With every Dr. Phil show comes his admonition that participants "just be honest". His reasoning is that "you can't change what you don't acknowledge". And so it is. If you don't admit to a lie, you can't fix what lies beneath it.
Children lie to save their skins from punishment. Adults do, too, but they mask it by saying that they are/were trying not to hurt your feelings. Bull! If someone lies to you about something, you can rest assured that they are only trying to save their own butts from whatever you would do if you had known the truth. In short, people who lie to you are robbing you of your opportunity to make your life's decisions based on the truth.
After a zillion years of teaching kids, I learned not to give them the opportunity to lie. Instead of asking "Did you do this?", the reasonable thing to do is to state a fact and assume that you already know the truth. In short order, the facts will show up. It's a skill that comes with experience. God bless my grandson, Ryan. He tries to lie, but the expression on his face gives him away every stinkin' time. He needs to take lessons from his mother. She's a champ in the lying department! (Wink at Megan!)
Speaking of Ryan, he used to have a warped sense of truth, and maybe this is more common that I know. If you said something would happen, but it didn't (for whatever reason) you lied. He didn't understand intent. Maybe still doesn't. God bless my little guy. He is learning...
I like to think of myself as an honest person, but there are exceptions. Other people's perception of the truth has a lot to do with how truthful one can be. I keep trying!!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
The Test
While browsing through Facebook this morning, I happened on this post made by a former student of mine--a 30ish young mother who has undergone a bone marrow transplant due to contracting non-hodgekins lymphoma. (She is currently cancer free.) Her words:
I hate cancer. It is such an ugly disease. Not only physically. it also causes you to question your strength, your courage, your beliefs. It breaks you down to practically nothing. You are left wondering if it is Karma? or fate? Or God's will? But, then you can't help but think that any real God would not do such a thing. No real God would put people through such torment and pain. And Why is... it that some of us make it? And some don't? We all fight. We all give everything that we have to come out the other side. I don't know the answer to most of these questions. But, I do believe in God. I do believe that some of us are destined to fight these battles and unfortunately, some of us are destined to lose them. I am so grateful, blessed and fortunate to be one of the lucky ones. I don't know God's plan, but I know that giving me a second chance was part of it. I will do everything I can to make the best of it. For me, my family, my God and all the beautiful warriors that can't do it for themselves!!!! God bless everyone EVER effected by the ugly "C"!!
Certainly, Ashley asks the right questions. They are the ones that we all ask whenever something bad happens to people who don't deserve it--usually us. Where is God when all of these awful things occur? I've mulled this over in my feeble brain for decades. I think it's a test--not a test from God, but a test to provide us with answers about ourselves, sometimes before the questions even come up.
We human beings are short-sighted and selfish animals. We live for ourselves, for today, with rarely a thought to how bad things can get. If we live long enough, divorce happens. Car accidents happen. Disease and infirmity happen. It is part of the human experience, but who do we blame? God? Yes, sometimes.
Consider my sister. She and her husband of well over 50 years married young, had their family young, and have lived a full life. They have traveled all over the world. They've had boats and snowmobiles and party friends. They are people of means, with their Corvettes and beautiful home, complete with swimming pool, and just about every amenity that one could ask for. I have often been envious of the "pretties" that they have. But now, her husband has Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia--meaning that his memory is going and he forgets words, etc. His emotions are affected. These people should be living the Life of Riley, but every day is a challenge that defies reason. And every day, it gets a little worse. Her husband is terrified but tyrannical. She is trapped by his ailment but willing to stay by him every step of the way. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it is.
My own life is a mirror of some of this. I married a man that I knew was a cheater, but I married him anyway. I believed things would be different with me in the picture. (How blind can one be??) Thirteen years later, I was in a divorce that has affected the rest of my life. By ignoring the facts, I created my own fate. Whose fault is that? My life after that has been The Test. God didn't do this--I did.
The Test is this: Where does your faith lie? Do you believe that God controls everything and "lets" bad things happen to you because you need to be punished? Or do you believe that you have free will to make your own decisions, and that your decisions determine what happens to you? And what about the things you didn't ask for but happened--the heart attack, the ruptured brain aneurysm, and all of the other occurrences that happen when you aren't paying attention? You can ask and you can struggle with it, but the result is that believing in a power greater than ourselves is only lip service to a deity that rules the cosmos. So you stubbed your toe and broke it. No gripe, right? But when your heart started acting up, you began to beseech God for intervention.
Pray without ceasing, but do not believe for a second that God has forsaken you when things don't work out your way. That's part of The Test. Believe...or don't. Just don't blame the Almighty for things that go awry with the main scheme of things. Blessings!
Consider my sister. She and her husband of well over 50 years married young, had their family young, and have lived a full life. They have traveled all over the world. They've had boats and snowmobiles and party friends. They are people of means, with their Corvettes and beautiful home, complete with swimming pool, and just about every amenity that one could ask for. I have often been envious of the "pretties" that they have. But now, her husband has Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia--meaning that his memory is going and he forgets words, etc. His emotions are affected. These people should be living the Life of Riley, but every day is a challenge that defies reason. And every day, it gets a little worse. Her husband is terrified but tyrannical. She is trapped by his ailment but willing to stay by him every step of the way. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it is.
My own life is a mirror of some of this. I married a man that I knew was a cheater, but I married him anyway. I believed things would be different with me in the picture. (How blind can one be??) Thirteen years later, I was in a divorce that has affected the rest of my life. By ignoring the facts, I created my own fate. Whose fault is that? My life after that has been The Test. God didn't do this--I did.
The Test is this: Where does your faith lie? Do you believe that God controls everything and "lets" bad things happen to you because you need to be punished? Or do you believe that you have free will to make your own decisions, and that your decisions determine what happens to you? And what about the things you didn't ask for but happened--the heart attack, the ruptured brain aneurysm, and all of the other occurrences that happen when you aren't paying attention? You can ask and you can struggle with it, but the result is that believing in a power greater than ourselves is only lip service to a deity that rules the cosmos. So you stubbed your toe and broke it. No gripe, right? But when your heart started acting up, you began to beseech God for intervention.
Pray without ceasing, but do not believe for a second that God has forsaken you when things don't work out your way. That's part of The Test. Believe...or don't. Just don't blame the Almighty for things that go awry with the main scheme of things. Blessings!
Friday, October 18, 2013
He Did It!
My son-in-law, Denis Sergeyovitch Shchepetov, is now officially a real American citizen! They were able to get pictures via cell phone, and so 'tis a done deal. I couldn't be happier for Denis--and for what I have seen in the pictures, he is happy enough all by himself! After the ceremonies, they drove to a steak house in Kenosha, WI, where they celebrated with the foods and spirits of his choice, then went home full of steak and full of joy.
Congratulations, Deniska! You earned it!
Congratulations, Deniska! You earned it!
Thursday, October 17, 2013
"Graduation" Day
As I type, I am awaiting word from my daughter that her husband is officially an American citizen. They left for downtown Chicago a few hours ago for a ceremony that was to begin at 2:00, IN time...at a federal building that doesn't allow cameras. (What a crock!)
What really bums me out is that I have been planning for this day for months. I intended to be there to witness his taking the oath. I intended to have a party for him, although I wasn't sure where or how that would take place since he was/is ambivalent about that. (I even bought a bunch of red, white, and blue plates, napkins, and decorations back prior to the Fourth of July, just because I knew they wouldn't be available later.) Unfortunately, they didn't have word of the actual date until Sunday when they got home from here...which only gave four days' notice. It seemed too much for me to drive up there just now, and unlikely that a party would take place. I cry about it because I feel like I have let Denis down, but I hope not.
This has been Denis's dream for a long time--his goal. I'm not sure for how long, but I tease him about wanting to be an American because he longed to have all of the things that spoiled American children have. If you ask him, he will say that he wanted to come to America for the burgers. Still, the US is lucky to have him. The young man has four US patents to his name: two for Microsoft and two for Google/Motorola Mobility. Not too shabby!
Then there is the family factor. He makes my daughter happy and takes care of both her and my grandchildren. (A pretty tall order!) And me, to some extent. Plus his own parents in Russia. I don't know how to "love" him. To be honest, I didn't have much of a chance to get to know Denis before he became my son-in-law. Megan kept him to herself, away from her children and me, then went away with him to California at a critical time. I can reach him with meat and sweets, but those are consumables, and sometimes he is dieting. I keep trying to find ways to let him know how much I appreciate him. He's hard to read, in that regard...
I've been planning and practicing my Facebook announcement for months--the one that I intend to post the instant I hear that Denis is an official American. He did it all on his own, with my daughter's help, every step of the way. And my FB announcement may or may not mean anything to him. Still, it reminds me of how my parents must have felt when I graduated from college.
My parents paid for my college education. I worked part-time to help with expenses, but I was pretty slack about it. Mom and Dad paid for tuition and books, and gave me a monthly allowance. Back in those days, it was pretty rare for students to take out loans because the age of majority was 21. (Nowadays, it is rare for students to graduate without big-time loans hanging over their heads.) After the graduation ceremonies--with not a single picture taken of the event-- my father stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, "Congratulations. I have done everything I can do for you now. The future is up to you." I was a little shocked. It seemed like something of a good-bye. And it was. It was a good-bye to my childhood and his/their hope that I would take over from there...and I did. And I knew, in retrospect, that my father had planned for that moment for weeks, if not months. That's just the way he was.
So...still awaiting word on Denis's situation...I will congratulate him publicly and let him know how very proud I am of him...and hope it is enough. I love you, Denis, and thank God for you every day. God bless you this day and always--and God bless America!
What really bums me out is that I have been planning for this day for months. I intended to be there to witness his taking the oath. I intended to have a party for him, although I wasn't sure where or how that would take place since he was/is ambivalent about that. (I even bought a bunch of red, white, and blue plates, napkins, and decorations back prior to the Fourth of July, just because I knew they wouldn't be available later.) Unfortunately, they didn't have word of the actual date until Sunday when they got home from here...which only gave four days' notice. It seemed too much for me to drive up there just now, and unlikely that a party would take place. I cry about it because I feel like I have let Denis down, but I hope not.
This has been Denis's dream for a long time--his goal. I'm not sure for how long, but I tease him about wanting to be an American because he longed to have all of the things that spoiled American children have. If you ask him, he will say that he wanted to come to America for the burgers. Still, the US is lucky to have him. The young man has four US patents to his name: two for Microsoft and two for Google/Motorola Mobility. Not too shabby!
Then there is the family factor. He makes my daughter happy and takes care of both her and my grandchildren. (A pretty tall order!) And me, to some extent. Plus his own parents in Russia. I don't know how to "love" him. To be honest, I didn't have much of a chance to get to know Denis before he became my son-in-law. Megan kept him to herself, away from her children and me, then went away with him to California at a critical time. I can reach him with meat and sweets, but those are consumables, and sometimes he is dieting. I keep trying to find ways to let him know how much I appreciate him. He's hard to read, in that regard...
I've been planning and practicing my Facebook announcement for months--the one that I intend to post the instant I hear that Denis is an official American. He did it all on his own, with my daughter's help, every step of the way. And my FB announcement may or may not mean anything to him. Still, it reminds me of how my parents must have felt when I graduated from college.
My parents paid for my college education. I worked part-time to help with expenses, but I was pretty slack about it. Mom and Dad paid for tuition and books, and gave me a monthly allowance. Back in those days, it was pretty rare for students to take out loans because the age of majority was 21. (Nowadays, it is rare for students to graduate without big-time loans hanging over their heads.) After the graduation ceremonies--with not a single picture taken of the event-- my father stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, "Congratulations. I have done everything I can do for you now. The future is up to you." I was a little shocked. It seemed like something of a good-bye. And it was. It was a good-bye to my childhood and his/their hope that I would take over from there...and I did. And I knew, in retrospect, that my father had planned for that moment for weeks, if not months. That's just the way he was.
So...still awaiting word on Denis's situation...I will congratulate him publicly and let him know how very proud I am of him...and hope it is enough. I love you, Denis, and thank God for you every day. God bless you this day and always--and God bless America!
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Fall-ish Things
I was talking to my daughter on the phone on October 8th, after she and her husband had trekked to downtown Chicago for his Naturalization personal interview and oral citizenship test. We normally just talk online, but I figured there would be too much to talk about to have to type it all, so I called. Denis passed his test with flying colors and was told that he would be contacted by mail to inform him of when his Oath Ceremony would take place. Just before we hung up, Meg said, "Oh...while I have you on the phone, we are planning to come down this weekend for a visit. Will you be around?"
That's a joke, right? Where else would I be? The grandchildren would have a 4-day weekend, due to some school function and Columbus Day. This was a Tuesday. I began to shift gears in my mind, figuring that they would all be down on Friday. The next day--Wednesday--I learned that they would be here Thursday night. Instead of a gear shift, I needed to fire up the after-burners! The family would have to leave on Sunday morning because the grandchildren had a soccer game in Illinois late that afternoon, and Denis had a work meeting on Monday. Our weekend would be crunched into Friday and Saturday.
Understand that the house was still messed up from when I left for Meg's in early August. The bathroom had had some work done in it and was still torn up; my bedroom was a total disaster area from the previous Christmas mess. The kitchen and bathroom floors were filthy. I needed to pick up and clean up and shop for groceries, etc. Thank God for my helper, James! He came over to assist. Mowed the lawn. Replaced a dripping faucet in the main bathroom. Washed the bathroom and kitchen floors. Vacuumed the carpets. Carted some things to storage for me. Whew! And by the time my family arrived (2:00 AM Friday early morn), the house still wasn't ready but was a whole lot better than it was!
Many times, when the family comes, we hem and haw over what to do...what restaurant to go to...blah, blah. Denis and Meg like to travel and see things. And Central Indiana is definitely a great place to be for that in October, providing the weather cooperates...which it was supposed to do. Thus, we had made a decision to go to Nashville, IN, on Friday...and do some covered bridge things on Saturday. (Some of that was planned around a tentative play date for Ryan with his local buddy, Jack. That fell through, but we didn't know it would.)
On Friday, due to time zone differences with the kids, we set out later than necessary for Nashville. It was a gorgeous day, and the drive to Nashville, even when the trees were only just beginning to turn colors, is a lovely one. We took my rollator (a walker on wheels with a built-in seat) and off we went. Found a decent place to park and set off for the main drag. After one shop, we went to The Nashville House for "linner". I have to say this: The Nashville House is touted for its fried biscuits and its (limited) country menu, but I've never been impressed. The food was good, but not $17.95 per person good, when only one of the children qualified for a child's rate!! I experienced one of my "things" whereby I got too full too fast, got breathless, and decided that I needed to go back to the car and let the family go on at their own pace. (I had brought a Sudoku puzzle book just for this purpose--just in case.) And that's what we did. At the end of their tour, they sent Ryan back to me to ask if I wanted to join them for ice cream, within sight just down the street...and again to ask if I wanted to join them for a horse-drawn carriage ride. By now it was long after dark. There are a lot of details in between. Suffice it to say that we took the enjoyable carriage ride, then drove home. Were back by 9:00 and eventually found ourselves on the patio trying to break open a geode that Meg had purchased. (No go. It wasn't hollow!)
Saturday, again a late start and again a beautiful day. My grandson and I stayed home, by choice, while Megan, Denis, and Robin headed out for Bridgeton, IN. Bridgeton is an itty-bitty town in the heart of covered bridge territory, truly off the beaten path. Its main claim to fame is a very long covered bridge over some falls--a bridge that was torched by arson a few years back and had to be rebuilt--but the town cashes in on the Covered Bridge Festival hoopla by having craft and food booths lining the streets. Ryan spent his entire day in his room on his computer, Skyping and playing an online game with a friend from home, happy as a little clam. I spent my day trying to pick up the kitchen and prepare a decent meal for the family when they eventually came home. Heh heh...they ran into a traffic jam trying to get out of Bridgeton, so our supper was late....but judging by the pictures that Meg posted, they enjoyed their day. I love that!!
I am absolutely delighted that the weekend went as well as it did. Wish it could have been longer. They all departed about 11 AM, Indiana time, on Sunday and were at the soccer fields on time. My only big regret is that our schedule conflicted with the other grandparents' schedule, and we were not able to meet up. :(
Just today, I finished up the Saturday dishes. (Don't ask!) Tomorrow, my son-in-law takes the oath to become an American citizen...and I won't be there. I'm not very happy about this. I had such plans and such hopes. I am so very proud of that young man!! This has been his dream for many years. Can't wait!
That's a joke, right? Where else would I be? The grandchildren would have a 4-day weekend, due to some school function and Columbus Day. This was a Tuesday. I began to shift gears in my mind, figuring that they would all be down on Friday. The next day--Wednesday--I learned that they would be here Thursday night. Instead of a gear shift, I needed to fire up the after-burners! The family would have to leave on Sunday morning because the grandchildren had a soccer game in Illinois late that afternoon, and Denis had a work meeting on Monday. Our weekend would be crunched into Friday and Saturday.
Understand that the house was still messed up from when I left for Meg's in early August. The bathroom had had some work done in it and was still torn up; my bedroom was a total disaster area from the previous Christmas mess. The kitchen and bathroom floors were filthy. I needed to pick up and clean up and shop for groceries, etc. Thank God for my helper, James! He came over to assist. Mowed the lawn. Replaced a dripping faucet in the main bathroom. Washed the bathroom and kitchen floors. Vacuumed the carpets. Carted some things to storage for me. Whew! And by the time my family arrived (2:00 AM Friday early morn), the house still wasn't ready but was a whole lot better than it was!
Many times, when the family comes, we hem and haw over what to do...what restaurant to go to...blah, blah. Denis and Meg like to travel and see things. And Central Indiana is definitely a great place to be for that in October, providing the weather cooperates...which it was supposed to do. Thus, we had made a decision to go to Nashville, IN, on Friday...and do some covered bridge things on Saturday. (Some of that was planned around a tentative play date for Ryan with his local buddy, Jack. That fell through, but we didn't know it would.)
On Friday, due to time zone differences with the kids, we set out later than necessary for Nashville. It was a gorgeous day, and the drive to Nashville, even when the trees were only just beginning to turn colors, is a lovely one. We took my rollator (a walker on wheels with a built-in seat) and off we went. Found a decent place to park and set off for the main drag. After one shop, we went to The Nashville House for "linner". I have to say this: The Nashville House is touted for its fried biscuits and its (limited) country menu, but I've never been impressed. The food was good, but not $17.95 per person good, when only one of the children qualified for a child's rate!! I experienced one of my "things" whereby I got too full too fast, got breathless, and decided that I needed to go back to the car and let the family go on at their own pace. (I had brought a Sudoku puzzle book just for this purpose--just in case.) And that's what we did. At the end of their tour, they sent Ryan back to me to ask if I wanted to join them for ice cream, within sight just down the street...and again to ask if I wanted to join them for a horse-drawn carriage ride. By now it was long after dark. There are a lot of details in between. Suffice it to say that we took the enjoyable carriage ride, then drove home. Were back by 9:00 and eventually found ourselves on the patio trying to break open a geode that Meg had purchased. (No go. It wasn't hollow!)
Saturday, again a late start and again a beautiful day. My grandson and I stayed home, by choice, while Megan, Denis, and Robin headed out for Bridgeton, IN. Bridgeton is an itty-bitty town in the heart of covered bridge territory, truly off the beaten path. Its main claim to fame is a very long covered bridge over some falls--a bridge that was torched by arson a few years back and had to be rebuilt--but the town cashes in on the Covered Bridge Festival hoopla by having craft and food booths lining the streets. Ryan spent his entire day in his room on his computer, Skyping and playing an online game with a friend from home, happy as a little clam. I spent my day trying to pick up the kitchen and prepare a decent meal for the family when they eventually came home. Heh heh...they ran into a traffic jam trying to get out of Bridgeton, so our supper was late....but judging by the pictures that Meg posted, they enjoyed their day. I love that!!
I am absolutely delighted that the weekend went as well as it did. Wish it could have been longer. They all departed about 11 AM, Indiana time, on Sunday and were at the soccer fields on time. My only big regret is that our schedule conflicted with the other grandparents' schedule, and we were not able to meet up. :(
Just today, I finished up the Saturday dishes. (Don't ask!) Tomorrow, my son-in-law takes the oath to become an American citizen...and I won't be there. I'm not very happy about this. I had such plans and such hopes. I am so very proud of that young man!! This has been his dream for many years. Can't wait!
Sunday, October 6, 2013
The Dreaded Drawer
You know the drawer I am talking about. The one in your kitchen that holds all of the junk. Don't even try to tell me that you don't have one because I know better! You might call it the catch-all drawer or the junk drawer. I just call it The Drawer.
My drawer is very important. It is the biggest drawer in the kitchen, twice as wide as all of the others. I thought it was the perfect place to hold all of the phone books and instruction manuals for appliances, etc. (Yes, I am probably one of the few people left in America that still uses phone books!) And so it began. In the 21 years that I've lived in this house-on-a-slab, lots of things have gone into that drawer, but nothing ever comes out.
The last time I attempted to clean out and organize The Drawer, I emptied it. Had the contents all over the kitchen table, trying to sort things to figure out what was what and what should go where, when I got frustrated, threw up my hands, piled it all right back in the drawer and closed it. And that was that! I can't remember any previous times when I was successful, although there surely must have been some. I mean, The Drawer could still be closed if I held things down. No problem, right?
For the past few months, I've noticed that The Drawer wasn't operating smoothly. There is a metal rail on the bottom and a wheel that runs inside the rail to keep the drawer from falling forward when opened. I figured something was up with that, but I'd worry about it later.
Today was "later". This morning, in an effort to keep moving and trying to be productive, I decided to tackle some small spaces that needed to be cleaned off. I started with the stuff piled on top of the dryer. That little task--long needed--only took five minutes. Wow! I'm on a roll! Then I pulled out The Drawer to put some new phone books in, and it flopped forward. Oops! Time to do something about that.
Oh, what treasures abound! Dowel rods used to hold the windows up. Two locks--one, the fancy kind that Meg used on her storage unit. Some extra oil lamp wicks. (Kept finding more and more of those. I think the final total was ten.) Instructions for small appliances and things that have been long gone--like the grandchildren's booster seats and a doll that swims. Electrical switches and wall plates. A couple of phone cables. Several Scotch tape dispensers. Lots of little screws and nails and other electrical notions--like the basketball chain that hung from the ceiling fan in Ryan's room. (That would be the fan that we took down when we gave him a loft bed years ago.) A squeegee. Some hooks and pins and electrical adaptors. Three votive candles in tins with lids. Oh, yes...and the phone books. The list goes on--most of it just the flotsam and jetsam of life that has me scratching my head. "What did THIS go to??"
Thus, I have spent a lot of time on The Drawer today. When I am done, most things will have been thrown away or repatriated to other places in the house where they can actually be found when needed. I did locate a screw to replace the one that had come out of the under-drawer wheel thingie, so The Drawer is repaired.
Normally, I would feel a sense of accomplishment with this little project--a fete accomplit. Problem is, when all is finished, The Drawer will be closed and the kitchen will look exactly the way it did when I started. No one will be able to see how I spent my day. Not that anyone is ever here to see how I spend my time...but somehow, it seems unfair!
I also clipped my fingernails today. Does that count?
My drawer is very important. It is the biggest drawer in the kitchen, twice as wide as all of the others. I thought it was the perfect place to hold all of the phone books and instruction manuals for appliances, etc. (Yes, I am probably one of the few people left in America that still uses phone books!) And so it began. In the 21 years that I've lived in this house-on-a-slab, lots of things have gone into that drawer, but nothing ever comes out.
The last time I attempted to clean out and organize The Drawer, I emptied it. Had the contents all over the kitchen table, trying to sort things to figure out what was what and what should go where, when I got frustrated, threw up my hands, piled it all right back in the drawer and closed it. And that was that! I can't remember any previous times when I was successful, although there surely must have been some. I mean, The Drawer could still be closed if I held things down. No problem, right?
For the past few months, I've noticed that The Drawer wasn't operating smoothly. There is a metal rail on the bottom and a wheel that runs inside the rail to keep the drawer from falling forward when opened. I figured something was up with that, but I'd worry about it later.
Today was "later". This morning, in an effort to keep moving and trying to be productive, I decided to tackle some small spaces that needed to be cleaned off. I started with the stuff piled on top of the dryer. That little task--long needed--only took five minutes. Wow! I'm on a roll! Then I pulled out The Drawer to put some new phone books in, and it flopped forward. Oops! Time to do something about that.
Oh, what treasures abound! Dowel rods used to hold the windows up. Two locks--one, the fancy kind that Meg used on her storage unit. Some extra oil lamp wicks. (Kept finding more and more of those. I think the final total was ten.) Instructions for small appliances and things that have been long gone--like the grandchildren's booster seats and a doll that swims. Electrical switches and wall plates. A couple of phone cables. Several Scotch tape dispensers. Lots of little screws and nails and other electrical notions--like the basketball chain that hung from the ceiling fan in Ryan's room. (That would be the fan that we took down when we gave him a loft bed years ago.) A squeegee. Some hooks and pins and electrical adaptors. Three votive candles in tins with lids. Oh, yes...and the phone books. The list goes on--most of it just the flotsam and jetsam of life that has me scratching my head. "What did THIS go to??"
Thus, I have spent a lot of time on The Drawer today. When I am done, most things will have been thrown away or repatriated to other places in the house where they can actually be found when needed. I did locate a screw to replace the one that had come out of the under-drawer wheel thingie, so The Drawer is repaired.
Normally, I would feel a sense of accomplishment with this little project--a fete accomplit. Problem is, when all is finished, The Drawer will be closed and the kitchen will look exactly the way it did when I started. No one will be able to see how I spent my day. Not that anyone is ever here to see how I spend my time...but somehow, it seems unfair!
I also clipped my fingernails today. Does that count?
Saturday, October 5, 2013
A Veggie (and Cheese) Tale
I was talking to the fellow that takes care of my yard yesterday. We were discussing how his daughter and my granddaughter--both the same age--have suddenly decided that they no longer like certain foods that they used to love. And my brain-gears began to grind. Is this a result in a change of taste, or peer pressure? Have they had some unfortunate experience that has caused this reversal? I got to thinking about my own food likes and dislikes through the years but have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer.
I think I have mentioned before that I was raised in a family that had no limits to what they would eat. Or at least that's the way my mother was. I have been unable to think of a single thing that she wouldn't eat. Not one. Dad was a bit more discriminating, but only minorly so, since he was often hungry as a kid. As a child, I was always suspicious of the meat my mom put on the table, but even more so if she said, "That's beef; you eat it!" or "That's pork; you eat it!" Yeah...beef heart, beef tongue, beef kidney, etc.--all things I didn't want, not because they didn't taste good, but because of the texture--and sometimes the appearance. Not to mention that they came from parts of the animal that somehow seemed less appetizing to me. (I grew up loving liver and onions, however. Still do! Just don't even get me started on my former husband's penchant for pork brain sandwiches!)
Except for when we lived in Hawaii, California, and Japan, we always had a vegetable garden. My dad was the driving force in that. The garden at the family farm was HUGE. Dad ordered seeds from the Burpee Company every February and made sure that the ground was tilled and ready to plant the early vegetables by March. Dad tilled, planted, and weeded. Mom picked and processed the finished product, with assistance from anyone who happened to be around at any given moment. When my grandmother was still alive, we took the green beans to her in her wheelchair on the patio. She stemmed and snapped, and the process was on! And we were "organic" before organic was cool!
There were many, many times in the summer when the entire meal on the table was home grown, except for the meat and dairy. Bibb and romaine lettuce salads, sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese (or just plain), creamed new-potatoes-and-peas, corn on the cob, sometimes mashed potatoes, always green beans (which didn't need to be seasoned because Mom always put a big ol' blob of butter on top), red and white radishes, asparagus (OMG, the asparagus!). It was all there. I'm sorry to admit that I didn't appreciate it all. Tomatoes were just vegetables to me. My parents used to talk about how much better home grown 'maters were than "store bought", but I didn't understand it until I became a homemaker on my own.
And what happened when I did become a homemaker on my own? I had gardens. I had learned from my dad about what to plant, when. One year in Pontiac, IL, I grew tomatoes that were so big and juicy that my father was jealous because his weren't quite as good. (I loved that!) And over a lot of years, I came to notice the difference between cooking with commercially canned tomatoes and home canned. There is no comparison! Now, having lost my garden for many years due to divorce, etc., I go to the grocery and pay premium prices for inferior veggies. They call what they sell "zucchini"? HA! They look more like puny little cucumbers. We had big zucchinis to burn. In fact, my father would give them away! Asparagus is a high-ticket veggie because it is hard to grow. (I didn't really care for it when it was on our table for free! Crave it now!) The stuff the stores sell as tomatoes just don't cut it. They are pretty, for sure....but they have no flavor and are hard in texture. And so it goes. I didn't understand back then. I sure do now!
And now, let's add cheese to the mix. My parents always had cheeses with weird names in the refrigerator: gouda, bleu, munster, swiss, romano, limburger, etc....and some of it smelled horrific. I wouldn't touch it. The only cheeses that counted to me back then were American, American, and American. Mom usually kept a block of Kraft American, which my daughter grew up on...and, of course, a block of Velveeta, which isn't really cheese at all but "cheese food"--whatever that means. Now that I am grown up but live alone, I simply can't afford all of the scrumptious cheeses, although I have come to love them all!
So...what happens? Do we love something, then disavow it, then love it again? Do tastes change or just our tolerance for it? Do people influence us by forcing things beyond our suspicions? Is it magic or mystery? I wish I knew. I just know that I was spoiled by good food back when I was a child and didn't have the knowledge to appreciate it all. I get it now, Mom and Dad!
I think I have mentioned before that I was raised in a family that had no limits to what they would eat. Or at least that's the way my mother was. I have been unable to think of a single thing that she wouldn't eat. Not one. Dad was a bit more discriminating, but only minorly so, since he was often hungry as a kid. As a child, I was always suspicious of the meat my mom put on the table, but even more so if she said, "That's beef; you eat it!" or "That's pork; you eat it!" Yeah...beef heart, beef tongue, beef kidney, etc.--all things I didn't want, not because they didn't taste good, but because of the texture--and sometimes the appearance. Not to mention that they came from parts of the animal that somehow seemed less appetizing to me. (I grew up loving liver and onions, however. Still do! Just don't even get me started on my former husband's penchant for pork brain sandwiches!)
Except for when we lived in Hawaii, California, and Japan, we always had a vegetable garden. My dad was the driving force in that. The garden at the family farm was HUGE. Dad ordered seeds from the Burpee Company every February and made sure that the ground was tilled and ready to plant the early vegetables by March. Dad tilled, planted, and weeded. Mom picked and processed the finished product, with assistance from anyone who happened to be around at any given moment. When my grandmother was still alive, we took the green beans to her in her wheelchair on the patio. She stemmed and snapped, and the process was on! And we were "organic" before organic was cool!
There were many, many times in the summer when the entire meal on the table was home grown, except for the meat and dairy. Bibb and romaine lettuce salads, sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese (or just plain), creamed new-potatoes-and-peas, corn on the cob, sometimes mashed potatoes, always green beans (which didn't need to be seasoned because Mom always put a big ol' blob of butter on top), red and white radishes, asparagus (OMG, the asparagus!). It was all there. I'm sorry to admit that I didn't appreciate it all. Tomatoes were just vegetables to me. My parents used to talk about how much better home grown 'maters were than "store bought", but I didn't understand it until I became a homemaker on my own.
And what happened when I did become a homemaker on my own? I had gardens. I had learned from my dad about what to plant, when. One year in Pontiac, IL, I grew tomatoes that were so big and juicy that my father was jealous because his weren't quite as good. (I loved that!) And over a lot of years, I came to notice the difference between cooking with commercially canned tomatoes and home canned. There is no comparison! Now, having lost my garden for many years due to divorce, etc., I go to the grocery and pay premium prices for inferior veggies. They call what they sell "zucchini"? HA! They look more like puny little cucumbers. We had big zucchinis to burn. In fact, my father would give them away! Asparagus is a high-ticket veggie because it is hard to grow. (I didn't really care for it when it was on our table for free! Crave it now!) The stuff the stores sell as tomatoes just don't cut it. They are pretty, for sure....but they have no flavor and are hard in texture. And so it goes. I didn't understand back then. I sure do now!
And now, let's add cheese to the mix. My parents always had cheeses with weird names in the refrigerator: gouda, bleu, munster, swiss, romano, limburger, etc....and some of it smelled horrific. I wouldn't touch it. The only cheeses that counted to me back then were American, American, and American. Mom usually kept a block of Kraft American, which my daughter grew up on...and, of course, a block of Velveeta, which isn't really cheese at all but "cheese food"--whatever that means. Now that I am grown up but live alone, I simply can't afford all of the scrumptious cheeses, although I have come to love them all!
So...what happens? Do we love something, then disavow it, then love it again? Do tastes change or just our tolerance for it? Do people influence us by forcing things beyond our suspicions? Is it magic or mystery? I wish I knew. I just know that I was spoiled by good food back when I was a child and didn't have the knowledge to appreciate it all. I get it now, Mom and Dad!
Friday, October 4, 2013
A Sense of Entitlement
The only thing my father demanded of the world around him was respect. It was a lesson I learned from watching him and being around him. I don't think I was ever prouder as a kid than when my father informed a drunk man on an airport transport bus to please stop cursing because "there are young ladies present". He meant my sister and I. She was 16 and I was 10, on our way to the Seattle, WA, airport for our very first flight, unaccompanied, home to Illinois after living in Japan. The dude shut down his language, and I figured out that I was worthy of respect because my daddy said so.
Back when my brother was a teen, he was in possession of a spray paint can and discovered that if he lit the paint as it was sprayed, it made a torch, of sorts. He was messing with it in a public park in Oak Park, IL--and got arrested. The media reported his arrest as "torch-wielding youth", blah, blah. When Doug's court date came up, Dad went with him as the case was heard. After the arresting officer testified and before sentence, Dad was asked if he had any questions of the officer. He did. "At any time, was my son disrespectful to you?" Answer: "No." Honestly, I think my brother could have robbed a Brink's truck, but as long as he showed respect to the people who nabbed him, Dad would have been okay with that. (Doug got probation.)
Some of my favorite Dr. Phil shows deal with "moochers"--usually adult children of parents who let them live at home and pay their bills without getting anything in return. Often, I fairly scream at the TV. The "children" involved almost always exhibit a sense of entitlement: " I didn't ask to be born. You owe me because you love me." They feel entitled to have what they have when they want it because they can. I laugh. But really, it's not funny. This sort of thing is epidemic in America!
I am old now. My daddy isn't here to tell me how things should be. I taught teenagers and pre-teens for 40 years and have put my share of disrespect in the holster of the job, but I'm retired. No one speaks disrespectfully to me now but my daughter. Whaaat?? Why is this? It happens at least once each visit--and it floors me. I guess I feel that I am entitled--have earned the right to be treated with respect. I am the one who has always been there for her. And I am 100% sure that the reason she feels comfortable enough to talk back to me is that we are close. She doesn't talk to her father this way, even though he deserves it more than I. I am the chosen one.
In one encounter, my daughter was frustrated. (Not a good thing.) She opened up the freezer door in her kitchen and a pizza fell out. She threw it back in, which started an avalanche of a couple of other things to fall out. She snarled and threw them all back in and slammed the door of the refrigerator, at which point, I watched the very expensive Nikon camera perched on top rock back and forth. Fortunately, it didn't fall to the floor. Instinctively, I yelled, "Not a good idea, Meg!" She immediately went off on me. I had no right to treat her like a child (even though she was behaving like one)--and so it went. And so it has gone several other times. Somehow, she always assumes the worst of me. Her sense of entitlement battles mine.
Does this child of mine not understand that I have no choice but to respect her decisions? Does she think that everything I say is measured against what she thinks or feels? Does she think I'm going to blow her cover? I don't know. What I do know is that society in general is fraught with a sense of entitlement--you owe me because the current standard is more than I can provide for myself. I think we are due for an implosion. The Greatest Generation worked their buns off to provide for the Baby Boomers. The Baby Boomers struggled to provide what they could, but it was less than the Greatest Generation could. And now what do we have? I'm still trying to figure it out.
I don't need things that the rest of the world feels entitled to. I don't even need respect, really, except from the people I love and give to, unselfishly. Am I entitled to that? I think so. If others don't, then I need not be around them. The world sure is different than when my dad ruled it. I wish we had some of that back....
Back when my brother was a teen, he was in possession of a spray paint can and discovered that if he lit the paint as it was sprayed, it made a torch, of sorts. He was messing with it in a public park in Oak Park, IL--and got arrested. The media reported his arrest as "torch-wielding youth", blah, blah. When Doug's court date came up, Dad went with him as the case was heard. After the arresting officer testified and before sentence, Dad was asked if he had any questions of the officer. He did. "At any time, was my son disrespectful to you?" Answer: "No." Honestly, I think my brother could have robbed a Brink's truck, but as long as he showed respect to the people who nabbed him, Dad would have been okay with that. (Doug got probation.)
Some of my favorite Dr. Phil shows deal with "moochers"--usually adult children of parents who let them live at home and pay their bills without getting anything in return. Often, I fairly scream at the TV. The "children" involved almost always exhibit a sense of entitlement: " I didn't ask to be born. You owe me because you love me." They feel entitled to have what they have when they want it because they can. I laugh. But really, it's not funny. This sort of thing is epidemic in America!
I am old now. My daddy isn't here to tell me how things should be. I taught teenagers and pre-teens for 40 years and have put my share of disrespect in the holster of the job, but I'm retired. No one speaks disrespectfully to me now but my daughter. Whaaat?? Why is this? It happens at least once each visit--and it floors me. I guess I feel that I am entitled--have earned the right to be treated with respect. I am the one who has always been there for her. And I am 100% sure that the reason she feels comfortable enough to talk back to me is that we are close. She doesn't talk to her father this way, even though he deserves it more than I. I am the chosen one.
In one encounter, my daughter was frustrated. (Not a good thing.) She opened up the freezer door in her kitchen and a pizza fell out. She threw it back in, which started an avalanche of a couple of other things to fall out. She snarled and threw them all back in and slammed the door of the refrigerator, at which point, I watched the very expensive Nikon camera perched on top rock back and forth. Fortunately, it didn't fall to the floor. Instinctively, I yelled, "Not a good idea, Meg!" She immediately went off on me. I had no right to treat her like a child (even though she was behaving like one)--and so it went. And so it has gone several other times. Somehow, she always assumes the worst of me. Her sense of entitlement battles mine.
Does this child of mine not understand that I have no choice but to respect her decisions? Does she think that everything I say is measured against what she thinks or feels? Does she think I'm going to blow her cover? I don't know. What I do know is that society in general is fraught with a sense of entitlement--you owe me because the current standard is more than I can provide for myself. I think we are due for an implosion. The Greatest Generation worked their buns off to provide for the Baby Boomers. The Baby Boomers struggled to provide what they could, but it was less than the Greatest Generation could. And now what do we have? I'm still trying to figure it out.
I don't need things that the rest of the world feels entitled to. I don't even need respect, really, except from the people I love and give to, unselfishly. Am I entitled to that? I think so. If others don't, then I need not be around them. The world sure is different than when my dad ruled it. I wish we had some of that back....
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