it would be Dad whose teeth crunched down on it while eating. It almost became family lore: If there is something that shouldn't be in the food, Dad will get it. He never complained except for the time or two when he crunched down and it hurt.
My very first year of teaching, I was employed at Heyworth High School, Heyworth, IL (1969). The classroom had no air conditioning, of course. One whole wall of that room consisted of a bank of huge windows (with no screens) that went from about waist-height to the top of the 15-foot ceilings. In order to have any comfort at all on hot days, those windows had to be open, leaving my students and I vulnerable to wasps, bees, and the truck noise from the highway that ran right in front of the school.
That year, I had what all teachers have at least one of per year: The Class from Hell. My CFH consisted of juniors--almost all boys (of course)--who prided themselves on their reputation as hellions. (They claimed that they were single-handedly responsible for the firing/resignation of the previous English teacher because they were hanging outside those windows and she couldn't do anything about it.) There was one kid in that class who got picked on a lot. He was on the pudgy side and was a buffoon. Enjoyed his notoriety as the pickee. If anything could go wrong, it would happen to him. It was all I could do to protect him from the others, which was a constant task, not always appreciated.
On one particularly warm day, a hapless sparrow flew into my classroom and fluttered around, trying to find its way back out. Naturally, the CFH got a big kick out of that. My lesson came to a halt while we all tried to figure out how to remove the bird. Around and around the room it flew. As Murphy would have it, that little bird pooped as it flew, and the splat landed guess where--(can you see where I'm going with this?)--right on the shoulder of that one kid! The class hooted with laughter while the boy hopped around, holding the shirt away from his skin with his thumb and forefinger, yelling "Ew! Ew! Get it off of me! How can I get this off of me??" I sent the boy to the office for them to determine what could be done about his soiled shirt; the bird eventually went back out the window. All sense of educational decorum was shot for the rest of the period, however. There would be no American literature lesson that day!
So...who is the pickiest eater in my family? Who is the one person who is the most germophobic and least likely to be able to pick a bug out of her food and keep eating it? My daughter. Thus, Megan is a target for Murphy's Law.
I'm visiting at her house as I type. Two days ago, she fixed a pretty good supper for us all: chicken chunks in a savory sauce, wild rice, and broccoli flowerets from frozen. Before she had even taken that first bite of broccoli, she noticed a tiny little green worm in it. It was a dead worm, to be sure, since the frozen broccoli had to be boiled, but it was a worm, nonetheless. (If you've ever grown broccoli in a home garden, you know that broccoli attracts little green worms that resemble the plant so much that it is hard to spot them. Fresh broccoli has to be soaked in salt water before it can be processed for the freezer or the table, to get rid of the worms.) Well! That was the end of the broccoli for her! Had the worm been in my portion, I would have removed him and continued eating. I mean, he had been blanched before he could have been frozen...then boiled before he could be served. I imagine there are starving people in the world who would have been happy to eat the broccoli, worm and all. Unfortunately, that argument just doesn't fly with well-fed Americans. Meg checked the bag that the broccoli had come in: Product of Guatemala. A well-traveled dead worm that Murphy put in that bag with Megan Shchepetov's name on it for good measure!
I'm not suggesting that my daughter should have eaten the rest of her broccoli--only that I didn't stop eating it just because one lowly little Guatemalan worm had been found in it. I'm just not sure how long it will be before she'll trust frozen broccoli again. Only Murphy knows for sure!
Friday, May 3, 2013
Medical Mystery
So...
I drove to IU Health West this morning, after fasting after supper last night through this morning, to get blood drawn to test for blood lipids, etc., before my cardiologist appointment on Monday. I got just down the street when I realized that I had forgotten to bring the doctor's order for the test, so I turned around, got it, and headed back out.
I took the newly-opened Ronald Reagan Parkway between Pfield and Rockville Road for the first time. Pretty slick! Although it seems like a longer distance, there is a whole lot less traffic/stoplights. When I arrived, I went to the lab, as usual. They told me that the doctor's order was over a year old, so it had expired. They sent me to the doctor's office (in the same building) for a new one. The place was packed, but I sat and waited patiently for quite awhile for them to obtain it.
Then they called me up to the desk and said they could do the draw right there in the office, if I wanted. It would save me the walk back down to the lab, so good for me. When that was done, I stopped back at the registration desk to give them my new insurance information--because no one had asked for it at the doc's office, then stopped for food andcame home. No problem.
I went about the rest of the day's business. Then along about 4:00-something, I got a call from a gal in the doc's office saying I would have to come back for another draw because the guy who picks the specimens up to take to the lab had dropped mine. She suggested that I just go directly to the lab tomorrow morning between 8:00 and noon. Oooookay.
But then I got to wondering if there would be a problem because I would not have a doctor's order in hand and didn't know if they would think to supply the lab with one...so I called them back. Talked to someone different this time after being on hold for about 15 minutes. I explained the situation to her and told her that I didn't want to have to be sent to the doctor's office for a lab order (again) and have to wait for that (again)...and would it be taken care of? She put me on hold for another 15 minutes. (By this time, it was well after 4:30 and everyone there was getting ready to go home...and I'm quite sure Dr. Gill won't be in tomorrow.) While I was on hold the second time, the gal I was talking to called "Beth" at the lab and was told that they would page Dr. Gill and get verbal orders from him for the second draw tomorrow. Glad I thought to call. Everything's fine now, right?
Wrong! A few minutes later, I got a call from Beth at the lab, asking who had called me the first time telling me that my specimen had been dropped. (I couldn't remember.) She was trying to get to the bottom of a mystery because MY blood specimen had already been processed and tests completed. If someone's specimen had been dropped, it wasn't mine--or so she thinks. As Alice in Wonderland would say, "Curiouser and curiouser". Beth said she would leave it up to me if I wanted to come in for the second blood draw. If, as she said, my blood tests were completed--and she was relatively sure that the vial was properly labeled--WHY would I want to fast again, drive to Avon again, and get stuck again? If this were a critical blood test to determine if I needed surgery or something, I would. This one, however, is just to see how I am doing in the department of blood fats. (Not good, I'm sure. If someone else's blood was mistaken for mine, I hope he/she had fantastic test results!)
When I left the house this morning, I was dressed in my signature white Grasshopper shoes, brown slacks, a hot-pink tunic top, and carried a black purse. I was my very own fashion statement! Know what? I doubt that a single other person noticed or cared. Old people don't count, you know...and it wouldn't affect the results of the blood test. Blah! I had grabbed slacks that were clean and a top that had sleeves I could push up above the elbow for the blood draw. If I wasn't pretty, it's just too bad!
The only other medical mystery of the day is why I wake up with a hip that hurts but feels better after I've been up and around for awhile. Getting old sure isn't fun!
I drove to IU Health West this morning, after fasting after supper last night through this morning, to get blood drawn to test for blood lipids, etc., before my cardiologist appointment on Monday. I got just down the street when I realized that I had forgotten to bring the doctor's order for the test, so I turned around, got it, and headed back out.
I took the newly-opened Ronald Reagan Parkway between Pfield and Rockville Road for the first time. Pretty slick! Although it seems like a longer distance, there is a whole lot less traffic/stoplights. When I arrived, I went to the lab, as usual. They told me that the doctor's order was over a year old, so it had expired. They sent me to the doctor's office (in the same building) for a new one. The place was packed, but I sat and waited patiently for quite awhile for them to obtain it.
Then they called me up to the desk and said they could do the draw right there in the office, if I wanted. It would save me the walk back down to the lab, so good for me. When that was done, I stopped back at the registration desk to give them my new insurance information--because no one had asked for it at the doc's office, then stopped for food andcame home. No problem.
I went about the rest of the day's business. Then along about 4:00-something, I got a call from a gal in the doc's office saying I would have to come back for another draw because the guy who picks the specimens up to take to the lab had dropped mine. She suggested that I just go directly to the lab tomorrow morning between 8:00 and noon. Oooookay.
But then I got to wondering if there would be a problem because I would not have a doctor's order in hand and didn't know if they would think to supply the lab with one...so I called them back. Talked to someone different this time after being on hold for about 15 minutes. I explained the situation to her and told her that I didn't want to have to be sent to the doctor's office for a lab order (again) and have to wait for that (again)...and would it be taken care of? She put me on hold for another 15 minutes. (By this time, it was well after 4:30 and everyone there was getting ready to go home...and I'm quite sure Dr. Gill won't be in tomorrow.) While I was on hold the second time, the gal I was talking to called "Beth" at the lab and was told that they would page Dr. Gill and get verbal orders from him for the second draw tomorrow. Glad I thought to call. Everything's fine now, right?
Wrong! A few minutes later, I got a call from Beth at the lab, asking who had called me the first time telling me that my specimen had been dropped. (I couldn't remember.) She was trying to get to the bottom of a mystery because MY blood specimen had already been processed and tests completed. If someone's specimen had been dropped, it wasn't mine--or so she thinks. As Alice in Wonderland would say, "Curiouser and curiouser". Beth said she would leave it up to me if I wanted to come in for the second blood draw. If, as she said, my blood tests were completed--and she was relatively sure that the vial was properly labeled--WHY would I want to fast again, drive to Avon again, and get stuck again? If this were a critical blood test to determine if I needed surgery or something, I would. This one, however, is just to see how I am doing in the department of blood fats. (Not good, I'm sure. If someone else's blood was mistaken for mine, I hope he/she had fantastic test results!)
When I left the house this morning, I was dressed in my signature white Grasshopper shoes, brown slacks, a hot-pink tunic top, and carried a black purse. I was my very own fashion statement! Know what? I doubt that a single other person noticed or cared. Old people don't count, you know...and it wouldn't affect the results of the blood test. Blah! I had grabbed slacks that were clean and a top that had sleeves I could push up above the elbow for the blood draw. If I wasn't pretty, it's just too bad!
The only other medical mystery of the day is why I wake up with a hip that hurts but feels better after I've been up and around for awhile. Getting old sure isn't fun!
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Sticky Wiki
Any time I think I need to look something up on the Internet, I usually wind up relying on Wikipedia. There's a problem with that. Wikipedia can be changed/edited by anyone. It is monitored, however, so outrageously false information won't stay on it for long, and they do require citations by way of proof for what has been posted.
In making my last blog post about my father, I was trying to remember the school shooting at his high school back in the 1970s. Went to Wiki, naturally, but found it not listed in the article about school shootings. Hmmmm... I began to doubt my recollection. Did it really happen? Why wouldn't it be listed? It met all the criteria of the article, but it just wasn't there. Know what? It wasn't ANYWHERE. Meg and I searched online for a couple of days for news articles, etc., using several different search engines, to no avail. Turns out, I was searching under the wrong year. Once I got that corrected, a promising newspaper article showed up, then I found a link that referenced The Chicago Tribune's archives. Found it! Unfortunately, reading the article meant I would have to buy it from the archives...which, this morning, I did.
Meg suggested that I should add it to the Wikipedia article. Ack! Had never done anything like that before, but I decided to try. Had to make several attempts to get it in the proper format, especially for the cited reference, but I got it done. Yay, me! So...if you read the Wikipedia article about school shootings, my entry is for October 1, 1973. (Just don't expect me to do anything like that again!)
In making my last blog post about my father, I was trying to remember the school shooting at his high school back in the 1970s. Went to Wiki, naturally, but found it not listed in the article about school shootings. Hmmmm... I began to doubt my recollection. Did it really happen? Why wouldn't it be listed? It met all the criteria of the article, but it just wasn't there. Know what? It wasn't ANYWHERE. Meg and I searched online for a couple of days for news articles, etc., using several different search engines, to no avail. Turns out, I was searching under the wrong year. Once I got that corrected, a promising newspaper article showed up, then I found a link that referenced The Chicago Tribune's archives. Found it! Unfortunately, reading the article meant I would have to buy it from the archives...which, this morning, I did.
Meg suggested that I should add it to the Wikipedia article. Ack! Had never done anything like that before, but I decided to try. Had to make several attempts to get it in the proper format, especially for the cited reference, but I got it done. Yay, me! So...if you read the Wikipedia article about school shootings, my entry is for October 1, 1973. (Just don't expect me to do anything like that again!)
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