What a Rotten Deal, Mom!!!!!! :- (
1 week ago
28.8.10
27.8.10
A Genealogist, a Priest, and a King Walk Into a Bar and the Genealogist Says . . .
WASP – white Anglo-Saxon protestant. That would be me. Well, more accurately, a WWEP – white western European protestant. My heritage isn’t purely British. But the protestant part goes back to the days of Martin Luther and John Calvin.
On my father’s side, there’s a family line that came out of Pennsylvania in the early 1700s. Hearty German stock. While the Pennsylvania folk on my mother’s (and on Mr. Gaelic’s) side were Quakers, these particular Pennsylvanians were of the German Reformed Church. Come to find out, they weren’t really German. They were Swiss.
There’s a Swiss line on my mother’s side but her Swiss line were Huguenots who were run out of France during the Wars of Religion. My father’s Swiss line was actually Swiss, and actually started out as Catholics. And not only Catholic, one of my direct ancestors was a Catholic priest! He paid off the bishop in order to live with a woman as husband and wife, having at least five children, if not more. Shocking!
His fifth son, my direct ancestor, Heinrich Bullinger II, was groomed for the priesthood from an early age. While studying at the University of Cologne two years after Luther’s Ninety-five Theses, he determined that he needed to decide matters for himself and began reading many theological works finally resolving that Martin was correct.
Today he is noted as having, at about 12,000 extant letters, the most extended correspondence of the Reformation era. To bring this full-circle back to the British Isles, he corresponded with, among others, Henry VIII, James IV, Lady Jane Grey, and Elizabeth I. None of whom are my direct ancestors. But who were all WASPs.
On my father’s side, there’s a family line that came out of Pennsylvania in the early 1700s. Hearty German stock. While the Pennsylvania folk on my mother’s (and on Mr. Gaelic’s) side were Quakers, these particular Pennsylvanians were of the German Reformed Church. Come to find out, they weren’t really German. They were Swiss.
There’s a Swiss line on my mother’s side but her Swiss line were Huguenots who were run out of France during the Wars of Religion. My father’s Swiss line was actually Swiss, and actually started out as Catholics. And not only Catholic, one of my direct ancestors was a Catholic priest! He paid off the bishop in order to live with a woman as husband and wife, having at least five children, if not more. Shocking!
His fifth son, my direct ancestor, Heinrich Bullinger II, was groomed for the priesthood from an early age. While studying at the University of Cologne two years after Luther’s Ninety-five Theses, he determined that he needed to decide matters for himself and began reading many theological works finally resolving that Martin was correct.
Today he is noted as having, at about 12,000 extant letters, the most extended correspondence of the Reformation era. To bring this full-circle back to the British Isles, he corresponded with, among others, Henry VIII, James IV, Lady Jane Grey, and Elizabeth I. None of whom are my direct ancestors. But who were all WASPs.
26.8.10
She's Got a Great Rack
What does a girl have to do to get a great rack? It shouldn’t be too difficult. People in my neck of the woods love nice racks. Some racks, of course, are merely functional while others are downright artistic.
Just yesterday, having ridden my bike to the grocery and office supply stores at a nearby shopping center, I decided that I had to get creative. Taking matters into my own hands, I hitched my bike to a crepe myrtle and did my shopping at Staples. What else is one to do when there is no bike rack to lock one's bike at any of the stores?
What did you think I was talking about?
Just yesterday, having ridden my bike to the grocery and office supply stores at a nearby shopping center, I decided that I had to get creative. Taking matters into my own hands, I hitched my bike to a crepe myrtle and did my shopping at Staples. What else is one to do when there is no bike rack to lock one's bike at any of the stores?
What did you think I was talking about?
25.8.10
Thank You and Goodbye
Arabic or Russian? Russian or Arabic? Which class should I sign up for? There are pros and cons for each. My current Arabic vocabulary is limited to “Thank you” and “I have trouble”. My current Russian vocabulary is limited to “Yes”, “No”, “Thank you”, and “Goodbye”.
“Thank you” is something one should be able to say regardless of what else one might learn. At least in my opinion.
After listening to a podcast of introductory lessons for both Arabic and Russian, my mouth can fit around Russian pronunciation much better than Arabic pronunciation. In the first podcast, I managed to pronounce correctly Привет and Здравствуйте. Those are two forms of hello. Informal and formal. My Russian-speaking husband approved but thought there was too much T sound in my second hello.
My theory is that if my mouth can form Russian words then Arabic shouldn’t be much further up the vocabulary ladder. Or maybe I should switch my sights to Mandarin instead.
شكرا and До свидания.
“Thank you” is something one should be able to say regardless of what else one might learn. At least in my opinion.
After listening to a podcast of introductory lessons for both Arabic and Russian, my mouth can fit around Russian pronunciation much better than Arabic pronunciation. In the first podcast, I managed to pronounce correctly Привет and Здравствуйте. Those are two forms of hello. Informal and formal. My Russian-speaking husband approved but thought there was too much T sound in my second hello.
My theory is that if my mouth can form Russian words then Arabic shouldn’t be much further up the vocabulary ladder. Or maybe I should switch my sights to Mandarin instead.
شكرا and До свидания.
24.8.10
Pubic Art Exhibit
First there were bikini waxes. Then Brazilian bikini waxes. Then vajazzling. Now vattoos.
Vajazzling? you ask.
Vattoos?
You haven’t heard? Let me take you through the history of women’s, um, privates. First, we didn’t want to show any fluff around the edges of our bikinis. So we’d shave or wax just enough, leaving most untouched.
Then someone heard what those wild women in Sao Paulo and Rio do with their tufts. The excruciatingly painful experience called the Brazilian wax came into fashion. This is where everything is removed making grown women look like prepubescent girls below the belt. It’s always made me wonder if men have a pedophile fetish in wanting their women to be smooth as the day they were born. But that’s another blog.
Never satisfied with being average, women on the two coasts discovered vajazzling. This is where crystals, glitter, or other jewels are applied to a woman’s nether region for aesthetic purposes. A Brazilian wax is a prerequisite of vajazzling. The craze took off after Jennifer Love Hewitt announced to the world back in January that she was currently vajazzled.
Yet again, vajazzling wasn’t enough. Next up, vattoos. Yep, a temporary tattoo is airbrushed onto your newly Brazilian-waxed va-jay-jay, turning your private parts into your own private Sistine Chapel. Okay, I’m going to get hate mail for comparing the Vatican ceiling to a woman’s vagina.
It’s like wearing sexy underwear even when you know no one will see it. The question still remains of whether we do it for ourselves alone.
[Here are videos of vajazzling and vattooing. No videos of a Brazilian wax. It's too painful to watch.]
Vajazzling? you ask.
Vattoos?
You haven’t heard? Let me take you through the history of women’s, um, privates. First, we didn’t want to show any fluff around the edges of our bikinis. So we’d shave or wax just enough, leaving most untouched.
Then someone heard what those wild women in Sao Paulo and Rio do with their tufts. The excruciatingly painful experience called the Brazilian wax came into fashion. This is where everything is removed making grown women look like prepubescent girls below the belt. It’s always made me wonder if men have a pedophile fetish in wanting their women to be smooth as the day they were born. But that’s another blog.
Never satisfied with being average, women on the two coasts discovered vajazzling. This is where crystals, glitter, or other jewels are applied to a woman’s nether region for aesthetic purposes. A Brazilian wax is a prerequisite of vajazzling. The craze took off after Jennifer Love Hewitt announced to the world back in January that she was currently vajazzled.
Yet again, vajazzling wasn’t enough. Next up, vattoos. Yep, a temporary tattoo is airbrushed onto your newly Brazilian-waxed va-jay-jay, turning your private parts into your own private Sistine Chapel. Okay, I’m going to get hate mail for comparing the Vatican ceiling to a woman’s vagina.
It’s like wearing sexy underwear even when you know no one will see it. The question still remains of whether we do it for ourselves alone.
[Here are videos of vajazzling and vattooing. No videos of a Brazilian wax. It's too painful to watch.]
23.8.10
Return to the Scene of the Coaster
This past weekend was our last fling of summer as a family. Next weekend we pile in the car to deposit Finola at college and do college visits on the way back with Deirdre. Our last familial fling of summer was spent at the amusement park where the teens and I celebrated my birthday.
Lesson learned. No more roller coasters for me. While waiting on the rest of the family to ride the coasters, several things came to my attention.
During an extremely long wait for the family on one coaster, I decided to count the number of thin to average kids versus those with mini-muffin tops and big bowls of jelly. Grand total: kids without bellies - 2, kids with bellies that pooched out - 38. Somehow I don't think any of those 38 tummies was distended due to malnourishment. Not when you get free refills on soft drinks but have to pay $3 for each bottle of cold water.
Lesson learned. No more roller coasters for me. While waiting on the rest of the family to ride the coasters, several things came to my attention.
- There's a prominent sign at the park entrance that says "shirts, pants, and shoes must be worn at all times". Does that exclude short pants, a.k.a. shorts? What about skorts? What about a dress? Or what I was wearing - an actual skirt?
- A different sign at the bumper cars says to remove all earrings before riding. Why? Are earrings more conductive than rings, watches, bracelets, or necklaces?
- Several rides have a demo seat at the beginning of the ride for people to try to buckle themselves into and see if they're too large for the ride. Why do people wait in the line and then embarrass themselves by having to be told by the cast member that they're too big to ride rather than try the seat out before waiting in line?
- If you don't want to eat meat, there aren't too many choices for meals. What if I don't want a salad or a slice of cheese pizza?
- There's only one Disney. Why do parks try to have a back story for the rides if there's really no story? And why do parks try to emulate certain Disney rides knowing that they'll fall far short?
- Having someone in a wheelchair gets you to the front of the line ahead of everyone else. Does that mean that you can fake an illness or injury, have a friend push you around all day, and jump to the front of the line just because you want to jump line? 'Cause there were a ton of healthy looking teens who would bound out of their wheelchairs and walk to the coaster seat then run back to their chairs after the ride ended. Excuse me. Can't you wait in line like the rest of us?
- The war is over. Or at least war fatigue has set in. Gone are the ticket booths reserved solely for service members. Gone are the tributes to the military throughout the park. Even though there are numerous military bases within an hour's drive.
- Americans are fat.
During an extremely long wait for the family on one coaster, I decided to count the number of thin to average kids versus those with mini-muffin tops and big bowls of jelly. Grand total: kids without bellies - 2, kids with bellies that pooched out - 38. Somehow I don't think any of those 38 tummies was distended due to malnourishment. Not when you get free refills on soft drinks but have to pay $3 for each bottle of cold water.
21.8.10
Dishing the Flirt
Remember the scene from Freaky Friday when Jamie Lee Curtis screams that she's like the Crypt Keeper? That's me. I'm old!
To recap, my cousin that I grew up rough housing with is now a grandfather of three, a gal I graduated high school with is expecting her sixth grand baby, and my college sorority sister's eldest son is now in law school. Friends that I knew in high school look really good on their Facebook profiles. Or else they're using really old photos of themselves.
When I posted recently on FB that the air conditioning repair guy was the handsomest repairman I'd ever seen (young, blond, gorgeous smile, no butt crack), commenters suggested that I was on a Cougar Prowl.
The only time I've had a younger guy interested in me was several years ago. I met this guy at a local coffee shop. He's a male model. Seriously. You'd recognize his work if I posted a link to it. Anyway, he actually flirted with me! Even when he found out that I was 13 years his senior.
What I wouldn't give to have a guy flirt with me these days! Even my husband.
To recap, my cousin that I grew up rough housing with is now a grandfather of three, a gal I graduated high school with is expecting her sixth grand baby, and my college sorority sister's eldest son is now in law school. Friends that I knew in high school look really good on their Facebook profiles. Or else they're using really old photos of themselves.
When I posted recently on FB that the air conditioning repair guy was the handsomest repairman I'd ever seen (young, blond, gorgeous smile, no butt crack), commenters suggested that I was on a Cougar Prowl.
The only time I've had a younger guy interested in me was several years ago. I met this guy at a local coffee shop. He's a male model. Seriously. You'd recognize his work if I posted a link to it. Anyway, he actually flirted with me! Even when he found out that I was 13 years his senior.
What I wouldn't give to have a guy flirt with me these days! Even my husband.
20.8.10
Billy Elliot, American Style
In the musical Billy Elliot, Billy travels from a coal mining town in Wales to London to audition for the Royal School of Ballet. Maeve, my youngest, wants to audition for our local school of ballet which produces some world-class dancers. Auditions are tomorrow.
One difference between Billy and Maeve is that Billy had to have a dance piece with music to show the audition board. Maeve only has to participate in a technique workshop much like a regular class where she’ll be assessed on her ability and age-appropriate standards.
If she attends, in two years she’ll begin professional classes with the possibility of performing in other cities. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But why must those bridges keep coming so fast? Can’t someone slow this shale car down?
One difference between Billy and Maeve is that Billy had to have a dance piece with music to show the audition board. Maeve only has to participate in a technique workshop much like a regular class where she’ll be assessed on her ability and age-appropriate standards.
If she attends, in two years she’ll begin professional classes with the possibility of performing in other cities. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But why must those bridges keep coming so fast? Can’t someone slow this shale car down?
19.8.10
What's Eating Gaelic Disney?
Since she's feeling the pull between adulthood and childhood with college looming large, Finola has been having a movie marathon of all her childhood favorites. Mostly Disney movies. I love Disney as much as the next girl. But I've noticed something insidious about most Disney movies as I catch glimpses of them.
My list (in no particular order):
It's only through the prism of impending womanhood for my daughter that I've been able to look at the films with more of a, gasp, don't say it!, feminist eye. (Throwing out the F-word is almost like slapping a hammer and sickle on my back. But that's another blog.)
That's when I remember another Disney princess movie that's an amalgamation of several of the different story lines.
My list (in no particular order):
- Snow White - prepubescent girl carries no action in the story, things happen to her not because of her, waiting for her prince to come
- Sleeping Beauty - barely legal girl (story happens on her 16th birthday) carries no action in the story, things happen to her not because of her, waiting for her prince to come
- Cinderella - girl carries no action in the story, things happen to her not because of her, has to wait for her prince to come
- The Little Mermaid - here at least she willingly goes along with the evil witch to move the story along, but only because she's waiting for her prince
- Beauty and the Beast - FINALLY a woman who reads and who's NOT waiting for her prince, carries more of the action, now we're getting somewhere!
- WALL-E - warning: stalker alert! sure he's a robot, and cute, but still
- Mulan - a woman trying to protect her father, she really moves the plot, have you noticed this is the only one with a mother?
It's only through the prism of impending womanhood for my daughter that I've been able to look at the films with more of a, gasp, don't say it!, feminist eye. (Throwing out the F-word is almost like slapping a hammer and sickle on my back. But that's another blog.)
That's when I remember another Disney princess movie that's an amalgamation of several of the different story lines.
- Enchanted - begins as an animated movie, turns into live action, the girl who's waiting for her prince discovers what it's like to be a thinking, breathing, strong woman, she ditches the prince for a commoner and starts her own business. (My only beef is that they wasted the voice talents of Idina Menzel, although Amy Adams does a good job. But that's another blog.)
18.8.10
Five, Six, Seven, Eight | Update
My post today was before class. Class was Intense! With a capital I!
The class was Advanced Beginner. I took ballet in high school, one theatre dance class in college, and a recent ballet class to keep in shape. The website said that the Beginner class was for absolute beginners who had never danced before. That's not me. The next step up is the Advanced Beginner class.
That was no Advanced Beginner class! That was Intermediate to Advanced. She had us doing tour jetés and cabrioles. She'd tell us a sequence then show us quickly. She wanted port de bras in a full circle reaching to the wall, bending back as far as possible, away from the wall and to the ground.
If that was an Advanced Beginner class, I need an Intermediate Beginner class. But I stand by my first assertion. That was no effing Advanced Beginner class!
The class was Advanced Beginner. I took ballet in high school, one theatre dance class in college, and a recent ballet class to keep in shape. The website said that the Beginner class was for absolute beginners who had never danced before. That's not me. The next step up is the Advanced Beginner class.
That was no Advanced Beginner class! That was Intermediate to Advanced. She had us doing tour jetés and cabrioles. She'd tell us a sequence then show us quickly. She wanted port de bras in a full circle reaching to the wall, bending back as far as possible, away from the wall and to the ground.
If that was an Advanced Beginner class, I need an Intermediate Beginner class. But I stand by my first assertion. That was no effing Advanced Beginner class!
Five, Six, Seven, Eight
Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Again!
Being a dancer means having a photographic memory. For verbal direction. And ballet essentially is spoken in French. Plié, rond de jambe, relevé, fondu, grand battement. They’re all French.
Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Right!
Different ballet dancers give different pointers and suggestions. “Shoulders down! Ears back! Look out over your cheekbones not from under your eyelids! Hips forward! Press down to go up!” They will position your arm and your gaze just so. “Soft hands! No teacup hands! This isn’t Fosse!”
That connects with...
My regular ballet teacher hasn’t taught an adult class since the week before the spring recital. All summer she was at home with her leg propped up on pillows due to knee replacement surgery. My ballet slippers haven’t seen the light of day in over two months.
Turn, turn, out, in, jump, step,
When a website that specializes in discounts at various local businesses offered a series of dance lessons at a new studio for less than the cost of my usual classes, I jumped at the chance. With voucher in hand, I typed in the web address to the dedicated registration site and clicked to sign up for a particular class. Success! It’s today!
Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch.
Before signing up for class, I checked the bios of the teachers. The teachers are much, much younger than my current teacher. Her children are my age. As for stamina, will I be able to keep up?
Got it?... Going on. And...
My teacher danced professionally in her teens and 20s, appearing as a Rockette for a period of time. These teachers dance with international ballet troupes. Not that ballet changes, but the athleticism is as much a part of ballet today as the aesthetics.
Turn, turn, touch, down, back, step,
I looked again at the list of classes. I’m not a good judge of my ability. In my regular ballet class, I’m definitely the star pupil. But a master class with one of Ballanchine’s protégés proved to my why I’m not a professional dancer.
Pivot, step, walk, walk, walk.
What class to sign up for? That’s the question.
Right! Let's do the whole combination,
Perhaps, hopefully, I’m just being humble. I signed up for the Advanced Beginner class. But I left it at one. I’ll go to class and see what the teacher has to say. See if she thinks I need to be in the Intermediate class.
Facing away from the mirror.
Wish me luck! Stamina, athleticism, aesthetics, passion. It takes a lot to be a dancer these days.
From the top. A-Five, six, seven, eight!
17.8.10
Guilty By Reason of Vanity
Since my summer holiday in Scotland and England, my bathroom scale has taken up either a nasty habit of lying about my weight or a charming tendency of flattering my healthy living. Let’s go with the latter.
As mentioned in earlier blogs, that wonderful contraption says that my weight is down ten pounds. My first guess of what helped the negative slide was all the walking done around castles and abbeys and scotch distilleries. The fact that the numbers aren’t increasing was puzzling since the amount of walking was cut drastically by having ready access to a car with a left-hand steering wheel.
What could be helping with the weight maintenance?
Does it have anything to do with my vanity and my search of ways to look younger?
Was it that train ride from Glasgow to London and the stack of women’s magazines to keep me occupied?
Huh?
Let’s play connect the dots.
An article in one of the many magazines that my teenage daughters and I passed amongst us on the train to London was about how to look younger. Don’t ask me which magazine. The stack was large and it was a long train ride. The article listed the obvious ways: drink plenty of water, get plenty of sleep, use plenty of sunscreen, and so forth. The other plenty really surprised me.
Get plenty of sex. Like three times a week plenty. Some British health group found that women who have sex at least three times a week look four to seven years younger than those who have sex less often. The report also said that women who get their jollies by themselves look seven to 12 years younger. There’s a good argument for doing without men, but that’s another blog topic.
As unromantic as it sounds, sex is now on our calendar. Which embarrassed the kids when they found out what “Date” meant scribbled throughout the calendar. But, hey, it’s good exercise too. Thirty minutes can expend 85 calories. That may not seem like a lot. But when I’m on a quest to look younger, it really adds up.
That helps my bathroom scale keep flattering me with ever decreasing numbers.
[I take no responsibility for this blog being used against your spouse as an argument for more sex.]
As mentioned in earlier blogs, that wonderful contraption says that my weight is down ten pounds. My first guess of what helped the negative slide was all the walking done around castles and abbeys and scotch distilleries. The fact that the numbers aren’t increasing was puzzling since the amount of walking was cut drastically by having ready access to a car with a left-hand steering wheel.
What could be helping with the weight maintenance?
Does it have anything to do with my vanity and my search of ways to look younger?
Was it that train ride from Glasgow to London and the stack of women’s magazines to keep me occupied?
Huh?
Let’s play connect the dots.
An article in one of the many magazines that my teenage daughters and I passed amongst us on the train to London was about how to look younger. Don’t ask me which magazine. The stack was large and it was a long train ride. The article listed the obvious ways: drink plenty of water, get plenty of sleep, use plenty of sunscreen, and so forth. The other plenty really surprised me.
Get plenty of sex. Like three times a week plenty. Some British health group found that women who have sex at least three times a week look four to seven years younger than those who have sex less often. The report also said that women who get their jollies by themselves look seven to 12 years younger. There’s a good argument for doing without men, but that’s another blog topic.
As unromantic as it sounds, sex is now on our calendar. Which embarrassed the kids when they found out what “Date” meant scribbled throughout the calendar. But, hey, it’s good exercise too. Thirty minutes can expend 85 calories. That may not seem like a lot. But when I’m on a quest to look younger, it really adds up.
That helps my bathroom scale keep flattering me with ever decreasing numbers.
[I take no responsibility for this blog being used against your spouse as an argument for more sex.]
16.8.10
Two Steps Forward, One Look Back
My blogging is like a soap-opera writer. On almost any soap, story lines don’t always get tied up neatly. When Finola was rereading old postings of my blog, she asked the whatever-happened-to questions. Let’s start the week with an update from past blogs.
My job search is still on. It’s like playing a numbers game. If I get enough rejection letters, I’m bound to get an offer at some time. In the meantime, I’m beginning to think and work on alternatives to the office scene. So this update is like answering a question with a question. It’s “to be continued”.
But I’m still not tech-savvy enough or have the patience necessary to figure out where my photos from our summer holiday to Scotland and England filed themselves away on my hard drive. Mr. Gaelic is in the process of making a photo album after culling through over 2500 still shots and unknown hours of video. Hard copy photo album. Mr. Tech-Savvy uploaded them to a website that will produce a bound book for us.
This past weekend was a tax-holiday in my neck of the woods. But I didn’t buy any clothing. In fact, since joining the clothing diet, I bought only one pair of shoes. My reward points at a store were about to expire and coupled with a birthday bonus coupon, they were a steal. Only one slip-up on my clothing diet so far.
Now we get down to business. I was amazed after our time overseas that I came home lighter. And not just in the pocketbook. Somehow I’ve managed to keep those lost pounds from finding their way back. And to top it off, a few of their friends have gone looking for them. That’s almost ten pounds without trying.
I have a suspicion about what’s making those pounds pack their bags. But that is tomorrow’s blog. Same bat time, same bat channel.
My job search is still on. It’s like playing a numbers game. If I get enough rejection letters, I’m bound to get an offer at some time. In the meantime, I’m beginning to think and work on alternatives to the office scene. So this update is like answering a question with a question. It’s “to be continued”.
But I’m still not tech-savvy enough or have the patience necessary to figure out where my photos from our summer holiday to Scotland and England filed themselves away on my hard drive. Mr. Gaelic is in the process of making a photo album after culling through over 2500 still shots and unknown hours of video. Hard copy photo album. Mr. Tech-Savvy uploaded them to a website that will produce a bound book for us.
This past weekend was a tax-holiday in my neck of the woods. But I didn’t buy any clothing. In fact, since joining the clothing diet, I bought only one pair of shoes. My reward points at a store were about to expire and coupled with a birthday bonus coupon, they were a steal. Only one slip-up on my clothing diet so far.
Now we get down to business. I was amazed after our time overseas that I came home lighter. And not just in the pocketbook. Somehow I’ve managed to keep those lost pounds from finding their way back. And to top it off, a few of their friends have gone looking for them. That’s almost ten pounds without trying.
I have a suspicion about what’s making those pounds pack their bags. But that is tomorrow’s blog. Same bat time, same bat channel.
14.8.10
Gremlin On Your Backbeat
By the late 1950s America was in a recession the likes of which hadn't been seen in post-World War II society. Hard hit were the steelworkers and those associated with steel, automobiles, and oil. In one small southern town in particular, the local pipe shop and foundry, the largest single employer in the town, suffered from the recession forcing the men to find other incomes.
One man's father returned to life as a tenant farmer, renting the land that he plowed and planted before opening a gas station. The man's father-in-law had no farm to fall back on, the federal government having taken his family's land for an Army camp during World War II. The man? He supported his wife, his teenage daughter, and his father-in-law and lived in a house in the city miles away from his father's farm.
To solve the problem, the man found work where he could. At another foundry. In New Jersey. His wife and daughter moved to New Jersey while his father-in-law, in his late 50s, too old for a new hire, remained in their home in that small southern town.
But the man was a southerner and knew that he needed a better life for himself and his family. Moving back to that small southern town, he turned to teaching math and science at a primary school in the next county to the north. To supplement his income, he would moonlight at a foundry in the largest city in the state. Before the interstate system was completed between the small town and the big city.
Still he knew he needed to do more to support his family. He traded foundry work for more school work.
After teaching fourth and fifth graders, he would drive home, grab a quick supper, and sit in class at a small state university in the next county to the east. It took multiple years to complete. His degree in Business Administration came two years after the arrival of an unexpected and un-planned-for baby in the mid-60s.
Forays into real estate, insurance, and used cars never amounted to more than a side-line. What put food on the table was teaching. And even with the side-line, his wife often claimed at supper not to be hungry and wouldn't eat. Did the man see through her ruse as a way to spread the portions among all the mouths?
His desire for a stable and ample life led to summers away from teaching spent at one of the larger state universities clear on the other side of the state. He'd pack up his wife and young daughter and sublet an apartment while attaining his masters in education and working towards his Ph.D. in psychology. By this time, his father-in-law had died and his first daughter was living in another state.
Never satisfied with his one income and even with all those letters after his name, the man would drive a school bus before and after school. He always wanted more for his children than he had. But he also made it clear to his daughters that they had to work for what they had, never doling out cash for anything more than college-level expenses. His one extravagance was letting his younger daughter have the trade-in value when buying her first car. The car he let her use as a trade-in? A 1972 green AMC Gremlin.
What I wouldn't do for that Gremlin today!
One man's father returned to life as a tenant farmer, renting the land that he plowed and planted before opening a gas station. The man's father-in-law had no farm to fall back on, the federal government having taken his family's land for an Army camp during World War II. The man? He supported his wife, his teenage daughter, and his father-in-law and lived in a house in the city miles away from his father's farm.
To solve the problem, the man found work where he could. At another foundry. In New Jersey. His wife and daughter moved to New Jersey while his father-in-law, in his late 50s, too old for a new hire, remained in their home in that small southern town.
But the man was a southerner and knew that he needed a better life for himself and his family. Moving back to that small southern town, he turned to teaching math and science at a primary school in the next county to the north. To supplement his income, he would moonlight at a foundry in the largest city in the state. Before the interstate system was completed between the small town and the big city.
Still he knew he needed to do more to support his family. He traded foundry work for more school work.
After teaching fourth and fifth graders, he would drive home, grab a quick supper, and sit in class at a small state university in the next county to the east. It took multiple years to complete. His degree in Business Administration came two years after the arrival of an unexpected and un-planned-for baby in the mid-60s.
Forays into real estate, insurance, and used cars never amounted to more than a side-line. What put food on the table was teaching. And even with the side-line, his wife often claimed at supper not to be hungry and wouldn't eat. Did the man see through her ruse as a way to spread the portions among all the mouths?
His desire for a stable and ample life led to summers away from teaching spent at one of the larger state universities clear on the other side of the state. He'd pack up his wife and young daughter and sublet an apartment while attaining his masters in education and working towards his Ph.D. in psychology. By this time, his father-in-law had died and his first daughter was living in another state.
Never satisfied with his one income and even with all those letters after his name, the man would drive a school bus before and after school. He always wanted more for his children than he had. But he also made it clear to his daughters that they had to work for what they had, never doling out cash for anything more than college-level expenses. His one extravagance was letting his younger daughter have the trade-in value when buying her first car. The car he let her use as a trade-in? A 1972 green AMC Gremlin.
What I wouldn't do for that Gremlin today!
13.8.10
Gone With the Gin
It’s been a rough seven days. Late last week, an extreme storm with a 70+ mph wind microburst knocked down enough trees in its path to leave us without power for 48 hours. After wearing a bright green shirt to the gym on Monday, my armpits still have a green tint. While trying to mow the yard, the mower ran over a rock or something and bent the blade so that they won’t rotate. My driveway looks good but the grass in the back is tall enough to lose my dog in.
I gave up after the mower incident and raided the liquor cabinet. Three different single malts, top shelf vodka, and run-of-the-mill vermouth. And no olives. Except the Kalamata olives that my kids snack on. Grocery store or liquor store?
One friend suggested going to both. Grocery store for olives and liquor store for gin. “For a proper martini.” But I'm not a "proper martini" kind of girl. I like my martinis dirty. Like I like my men. Yum, olives stuffed with bleu cheese, a splash of olive brine, a whisper of vermouth, lots of gin. Stirred, not shaken. You don’t want to bruise the gin. Too bad the liquor store closed before I could get there. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another weekend.
I gave up after the mower incident and raided the liquor cabinet. Three different single malts, top shelf vodka, and run-of-the-mill vermouth. And no olives. Except the Kalamata olives that my kids snack on. Grocery store or liquor store?
One friend suggested going to both. Grocery store for olives and liquor store for gin. “For a proper martini.” But I'm not a "proper martini" kind of girl. I like my martinis dirty. Like I like my men. Yum, olives stuffed with bleu cheese, a splash of olive brine, a whisper of vermouth, lots of gin. Stirred, not shaken. You don’t want to bruise the gin. Too bad the liquor store closed before I could get there. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another weekend.
12.8.10
Men and Stimpy
Every school day morning, throngs of teenagers appear on every third corner waiting for their bus to school. It’s the only time these creatures emerge from their lairs. Not until my kids were teens did I understand the strange habits of their species. One peculiarity is sleeping until noon on non-school days.
Dragging their sleepy butts out of bed yesterday for a nine o’clock Pilates class was torture to them. I found it quite enjoyable. They willingly dressed for the gym and participated, although not enthusiastically, in class.
As we headed back to the locker room afterwards, we passed some local firefighters who were there to work out. They have to stay in shape for their jobs. I wonder if “Fat Albert” Haynesworth could pass their physical test.
One of the firefighters spoke to me as we passed on the stairs. Once he was out of earshot, Deirdre whispered, “That’s one reason I like coming to the gym. To see the good looking firefighters.”
She won’t be so difficult to get out of bed for Pilates next week.
Dragging their sleepy butts out of bed yesterday for a nine o’clock Pilates class was torture to them. I found it quite enjoyable. They willingly dressed for the gym and participated, although not enthusiastically, in class.
As we headed back to the locker room afterwards, we passed some local firefighters who were there to work out. They have to stay in shape for their jobs. I wonder if “Fat Albert” Haynesworth could pass their physical test.
One of the firefighters spoke to me as we passed on the stairs. Once he was out of earshot, Deirdre whispered, “That’s one reason I like coming to the gym. To see the good looking firefighters.”
She won’t be so difficult to get out of bed for Pilates next week.
11.8.10
Ev'ry Hotsy-Totsy Nazi Stand and Cheer
Do I scare you? Apparently, I scare my children’s friends. There’s a whole list of people who are afraid of me. Finola’s best guy friend and his parents, and Deirdre’s friends Zahar and Phoenix, Monte and Zteitel.
Deirdre ragged on me for scaring Zteitel.
“Why?”
“She’s Jewish. You shouldn't be scaring the Jewish girl.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
“We speak German at home and you’re scary.”
“Does she think we’re neo-Nazis?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Let me just sit down on my front stoop, smooth out my dress uniform, push back my hair behind my ear, and sing,
Deirdre ragged on me for scaring Zteitel.
“Why?”
“She’s Jewish. You shouldn't be scaring the Jewish girl.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
“We speak German at home and you’re scary.”
“Does she think we’re neo-Nazis?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Let me just sit down on my front stoop, smooth out my dress uniform, push back my hair behind my ear, and sing,
Heil myself
Heil to me
10.8.10
The Science of Fun
Going to theme or amusement parks with me can be 1) very boring or 2) very interesting. It's an easy way to get kids interested in chemistry and physics. The fun is still there. It's just that the how and why become part of waiting in line.
For my birthday, my two teens and I visited one of our in-state theme parks. The science lessons are long gone. When I remark, "Ah, nothing like the smell of ozone," while waiting for the bumper cars, Finola answers with an explanation of how ozone is made. Waiting for the roller coaster, there's no need to explain why the circles get tighter towards the end of the ride or how pneumatic brakes work. The only thing of interest is how long the wait for the front or rear row is.
Roller coaster connoisseurs know that the last row is like the tail end of a whip. You feel the ride more intensely. The thrill of the front row depends on whether that first drop (say from 205 feet facing straight down) is part and parcel of the whole experience or just the accelerator for the rest of the ride.
Until my last birthday.
Getting old sucks.
Something happened on the way to middle age. The ability to enjoy roller coasters went out the window when I started playing trombone with the morning paper.
It happened on the second time through on a tall, fast full-circuit inverted roller coaster. It was the cobra roll that did me in. On the approach to the station, even swinging my legs back and forth while looking straight ahead wasn't enough to calm that weird feeling connecting my head to my stomach. Keeping lunch inside took lots of strength and concentration.
My roller coastering days are over. Sniff, sniff. My fear is that my amusement park days may be over as well. Following the inverted coaster was the giant swing, that thing that swings you around in circles way up in the air. It's a midway ride! And it was making me queasy!
After that, my day was spent waiting for my kids to ride whatever coaster they wanted. While waiting, I watched a trio of heavy-set men about my age come off the coaster, retrieve their bottle-shaped beer cans and laugh their way towards the next ride. How can some people, who are my age and obviously don't take as good a care of their bodies as I do, manage to drink and ride coasters but I, just drinking water, can't?
Perhaps instead of physics and chemistry, our next trip will include a physiology lesson.
For my birthday, my two teens and I visited one of our in-state theme parks. The science lessons are long gone. When I remark, "Ah, nothing like the smell of ozone," while waiting for the bumper cars, Finola answers with an explanation of how ozone is made. Waiting for the roller coaster, there's no need to explain why the circles get tighter towards the end of the ride or how pneumatic brakes work. The only thing of interest is how long the wait for the front or rear row is.
Roller coaster connoisseurs know that the last row is like the tail end of a whip. You feel the ride more intensely. The thrill of the front row depends on whether that first drop (say from 205 feet facing straight down) is part and parcel of the whole experience or just the accelerator for the rest of the ride.
Until my last birthday.
Getting old sucks.
Something happened on the way to middle age. The ability to enjoy roller coasters went out the window when I started playing trombone with the morning paper.
It happened on the second time through on a tall, fast full-circuit inverted roller coaster. It was the cobra roll that did me in. On the approach to the station, even swinging my legs back and forth while looking straight ahead wasn't enough to calm that weird feeling connecting my head to my stomach. Keeping lunch inside took lots of strength and concentration.
My roller coastering days are over. Sniff, sniff. My fear is that my amusement park days may be over as well. Following the inverted coaster was the giant swing, that thing that swings you around in circles way up in the air. It's a midway ride! And it was making me queasy!
After that, my day was spent waiting for my kids to ride whatever coaster they wanted. While waiting, I watched a trio of heavy-set men about my age come off the coaster, retrieve their bottle-shaped beer cans and laugh their way towards the next ride. How can some people, who are my age and obviously don't take as good a care of their bodies as I do, manage to drink and ride coasters but I, just drinking water, can't?
Perhaps instead of physics and chemistry, our next trip will include a physiology lesson.
9.8.10
5.8.10
I Before E
The youth director at our parish is an outgoing, really-quite-handsome, teddy-bear-of-a guy. My teens, who've been on mission trips with him that included swimming sessions as relaxation, claim he has angel wings. That's just wrong. He needs to go in for a good wax job to take care of those. But I digress.
His main attribute is his personality, not his angel wings. Like my middle daughter, he can talk to a doorknob and charm it off the door. One of his off-hand comments about Mr. Gaelic didn't surprise me. He thinks, accurately enough, that Mr. Gaelic is very quiet and reserved. A typical introvert in the Myers-Briggs scale.
The youth director received the shock of his life to learn that my Myers-Briggs always comes back listing me as an introvert. With a great big I.
His mouth fell open.
"I work at it."
He acknowledged my success at appearing to be an extrovert and asked, "Isn't it tiring?"
"Very."
His main attribute is his personality, not his angel wings. Like my middle daughter, he can talk to a doorknob and charm it off the door. One of his off-hand comments about Mr. Gaelic didn't surprise me. He thinks, accurately enough, that Mr. Gaelic is very quiet and reserved. A typical introvert in the Myers-Briggs scale.
The youth director received the shock of his life to learn that my Myers-Briggs always comes back listing me as an introvert. With a great big I.
His mouth fell open.
"I work at it."
He acknowledged my success at appearing to be an extrovert and asked, "Isn't it tiring?"
"Very."
4.8.10
Jelly Roll Gaelic
There's an experiment going on in my backyard. It's called a vegetable garden.
When I was growing up, my farm-owning grandfather let all of his city-living kids have two or three rows in his garden to raise whatever they wanted as long as they did all the work. Weekends were spent hoeing and pulling weeds. The payoff was long-lived with vegetables that graced our table fresh from the stalk as well as stocked in our pantry in jars that my mama put up.
Although I helped with the garden duties, I'm not sure how much of their knowledge got osmosed.
My garden is growing. Although it's a bit unwieldy. Cabbage, carrots, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, beets, onions, and corn have been harvested. There's also a fig "tree" against my house. It would have been a tree if it hadn't split as a young thing making it a bush instead. A twelve foot round bush.
Today's to-do list includes making fig preserves. Even if I didn't learn all the gardening skills I could have at my father's knee, I certainly learned all the canning skills I needed at my mother's and grandmother's apron strings.
When I was growing up, my farm-owning grandfather let all of his city-living kids have two or three rows in his garden to raise whatever they wanted as long as they did all the work. Weekends were spent hoeing and pulling weeds. The payoff was long-lived with vegetables that graced our table fresh from the stalk as well as stocked in our pantry in jars that my mama put up.
Although I helped with the garden duties, I'm not sure how much of their knowledge got osmosed.
My garden is growing. Although it's a bit unwieldy. Cabbage, carrots, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, beets, onions, and corn have been harvested. There's also a fig "tree" against my house. It would have been a tree if it hadn't split as a young thing making it a bush instead. A twelve foot round bush.
Today's to-do list includes making fig preserves. Even if I didn't learn all the gardening skills I could have at my father's knee, I certainly learned all the canning skills I needed at my mother's and grandmother's apron strings.
3.8.10
A Picture Is Worth X to the Nth Power Words
In the past few months there have been a few things in the newspaper that have been interesting to me, not for what the article says but for the accompanying photos.
First there was the front-page article and photo of people celebrating the summer solstice at Stonehenge. Smiling, happy faces greeted the morning sun. I took one look at the picture and gasped in horror. My children looked at the picture but didn't see anything that could have bothered me so.
"Look at what they're wearing," I instructed.
"Jackets and scarves," they replied.
"This picture was taken yesterday. Stonehenge is in the south of England." They nodded. I continued, "We'll be there in two weeks and we'll be well north of Stonehenge."
Blank looks. Then the Aha! moment when they realized it would be much, much cooler in Scotland and England than it is here. Time to rethink the wardrobe choices.
A second photo in this Sunday's paper caught my eye. It accompanied a full-page ad from BP with Robert Dudley saying that he knows the beaches very well since he grew up in Mississippi. The photo showed a whole line of what looked like only men wearing blue jeans, tee-shirts, gloves, and wellies. They were filling plastic bags with debris while three foreman-looking people either looked on or were handing out more plastic bags.
In shock and skepticism I showed it to Mr. Gaelic. "Can you believe how racist this is?"
He looked closely. All the men at the water line were black; the three "overseers" were white.
"Is it racist or reality?" he asked. "Maybe it's the only job they can find and maybe nobody else wants the job. But also, contrast this to the other pictures we've seen of cleanup crews wearing full body jumpsuits and heavy-duty rubber gloves."
It wasn't until I went searching online for a copy of the photo from the ad to include in this blog that I discovered what I consider to be the truth behind the picture. I never found the picture online. What I did find were article from such widely read sources as The Root, AlterNet, and The Stranger all noting that, while coastal residents are out of work, BP is using prison work crews for cleanup. What BP gets by hiring prison crews is cheap labor, people who won't talk to the press, and a hefty tax write-off.
I jumped to conclusions about a photo without having all the information.
Sometimes a picture is worth more than a thousand words. Sometimes it's just the tip of the iceberg.
First there was the front-page article and photo of people celebrating the summer solstice at Stonehenge. Smiling, happy faces greeted the morning sun. I took one look at the picture and gasped in horror. My children looked at the picture but didn't see anything that could have bothered me so.
"Look at what they're wearing," I instructed.
"Jackets and scarves," they replied.
"This picture was taken yesterday. Stonehenge is in the south of England." They nodded. I continued, "We'll be there in two weeks and we'll be well north of Stonehenge."
Blank looks. Then the Aha! moment when they realized it would be much, much cooler in Scotland and England than it is here. Time to rethink the wardrobe choices.
A second photo in this Sunday's paper caught my eye. It accompanied a full-page ad from BP with Robert Dudley saying that he knows the beaches very well since he grew up in Mississippi. The photo showed a whole line of what looked like only men wearing blue jeans, tee-shirts, gloves, and wellies. They were filling plastic bags with debris while three foreman-looking people either looked on or were handing out more plastic bags.
In shock and skepticism I showed it to Mr. Gaelic. "Can you believe how racist this is?"
He looked closely. All the men at the water line were black; the three "overseers" were white.
"Is it racist or reality?" he asked. "Maybe it's the only job they can find and maybe nobody else wants the job. But also, contrast this to the other pictures we've seen of cleanup crews wearing full body jumpsuits and heavy-duty rubber gloves."
It wasn't until I went searching online for a copy of the photo from the ad to include in this blog that I discovered what I consider to be the truth behind the picture. I never found the picture online. What I did find were article from such widely read sources as The Root, AlterNet, and The Stranger all noting that, while coastal residents are out of work, BP is using prison work crews for cleanup. What BP gets by hiring prison crews is cheap labor, people who won't talk to the press, and a hefty tax write-off.
I jumped to conclusions about a photo without having all the information.
Sometimes a picture is worth more than a thousand words. Sometimes it's just the tip of the iceberg.
2.8.10
It Tastes Like Beef
When Mr. Gaelic’s sister Flannery was twelve, they went with their grandfather to a country fair. Flannery was hungry so her grandfather bought her a bowl of stew. She gobbled it down, saying how yummy it was. After her grandfather told her it was goat stew, she said it tasted horrible and never wanted to eat goat ever again.
When I brought home venison that my archery coach took down, my girls gobbled up the chili I made with it. I never told them it was venison. Mr. Gaelic, on the other hand, had trouble getting it down. “Too gamy,” was his excuse.
Our family is part of a meat co-op in which the cows are all grass-fed, never grain fed. It makes for a denser, beefier flavor. But eating organic can be expensive. Ground beef is $4.50 per pound. T-bones are $17.00 per pound. To keep costs down, I try offal occasionally. The problem is that Mr. Gaelic is well aware of what “cut” of beef I’m serving.
When I served beef tongue with a Dijon-horseradish cream sauce, he moved the pieces of meat around on his plate and tried to hide them underneath his already-eaten corn cob. The kids ate the beef but didn’t like the sauce.
Mr. Gaelic gets squeamish whenever I order sweetbreads at a restaurant. He doesn’t do a good job of trying to keep that a secret. I can see it in his eyes. Next time more offal is on the menu at home, Mr. Gaelic will be banned from the kitchen. What he doesn’t know won’t harm him. It’ll taste just like beef.
When I brought home venison that my archery coach took down, my girls gobbled up the chili I made with it. I never told them it was venison. Mr. Gaelic, on the other hand, had trouble getting it down. “Too gamy,” was his excuse.
Our family is part of a meat co-op in which the cows are all grass-fed, never grain fed. It makes for a denser, beefier flavor. But eating organic can be expensive. Ground beef is $4.50 per pound. T-bones are $17.00 per pound. To keep costs down, I try offal occasionally. The problem is that Mr. Gaelic is well aware of what “cut” of beef I’m serving.
When I served beef tongue with a Dijon-horseradish cream sauce, he moved the pieces of meat around on his plate and tried to hide them underneath his already-eaten corn cob. The kids ate the beef but didn’t like the sauce.
Mr. Gaelic gets squeamish whenever I order sweetbreads at a restaurant. He doesn’t do a good job of trying to keep that a secret. I can see it in his eyes. Next time more offal is on the menu at home, Mr. Gaelic will be banned from the kitchen. What he doesn’t know won’t harm him. It’ll taste just like beef.
30.7.10
Love in the Matinee
Last week another blogger was commenting on how watching rom-coms makes her fantasize about Prince Charming riding up on a white horse, sweeping her off her feet, and riding off together into the sunset. Having grown up in a very small Southern town, most of the folks who graduated high school with me stayed in that small town, got married, and had babies. All before I had even graduated from college. Which I did in three years.
I would wonder if I’d ever get married. Ever find my Prince Charming. I felt like an old maid at the ripe old age of 21. And I had two scapegoats for my singlehood. My father and Walt Disney.
My father had high standards for who he thought was appropriate for me to date. He had to considerate of me; he had to be intellectually inquisitive; and he had to be of the same political party as my father.
Walt Disney taught me that all I had to do was wait long enough and some handsome, chiseled hunk of a man would come rescue me from wherever I happened to be. I didn’t have to do anything except look pretty, sing well, and talk to forest animals or mice. “Beauty and the Beast” and “Mulan” came out well after my dating years. But even then the heroine talks to the furniture and china or a lizard with a dragon complex.
Yesterday I stumbled across “Eight Myths Romances Perpetuate.” They are, and I quote:
1. Love Changes Him
2. Sex Solves Problems
3. You Don’t Need His Number (because he’ll always call)
4. You Just Know He’s The One
5. Change Yourself and He’ll Fall Head Over Heels
6. Playing Hard To Get Works
7. If You Run, He’ll Follow
8. Love Knows No Socioeconomic Bounds
Sure, I like to watch rom-coms just like the next girl. But for true escapism, for me, give me something like the newest Star Trek. Nothing like blowing up a few multi-billion dollar starships to set my heart aflutter.
I would wonder if I’d ever get married. Ever find my Prince Charming. I felt like an old maid at the ripe old age of 21. And I had two scapegoats for my singlehood. My father and Walt Disney.
My father had high standards for who he thought was appropriate for me to date. He had to considerate of me; he had to be intellectually inquisitive; and he had to be of the same political party as my father.
Walt Disney taught me that all I had to do was wait long enough and some handsome, chiseled hunk of a man would come rescue me from wherever I happened to be. I didn’t have to do anything except look pretty, sing well, and talk to forest animals or mice. “Beauty and the Beast” and “Mulan” came out well after my dating years. But even then the heroine talks to the furniture and china or a lizard with a dragon complex.
Yesterday I stumbled across “Eight Myths Romances Perpetuate.” They are, and I quote:
1. Love Changes Him
2. Sex Solves Problems
3. You Don’t Need His Number (because he’ll always call)
4. You Just Know He’s The One
5. Change Yourself and He’ll Fall Head Over Heels
6. Playing Hard To Get Works
7. If You Run, He’ll Follow
8. Love Knows No Socioeconomic Bounds
Sure, I like to watch rom-coms just like the next girl. But for true escapism, for me, give me something like the newest Star Trek. Nothing like blowing up a few multi-billion dollar starships to set my heart aflutter.
29.7.10
Hey, My Eyes Are Up Here
Being a tall woman means some men use the excuse of height as a way of looking at my cleavage rather than my eyes during a conversation. Little did I know I was helping their physical fitness.
Researchers in Germany (where else?) studied 200 men for five years and found that those who ogled a woman's breasts for ten minutes daily had lower blood pressure, slower resting heart rates, and fewer cases of coronary artery disease.
So the next time your significant other catches you staring at a pair of jugs just tell her that you're increasing your life expectancy. Which could be cut short by a sharp blow to the head with her skillet if you're not careful.
Researchers in Germany (where else?) studied 200 men for five years and found that those who ogled a woman's breasts for ten minutes daily had lower blood pressure, slower resting heart rates, and fewer cases of coronary artery disease.
So the next time your significant other catches you staring at a pair of jugs just tell her that you're increasing your life expectancy. Which could be cut short by a sharp blow to the head with her skillet if you're not careful.
28.7.10
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
Psst. Wanna know a secret? Come closer and I’ll tell you. [Looks both ways and leans in close to the monitor.] Christmas is on December 25th this year. And Valentine’s Day will be on the 14th of February next year. And your taxes will be due on April 15th.
A neighbor posted a photo online of her cat on top of the tax forms she was filling out. She LOL’d that they were late again this year filing the taxes. Why do people drag out the agony for so long?
Unlike Easter, Shrove Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, which are always on a Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday respectively but move all over the calendar based on the date of the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (can’t you just imagine the ecclesiastical debate over that one?), the other holidays always fall on the same day. Every year.
So, guys. Let this be your first warning. You have 149 days until Christmas. Don’t let me catch you in the stores on December 24th with only one person marked off your list!
As for birthdays and anniversaries, you’re on your own.
A neighbor posted a photo online of her cat on top of the tax forms she was filling out. She LOL’d that they were late again this year filing the taxes. Why do people drag out the agony for so long?
Unlike Easter, Shrove Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, which are always on a Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday respectively but move all over the calendar based on the date of the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (can’t you just imagine the ecclesiastical debate over that one?), the other holidays always fall on the same day. Every year.
So, guys. Let this be your first warning. You have 149 days until Christmas. Don’t let me catch you in the stores on December 24th with only one person marked off your list!
As for birthdays and anniversaries, you’re on your own.
27.7.10
PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER, itty-bitty living planet
On our recent trip to Britain, we hired a car to drive from London to York and on into Scotland. Along the drive, we all ended up with our own favorite sights. Whenever we'd see our favorite we'd announce it to the entire car.
"Graveyard!" was mine. What can you expect from a genealogist?
"Motorcycle!" was Mr. Gaelic's. Natch. Even going so far as talking to a group of riders at one of the rest areas while the girls went to the toilet. (Don't call it a bathroom. It's called the toilet.)
"Would you look at that shot!" exclaimed artistic Finola.
Deirdre's was "SHEEP!"
Maeve mooched off everyone else's favorites.
Another thing that we saw a lot of during our trip was alternative energy sources. In the Midlands, you could pass numerous nuclear plants within an hour's drive. Nearing Scotland, wind farms dotted the ridges of mountains. Seeing the juxtaposition of nuclear plants and wind farms on one side of the valley and the ruins of a castle or abbey on the other side didn't seem to bother the Brits. Were there ever calls for maintaining the vistas as there are in America?
Folks in Massachusetts cry foul when their view of the Atlantic may look like a picket fence with the addition of windmills placed eight miles from shore on barges. The administration looks to be ready to scrap Yucca Mountain plans. States express concerns for having spent rods transported through their borders on the way out West.
From what I've read, all forms of energy have both pros and cons. Coal, oil, hydro, solar, wind, nuclear, you name it. But according to a report on NPR this morning, there is a clean energy source that doesn't produce any carbon dioxide. Does the future lie in nuclear fusion?
"Graveyard!" was mine. What can you expect from a genealogist?
"Motorcycle!" was Mr. Gaelic's. Natch. Even going so far as talking to a group of riders at one of the rest areas while the girls went to the toilet. (Don't call it a bathroom. It's called the toilet.)
"Would you look at that shot!" exclaimed artistic Finola.
Deirdre's was "SHEEP!"
Maeve mooched off everyone else's favorites.
Another thing that we saw a lot of during our trip was alternative energy sources. In the Midlands, you could pass numerous nuclear plants within an hour's drive. Nearing Scotland, wind farms dotted the ridges of mountains. Seeing the juxtaposition of nuclear plants and wind farms on one side of the valley and the ruins of a castle or abbey on the other side didn't seem to bother the Brits. Were there ever calls for maintaining the vistas as there are in America?
Folks in Massachusetts cry foul when their view of the Atlantic may look like a picket fence with the addition of windmills placed eight miles from shore on barges. The administration looks to be ready to scrap Yucca Mountain plans. States express concerns for having spent rods transported through their borders on the way out West.
From what I've read, all forms of energy have both pros and cons. Coal, oil, hydro, solar, wind, nuclear, you name it. But according to a report on NPR this morning, there is a clean energy source that doesn't produce any carbon dioxide. Does the future lie in nuclear fusion?
26.7.10
When Having It Good Is a Bad Thing
Finola is going away to college next month. The change brought on some anxiety about surviving academically at a challenging school, integrating socially, and just leaving home. Mr. Gaelic and I tried to assuage her fears by explaining that 1) in the past year she took four AP classes which are basically college level classes, 2) the house she's been assigned to sounds like it's full of people just like her, and 3) she's been going to resident summer camps since she was seven.
That brought up a discussion of Mr. Gaelic's and my college experiences. Whereas Finola isn't chomping at the bit to get away from here, I, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get the hell outta Dodge.
It's not that I didn't love my parents. They gave me as much love and attention as they were capable of while dealing with an older sibling who had mental and emotional problems.
But in my small Southern town of 7,000, you run with the same group of kids in everything you do. The same people are in your class at school, your church choir and youth group, your Girl Scout troop, your ballet class, and on and on and on. And when a certain wannabe-Alpha girl gets mad at you in kindergarten for having a boy like you before a boy liked her, she can turn the other girls against you. For life. Or at least for twelve long years.
In high school it didn't help matters that I was taller than every boy except two. Or that I was the valedictorian. Or the county winner of the Junior Miss pageant. More flame for the fire of making me a pariah. I couldn't wait to get out of that little town.
Thoughts of Hemingway, Faulkner, Wolfe, and Williams rushed in as I was explaining this to Finola. One thing makes for great writers - a tortured life. Finola has written several multi-chapter stories that she's published on Internet sites. Being the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad mother that I am, I turned to Finola and told her she'd never be a great writer. "You had too good of a childhood."
She agreed.
That brought up a discussion of Mr. Gaelic's and my college experiences. Whereas Finola isn't chomping at the bit to get away from here, I, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get the hell outta Dodge.
It's not that I didn't love my parents. They gave me as much love and attention as they were capable of while dealing with an older sibling who had mental and emotional problems.
But in my small Southern town of 7,000, you run with the same group of kids in everything you do. The same people are in your class at school, your church choir and youth group, your Girl Scout troop, your ballet class, and on and on and on. And when a certain wannabe-Alpha girl gets mad at you in kindergarten for having a boy like you before a boy liked her, she can turn the other girls against you. For life. Or at least for twelve long years.
In high school it didn't help matters that I was taller than every boy except two. Or that I was the valedictorian. Or the county winner of the Junior Miss pageant. More flame for the fire of making me a pariah. I couldn't wait to get out of that little town.
Thoughts of Hemingway, Faulkner, Wolfe, and Williams rushed in as I was explaining this to Finola. One thing makes for great writers - a tortured life. Finola has written several multi-chapter stories that she's published on Internet sites. Being the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad mother that I am, I turned to Finola and told her she'd never be a great writer. "You had too good of a childhood."
She agreed.
23.7.10
What Have I Done?
Holy Shit! I can't believe I just did that. And in public to boot! It's like announcing to the world that you're going to lose 20 pounds by Christmas. Everyone will know if you don't. Crap! What have I gotten myself into?
It all began innocently enough. Reading the New York Times. Then one article touched a nerve. How many times have a told Deirdre, my middle daughter, that she has too many clothes and nothing to wear? But am I guilty of the same thing?
I never thought so. I'm judicious in what I buy, making sure that things fill gaps in my wardrobe and match the colors that I already wear. Okay, okay. I also indulge in finer pieces such as silks and cashmeres. But in my defense, I know a terrific outlet mall with real outlets not just make-believe outlets where I've been known to buy $600 pairs of pants for $30 and $800 dresses for $60. And I sew a lot of my own clothes, especially the cashmeres and designer fabrics.
When I read the article, it was very easy to click on the outside links to the clothing diet programs. Yep, clothing diet. There are two extremes. One was to make do with only six articles of clothing (not including underwear, shoes, or accessories) for a month. The other was to not purchase any new clothing items for a year.
Damn, I hate the internet. Why don't I read hard copies of newspapers? That way I couldn't click from one of the programs to the "Like" button on Facebook. Maybe none of my friends will notice that I "liked" a clothing diet of not purchasing any new clothes for a year.
Or maybe I should stick to my guns and try it. Can I do it? Updates to come.
It all began innocently enough. Reading the New York Times. Then one article touched a nerve. How many times have a told Deirdre, my middle daughter, that she has too many clothes and nothing to wear? But am I guilty of the same thing?
I never thought so. I'm judicious in what I buy, making sure that things fill gaps in my wardrobe and match the colors that I already wear. Okay, okay. I also indulge in finer pieces such as silks and cashmeres. But in my defense, I know a terrific outlet mall with real outlets not just make-believe outlets where I've been known to buy $600 pairs of pants for $30 and $800 dresses for $60. And I sew a lot of my own clothes, especially the cashmeres and designer fabrics.
When I read the article, it was very easy to click on the outside links to the clothing diet programs. Yep, clothing diet. There are two extremes. One was to make do with only six articles of clothing (not including underwear, shoes, or accessories) for a month. The other was to not purchase any new clothing items for a year.
Damn, I hate the internet. Why don't I read hard copies of newspapers? That way I couldn't click from one of the programs to the "Like" button on Facebook. Maybe none of my friends will notice that I "liked" a clothing diet of not purchasing any new clothes for a year.
Or maybe I should stick to my guns and try it. Can I do it? Updates to come.
22.7.10
Turning Over a New Page
Three days ago, Amazon announced that sales of e-books are surpassing sales of actual books. Reading a Kindle, iPad, or Nook while on a business trip or even a commute on the subway makes sense to me. Newspapers and magazines are also available electronically. It's easier on the environment. Fewer trees used to make paper editions. Makes sense, but not my cup of tea.
Once upon a time in America, few people had the means to buy books. They were very expensive. The folks at Colonial Williamsburg will tell you how a blank ledger book could cost almost a month's wages. Even though costs came down, books still remained out of reach for most. Enter Andrew Carnegie and his Robber Baron philanthropy.
Libraries put books within reach of thousands. But slowly books became cheaper for people to own, becoming like a lot of other things in American society - disposable. Leaving a paperback on the beach wasn't a big deal. Just buy another one.
Last night, Deirdre (my middle child) and I went to a lecture by a noted historian and author who also writes historical fiction along with her nonfiction. Deirdre loves the historical fiction and has begun reading the nonfiction as well. After the lecture, the author was available to sign her books. The queue passed the table with stacks of her books for sale. Our two books were brought from home, purchased years ago for one and months ago for the other.
In line in front of us was a lady with a box of audio CDs she wanted signed. The author had a most difficult time signing the box since the front was dark colored and the reverse was filled with writing. She had to resort to a Sharpie to make it visible. But it was back to a pen for our books which she signed on the page before the title page with a huge flourishy signature.
Having watched her confusion of dealing with signing a box, which is still a sale, I walked away wondering how in the world she would sign a Kindle.
Once upon a time in America, few people had the means to buy books. They were very expensive. The folks at Colonial Williamsburg will tell you how a blank ledger book could cost almost a month's wages. Even though costs came down, books still remained out of reach for most. Enter Andrew Carnegie and his Robber Baron philanthropy.
Libraries put books within reach of thousands. But slowly books became cheaper for people to own, becoming like a lot of other things in American society - disposable. Leaving a paperback on the beach wasn't a big deal. Just buy another one.
Last night, Deirdre (my middle child) and I went to a lecture by a noted historian and author who also writes historical fiction along with her nonfiction. Deirdre loves the historical fiction and has begun reading the nonfiction as well. After the lecture, the author was available to sign her books. The queue passed the table with stacks of her books for sale. Our two books were brought from home, purchased years ago for one and months ago for the other.
In line in front of us was a lady with a box of audio CDs she wanted signed. The author had a most difficult time signing the box since the front was dark colored and the reverse was filled with writing. She had to resort to a Sharpie to make it visible. But it was back to a pen for our books which she signed on the page before the title page with a huge flourishy signature.
Having watched her confusion of dealing with signing a box, which is still a sale, I walked away wondering how in the world she would sign a Kindle.
21.7.10
Said the Spider to the Fly
Two weeks of weather bliss! Scotland clocked in with highs in the high 60s to low 70s. London was warmer with mid-70s. Rain or sprinkles every day. Hey, you get used to it.
Much better than the weather back home during the same time. There it was over 100 for almost two straight weeks, so the rumor goes. It's much "better" this week. Highs in the low to mid 90s with chances of afternoon thunderstorms. Those Three H's of summer - hazy, hot, and humid. Ugh!
It'll be like stepping into a torture chamber for me today. The director of the ballet summer camp is due for knee surgery this morning. Which means I'll be teaching ballet and running the camp. No sweat!
But I will be sweating. Buckets. The name of the camp? Ballet In The Grass. Yep, you guessed it. We'll be outside. Not only is my body still on Greenwich Mean Time, it's also still acclimated to British weather.
Could the weather gods be persuaded to send some North Sea breezes my way today?
Much better than the weather back home during the same time. There it was over 100 for almost two straight weeks, so the rumor goes. It's much "better" this week. Highs in the low to mid 90s with chances of afternoon thunderstorms. Those Three H's of summer - hazy, hot, and humid. Ugh!
It'll be like stepping into a torture chamber for me today. The director of the ballet summer camp is due for knee surgery this morning. Which means I'll be teaching ballet and running the camp. No sweat!
But I will be sweating. Buckets. The name of the camp? Ballet In The Grass. Yep, you guessed it. We'll be outside. Not only is my body still on Greenwich Mean Time, it's also still acclimated to British weather.
Could the weather gods be persuaded to send some North Sea breezes my way today?
20.7.10
The Non-IT Girl
My plan for today was to upload my photos from the recent trip to Facebook and to blog about the trip with photos. Yeah, right. Not happening. I'm blaming it on the jet-lag. That brain fog is quite thick still.
The directions are easy, really. Insert the computer stick thingy which Mr. Gaelic calls a flash drive into the laptop. Then the laptop is supposed to automatically download the files to my hard drive. All that worked perfectly.
Now I can't find my pictures on my laptop. I searched the recent downloads, the My Pictures folder, the recent documents. I opened Picasa and every other program that has anything whatsoever to do with photos or video. They're nowhere to be found.
A pictorial blog will have to wait until my IT-guy gets home from his day job.
The directions are easy, really. Insert the computer stick thingy which Mr. Gaelic calls a flash drive into the laptop. Then the laptop is supposed to automatically download the files to my hard drive. All that worked perfectly.
Now I can't find my pictures on my laptop. I searched the recent downloads, the My Pictures folder, the recent documents. I opened Picasa and every other program that has anything whatsoever to do with photos or video. They're nowhere to be found.
A pictorial blog will have to wait until my IT-guy gets home from his day job.
19.7.10
How'd THAT Happen?
All those magazines surrounding the checkout counters at grocery stores tout how to lose weight. "Lose X pounds in X weeks!" "Drop Y pounds by walking!" they scream at you while picturing smiling, supposedly-newly trim women in spandex or, worse, swimsuits. And always in red. To grab your attention. Which works. Especially with men. Ever seen how a woman wearing a red bikini at the beach gets more stares from men than the polka-dot wearing woman? But I digress.
This morning, after two weeks on holiday with the family to Scotland and England, the scale had fantastic news. I dropped FIVE pounds!!! In two weeks!
Maeve, my youngest, asked if it was due to all the walking. After all, exploring ancient castles means lots of walking. Yes was my immediate answer. But then I stopped to think. That's always a dangerous thing when a woman thinks. Of course, men stop to think and sometimes never start again. Oops, another jet-lag induced digression.
My conclusion is that walking was only half of the equation. Sure, the calorie output was upped. But the calorie intake was reduced as well. Snacking was much more difficult while on holiday. No easy access to even healthy snacks. No late night TV watching with a bowl of popcorn. Fewer nightcaps, mostly because buying a drink at a time rather than pouring one at home really adds to the cost of the trip.
At mealtime, I noticed that I ate larger portions than I normally do at home. And felt a guilty pleasure, thinking that packing on the pounds is just part of vacation.
Now I'm wondering if I can keep it up here. Do I have enough willpower to walk more and snack less?
This morning, after two weeks on holiday with the family to Scotland and England, the scale had fantastic news. I dropped FIVE pounds!!! In two weeks!
Maeve, my youngest, asked if it was due to all the walking. After all, exploring ancient castles means lots of walking. Yes was my immediate answer. But then I stopped to think. That's always a dangerous thing when a woman thinks. Of course, men stop to think and sometimes never start again. Oops, another jet-lag induced digression.
My conclusion is that walking was only half of the equation. Sure, the calorie output was upped. But the calorie intake was reduced as well. Snacking was much more difficult while on holiday. No easy access to even healthy snacks. No late night TV watching with a bowl of popcorn. Fewer nightcaps, mostly because buying a drink at a time rather than pouring one at home really adds to the cost of the trip.
At mealtime, I noticed that I ate larger portions than I normally do at home. And felt a guilty pleasure, thinking that packing on the pounds is just part of vacation.
Now I'm wondering if I can keep it up here. Do I have enough willpower to walk more and snack less?
1.7.10
Bound Check
Testing . . . one, two, three. Is this thing on?
It's always amazed me that in the high heat of summer people schlep off to the beach to roast themselves even more. I mean, you complain about the heat and humidity where you live and then decamp where the main activities include lying on the ground with only a towel beneath you and the sun glaring overhead. It's just like the folks who cursed the weather gods for Snowmageddon then complained when there wasn't enough fresh new powder on the slopes of their choice for the ultimate skiing experience.
By all accounts, most Americans aren't able to jet off to the Chilean mountains in August or to Phuket for Christmas. Most of us scrimp and save for years to afford our dream vacation. As a child, I remember a big jar for spare change that we dubbed our New York jar. I think we saved for six years to be able to pay for a trip to New York City in which we drove to avoid airfare, used a half-off coupon from the Entertainment Book to pay for the hotel, and ate early-bird dinners at a reduced cost.
My children don't know how fortunate they are. In 24 hours, we'll be leaving for our family holiday. Finally, I'll feel like a jet-setter heading off to different climes. The Weather Channel reports that the high will be 79°. After two plus weeks of 90+° temps here, we'll need jackets for the cooler nighttime temperatures with lows in the mid-50s.
Passports? Check. Tickets? Check. Itinerary? Check. Walking shoes? Check. Dress for theatre? Check. House sitter? Check.
Where are we bound? Scotland and England! Where else would the Gaelic family go?
It's always amazed me that in the high heat of summer people schlep off to the beach to roast themselves even more. I mean, you complain about the heat and humidity where you live and then decamp where the main activities include lying on the ground with only a towel beneath you and the sun glaring overhead. It's just like the folks who cursed the weather gods for Snowmageddon then complained when there wasn't enough fresh new powder on the slopes of their choice for the ultimate skiing experience.
By all accounts, most Americans aren't able to jet off to the Chilean mountains in August or to Phuket for Christmas. Most of us scrimp and save for years to afford our dream vacation. As a child, I remember a big jar for spare change that we dubbed our New York jar. I think we saved for six years to be able to pay for a trip to New York City in which we drove to avoid airfare, used a half-off coupon from the Entertainment Book to pay for the hotel, and ate early-bird dinners at a reduced cost.
My children don't know how fortunate they are. In 24 hours, we'll be leaving for our family holiday. Finally, I'll feel like a jet-setter heading off to different climes. The Weather Channel reports that the high will be 79°. After two plus weeks of 90+° temps here, we'll need jackets for the cooler nighttime temperatures with lows in the mid-50s.
Passports? Check. Tickets? Check. Itinerary? Check. Walking shoes? Check. Dress for theatre? Check. House sitter? Check.
Where are we bound? Scotland and England! Where else would the Gaelic family go?
30.6.10
That's NEAT
Mr. Gaelic's office provides employees at a certain level or higher, and their spouses, with free extensive wellness programs including annual physicals, mammograms, colonoscopies, heart stress tests, hearing screenings, eye exams, complete blood work (amounting to over ten pages of reports), pap smears, skin cancer screening, and nutritional and physical coaches to keep you on track. As part of that, they recently emailed a video about how some people seem to be more metabolically advantaged than other people. You know the sort -- those people who can eat whatever they want and never gain an ounce.
I have to fight to keep my weight in check. Sure I'm at the gym or the ballet studio almost every day. But that's because I have the appetite of a teenage boy. Of course the opposite could be true that I have the appetite of a teenage boy because I work out so often.
Either way, I'm not sure I buy into the theory that my wellness clinic is putting forth. The latest video suggests that people who fidget have better weight management because of something called NEAT: non-exercise activity thermo-genesis. So for those of us, who pace the floor, tap our fingers, bounce our feet, and shift our weight when standing, all of that extra activity throughout the day can really add up. Some days on the treadmill it seems like an eternity to burn just 10 calories. That's like a couple of Tic-Tacs.
If I start bouncing off the walls and not sitting still, maybe I can become one of those metabolically advantaged people. Then I won't worry how many minutes I need to be on the rowing machine to make up for my Phish Food indiscretion the night before.
I have to fight to keep my weight in check. Sure I'm at the gym or the ballet studio almost every day. But that's because I have the appetite of a teenage boy. Of course the opposite could be true that I have the appetite of a teenage boy because I work out so often.
Either way, I'm not sure I buy into the theory that my wellness clinic is putting forth. The latest video suggests that people who fidget have better weight management because of something called NEAT: non-exercise activity thermo-genesis. So for those of us, who pace the floor, tap our fingers, bounce our feet, and shift our weight when standing, all of that extra activity throughout the day can really add up. Some days on the treadmill it seems like an eternity to burn just 10 calories. That's like a couple of Tic-Tacs.
If I start bouncing off the walls and not sitting still, maybe I can become one of those metabolically advantaged people. Then I won't worry how many minutes I need to be on the rowing machine to make up for my Phish Food indiscretion the night before.
29.6.10
Say Goodnight, Gaelic
That urge just gets worse. It grows and can’t be silenced. It craves attention. Agitated. Anxious. Apprehensive. It insists that you answer to its demands right effing now. You need a fix.
Even fits of nostalgia can bring on that same intensity of need. The need to feel part of a place and time that doesn’t exist anymore. With age, the memories of places fade. The need to reestablish those sights and sounds and tastes and smells rises up within you. Being the oldest generation you have no one to ask. Sadness begins to sink in with the realization of loss.
But wait! There’s hope! What about that guy from your hometown who knew everybody and everybody’s family tree? Let’s ask Mikey! He’ll know!
“Hey Mikey! What was the name of that burger place on Avenue ‘C’ on the way to ‘A’ City?”
Suddenly, others chime in. “It was ‘M’ Burger.”
“Then what was the burger joint on 4th Street?”
“It was 3rd Street not 4th and it was ‘DK’. The one on 4th was ‘KK’,” Mikey corrects.
At which people exclaim, “Wow, what a memory you have!” While others kid, “You know how it is with people that age … they can remember stuff from way back but can’t remember what they had for breakfast.”
Mikey complains, “Hmmm … “
Then someone pipes up, “I thought it was ‘C’ Burger.”
Mikey goes on, “That was the name of the place that moved in after ‘DK’ closed.”
You decide to explain, “I can’t remember way back or breakfast either. I can’t remember my children’s names when I’m calling them. I must have Alzheimer’s.” But you immediately forge ahead with, “Here’s a toughie: what was the soft-serve ice cream place near ‘JJ’ grocery store at US ## and ‘R’ Drive?”
“Oh, that was ‘CK’,” someone chirps in.
Mikey complains, “I have a hard enough time keeping up with ‘A’, much less ‘R’ City!”
You kindly say, “Thanks, everyone! I needed a nostalgia fix.”
Until someone else offers up, “What about ‘T’ Burger? That was my favorite … 5 for $1 hamburgers!”
Mikey’s back in with, “I still have a picture I took of the ‘T’ Burger before it closed. Yeah, I liked going there too. But my FAVORITE burger place was ‘R’ next door to The ‘P’ Theatre.”
You draw a blank and retort, “Darn it! Which one was that one?”
Mikey reminds you, “’T’ Burger was by the viaduct in ‘A’, close to your house.”
You cover yourself with, “I told y’all I can’t remember anything! What street did I live on?”
Mikey, either exasperated or joking, deadpans, “’H’ Avenue.”
You close with, “Mr. Gaelic says they used too much blonde the last time they did my hair. Goodnight, Gracie,” half expecting someone to ask, “Who’s Gracie?"
Even fits of nostalgia can bring on that same intensity of need. The need to feel part of a place and time that doesn’t exist anymore. With age, the memories of places fade. The need to reestablish those sights and sounds and tastes and smells rises up within you. Being the oldest generation you have no one to ask. Sadness begins to sink in with the realization of loss.
But wait! There’s hope! What about that guy from your hometown who knew everybody and everybody’s family tree? Let’s ask Mikey! He’ll know!
“Hey Mikey! What was the name of that burger place on Avenue ‘C’ on the way to ‘A’ City?”
Suddenly, others chime in. “It was ‘M’ Burger.”
“Then what was the burger joint on 4th Street?”
“It was 3rd Street not 4th and it was ‘DK’. The one on 4th was ‘KK’,” Mikey corrects.
At which people exclaim, “Wow, what a memory you have!” While others kid, “You know how it is with people that age … they can remember stuff from way back but can’t remember what they had for breakfast.”
Mikey complains, “Hmmm … “
Then someone pipes up, “I thought it was ‘C’ Burger.”
Mikey goes on, “That was the name of the place that moved in after ‘DK’ closed.”
You decide to explain, “I can’t remember way back or breakfast either. I can’t remember my children’s names when I’m calling them. I must have Alzheimer’s.” But you immediately forge ahead with, “Here’s a toughie: what was the soft-serve ice cream place near ‘JJ’ grocery store at US ## and ‘R’ Drive?”
“Oh, that was ‘CK’,” someone chirps in.
Mikey complains, “I have a hard enough time keeping up with ‘A’, much less ‘R’ City!”
You kindly say, “Thanks, everyone! I needed a nostalgia fix.”
Until someone else offers up, “What about ‘T’ Burger? That was my favorite … 5 for $1 hamburgers!”
Mikey’s back in with, “I still have a picture I took of the ‘T’ Burger before it closed. Yeah, I liked going there too. But my FAVORITE burger place was ‘R’ next door to The ‘P’ Theatre.”
You draw a blank and retort, “Darn it! Which one was that one?”
Mikey reminds you, “’T’ Burger was by the viaduct in ‘A’, close to your house.”
You cover yourself with, “I told y’all I can’t remember anything! What street did I live on?”
Mikey, either exasperated or joking, deadpans, “’H’ Avenue.”
You close with, “Mr. Gaelic says they used too much blonde the last time they did my hair. Goodnight, Gracie,” half expecting someone to ask, “Who’s Gracie?"
28.6.10
Talk of the Noun
Confucius say, “A single conversation across the table with a wise person is worth a month’s study of books.” It may not have been Confucius; but, it is a Chinese proverb. It’s funny how on-target proverbs can be. Even if the conversation is across the ‘net rather than a table.
There’s this friend with whom I text message and IM quite a bit. This is the type friend that you can talk to about anything and everything and nothing. Until the cows come home and even after that. The last time we were chatting online, we were discussing keeping loaded guns in your house. Somehow that led to a comment of calling me a Menshevik. Don’t ask; it’s too convoluted to try to explain.
I asked for, but did not receive, a definition of the word. “You’ll remember it better if you look it up.” Dammit. I felt like a school girl being chided by her teacher.
After googling Menshevik, I felt even sillier. I swear I had many a history class in college. My major was International Relations. I felt about this big [holding pointer finger and thumb about a millimeter apart]. In my defense, my area of interest was Western Europe with a concentration on England from the Angevins to the Tudors, *not* Russian and Soviet history. My love of 19th century Russian literature couldn’t help me either.
Having friends challenge you to be a better version of yourself is a great thing. Having friends that you can attempt an intellectual jab at in some future conversation is priceless.
There’s this friend with whom I text message and IM quite a bit. This is the type friend that you can talk to about anything and everything and nothing. Until the cows come home and even after that. The last time we were chatting online, we were discussing keeping loaded guns in your house. Somehow that led to a comment of calling me a Menshevik. Don’t ask; it’s too convoluted to try to explain.
I asked for, but did not receive, a definition of the word. “You’ll remember it better if you look it up.” Dammit. I felt like a school girl being chided by her teacher.
After googling Menshevik, I felt even sillier. I swear I had many a history class in college. My major was International Relations. I felt about this big [holding pointer finger and thumb about a millimeter apart]. In my defense, my area of interest was Western Europe with a concentration on England from the Angevins to the Tudors, *not* Russian and Soviet history. My love of 19th century Russian literature couldn’t help me either.
Having friends challenge you to be a better version of yourself is a great thing. Having friends that you can attempt an intellectual jab at in some future conversation is priceless.
27.6.10
My Sob Story
The fits of crying began in earnest over my decaf latte and the morning newspaper. And the crying jags became a constant as the day wore on.
The world isn't in such a mess that reading about the state of things provoked tears. Even worse than that! It was a love story sixty years in the making. Buried near the back of the Sunday Style section are the wedding, engagement, and anniversary announcements. Usually people only read those if someone they know is in the paper. But as a genealogist, reading about births, marriages, and deaths is a daily occurrence.
The article that brought tears to my eyes was about a couple who couldn't get married. No, not star-crossed lovers or two people in other marriages. Two men. In earlier years, they circumvented laws of inheritance and privacy by having one legally adopt the other. Then something happened. All of a sudden it was legal for gays and lesbians to marry. (They annulled the adoption well before the wedding.) Their lives have been rich and full and they plan to remain together forever. Even after death, their ashes will be placed side by side in Arlington National Cemetery, both having served our country during World War II.
The next hankie soaker did not take me so much by surprise. Enough people had told me that Toy Story 3 is a real tear-jerker. Waterproof mascara to the rescue! Sure enough. The tears started rolling early in the movie. Without giving too much away, it should be safe to say that Andy is heading off to college in this threequel. With my eldest heading off to college herself in two months, the movie took on a new gravity as seen through the eyes of a mother about to watch as her first baby leaves home. My critique of the movie? Three thumbs way up.
Both heartwarming stories. Both stories of the power of love and devotion. To answer my youngest when she asked if you can cry tears of joy. Emphatically. Yes!
The world isn't in such a mess that reading about the state of things provoked tears. Even worse than that! It was a love story sixty years in the making. Buried near the back of the Sunday Style section are the wedding, engagement, and anniversary announcements. Usually people only read those if someone they know is in the paper. But as a genealogist, reading about births, marriages, and deaths is a daily occurrence.
The article that brought tears to my eyes was about a couple who couldn't get married. No, not star-crossed lovers or two people in other marriages. Two men. In earlier years, they circumvented laws of inheritance and privacy by having one legally adopt the other. Then something happened. All of a sudden it was legal for gays and lesbians to marry. (They annulled the adoption well before the wedding.) Their lives have been rich and full and they plan to remain together forever. Even after death, their ashes will be placed side by side in Arlington National Cemetery, both having served our country during World War II.
The next hankie soaker did not take me so much by surprise. Enough people had told me that Toy Story 3 is a real tear-jerker. Waterproof mascara to the rescue! Sure enough. The tears started rolling early in the movie. Without giving too much away, it should be safe to say that Andy is heading off to college in this threequel. With my eldest heading off to college herself in two months, the movie took on a new gravity as seen through the eyes of a mother about to watch as her first baby leaves home. My critique of the movie? Three thumbs way up.
Both heartwarming stories. Both stories of the power of love and devotion. To answer my youngest when she asked if you can cry tears of joy. Emphatically. Yes!
26.6.10
In My (Real) Life
Facebook is the number one online social network in the world. Truth in advertising – I use Facebook as well. I have over 400 “friends” on Facebook. Some of my “friends” have well over 1,000 of their own friends. In actual reality, I have about twenty friends. Of those twenty, only three do I consider close friends.
I can tell when my friends or I am taking a mental vacay because I (like them) am very apt to take inane quizzes such as “Which Sex and the City Girl Are You?” Or “What Decade Are You?” Other folks tend toward Farmville or Sorority Life or some other virtual reality game. Secretly, I love when my friends post their game updates. There’s a way to hide those updates on the news feed but only when they show up in your news feed first.
As of late, I’ve been using Facebook as a news aggregator. I get my news updates and fixes from my select organizations. But the problem is that those pesky “friend” updates get in the way of the newsy updates. Like the guy that went to my high school but graduated two years after me. Or my daughter’s former lacrosse team member’s mother. It’s not that I’m easy and can’t say no. It’s that I was a closet “friend” collector, trying to fulfill the saying that “She who dies with the most friends wins.” In my old age, I’m becoming more like Thoreau and his three chairs.
My conclusion? I plan to ruthlessly unfriend many of my Facebook “friends”. My cousin’s high school sweetheart? Gone. My former co-worker who now lives in Greece? Gone. Two friends from actual reality who have since passed away? As much as I love their memories, their Facebook pages have become remembrances by people who can’t seem to come to grips with their own mortality. Gone.
After all, as Samuel Johnston said, True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice.
I can tell when my friends or I am taking a mental vacay because I (like them) am very apt to take inane quizzes such as “Which Sex and the City Girl Are You?” Or “What Decade Are You?” Other folks tend toward Farmville or Sorority Life or some other virtual reality game. Secretly, I love when my friends post their game updates. There’s a way to hide those updates on the news feed but only when they show up in your news feed first.
As of late, I’ve been using Facebook as a news aggregator. I get my news updates and fixes from my select organizations. But the problem is that those pesky “friend” updates get in the way of the newsy updates. Like the guy that went to my high school but graduated two years after me. Or my daughter’s former lacrosse team member’s mother. It’s not that I’m easy and can’t say no. It’s that I was a closet “friend” collector, trying to fulfill the saying that “She who dies with the most friends wins.” In my old age, I’m becoming more like Thoreau and his three chairs.
My conclusion? I plan to ruthlessly unfriend many of my Facebook “friends”. My cousin’s high school sweetheart? Gone. My former co-worker who now lives in Greece? Gone. Two friends from actual reality who have since passed away? As much as I love their memories, their Facebook pages have become remembrances by people who can’t seem to come to grips with their own mortality. Gone.
After all, as Samuel Johnston said, True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice.
25.6.10
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Truth
What happens when your eldest child is accepted into her first-choice Ivy League college? You let her know that you'll do everything in your power to make it happen.
The requisite college t-shirt has been bought. The housing questionnaire has been returned. The summer reading list has begun. Come late August, she'll be off to Massachusetts for orientation.
For anyone who hasn't been through the college application and admission process lately, tuition costs have outpaced the cost of living. It's not unusual for top-tier universities to charge $50,000 per year. When a student graduates, that's close to a quarter million dollars invested in his education.
Perhaps it's because I grew up in a small Southern town of 7,000 where only four other people in my graduating class went away to a four-year college. Perhaps it's because my school counselor advised me that "girls don't apply to the Naval Academy" and offered me no assistance in finding out about Advanced Placement tests or even how to register for the SAT. But with my children, my eldest, I've taken her (with the others tagging along) to schools that I would have dearly loved to have even been aware of when I was applying to colleges. I've offered her suggestions on when and how to take the SAT.
Exposing her to such things stirred her desire to apply to "reach schools" as well as "safety schools". Her reach schools weren't as much of a reach as I had worried they would be. Which now means that she's heading off to a school she fell in love with. Good for her!
Now we have to figure out how to pay for it.
That's when we call in the cavalry. That would be me. I've been a full-time mother since before my third child was born. I am the one that is the security blanket in case Hubby was ever laid off, disabled, or had to take a lesser paying job. Now, with the economy (at least where I live) on the upswing, it shouldn't be a problem to find something, anything to help cover the cost of college. Except that I haven't been in the paying workforce for 13 years and, according to a professional career counselor, my resume "is crap".
There's one other problem with the grand plan. I absolutely love the job I currently have. As my time in my current position grows short, I find myself developing a bit of melancholy. I'll miss the life I lead. I know that working for pay is yet another way of supporting my children and their desires and dreams. (Especially since the second is already looking at private universities and the third already has her heart set on one particular private college.)
In the end, I'll rise to the occasion of being the best mother my children could have. I'll pull on nylons every day and commute to an office. Perhaps between now and September I can find the perfect job for me -- Professional Mom and Wife. Stranger things have happened.
The requisite college t-shirt has been bought. The housing questionnaire has been returned. The summer reading list has begun. Come late August, she'll be off to Massachusetts for orientation.
For anyone who hasn't been through the college application and admission process lately, tuition costs have outpaced the cost of living. It's not unusual for top-tier universities to charge $50,000 per year. When a student graduates, that's close to a quarter million dollars invested in his education.
Perhaps it's because I grew up in a small Southern town of 7,000 where only four other people in my graduating class went away to a four-year college. Perhaps it's because my school counselor advised me that "girls don't apply to the Naval Academy" and offered me no assistance in finding out about Advanced Placement tests or even how to register for the SAT. But with my children, my eldest, I've taken her (with the others tagging along) to schools that I would have dearly loved to have even been aware of when I was applying to colleges. I've offered her suggestions on when and how to take the SAT.
Exposing her to such things stirred her desire to apply to "reach schools" as well as "safety schools". Her reach schools weren't as much of a reach as I had worried they would be. Which now means that she's heading off to a school she fell in love with. Good for her!
Now we have to figure out how to pay for it.
That's when we call in the cavalry. That would be me. I've been a full-time mother since before my third child was born. I am the one that is the security blanket in case Hubby was ever laid off, disabled, or had to take a lesser paying job. Now, with the economy (at least where I live) on the upswing, it shouldn't be a problem to find something, anything to help cover the cost of college. Except that I haven't been in the paying workforce for 13 years and, according to a professional career counselor, my resume "is crap".
There's one other problem with the grand plan. I absolutely love the job I currently have. As my time in my current position grows short, I find myself developing a bit of melancholy. I'll miss the life I lead. I know that working for pay is yet another way of supporting my children and their desires and dreams. (Especially since the second is already looking at private universities and the third already has her heart set on one particular private college.)
In the end, I'll rise to the occasion of being the best mother my children could have. I'll pull on nylons every day and commute to an office. Perhaps between now and September I can find the perfect job for me -- Professional Mom and Wife. Stranger things have happened.
24.8.09
Byron Was Dead: To Begin With
Yet another death in our circle of friends. This time a high school friend of Mr. Gaelic. To quote Mr. Gaelic, Byron "was a creative artist, a radical free spirit and an angry voice in the wilderness of Alabama." The best tribute I've read so far was written by another blogger. As part of the tribute, he posted a video that speaks to the absurdity of it all.
13.8.09
It's All in the Way It's Used
LIBRARY - DAY
Finola, the eldest child, is seated at the computer. Maeve, her youngest sister, stands behind her. Thing One, the male cat, lies curled in a circle on the couch.
Both girls look up when they see Mrs. Gaelic, their mother, walk into the room.
Finola, the eldest child, is seated at the computer. Maeve, her youngest sister, stands behind her. Thing One, the male cat, lies curled in a circle on the couch.
Both girls look up when they see Mrs. Gaelic, their mother, walk into the room.
MAEVE
Guess what we did today?
MRS. GAELIC
What?
MAEVE
We trimmed Thing One's nails because he scratched Finola when she tried to pick him up.
MRS. GAELIC
Did you hold him in a towel?
FINOLA
No. Maeve just held him down while I cut his nails.
MRS. GAELIC
Y'all should do Thing Two's nails since she scratches my furniture.
FINOLA
We would if we could corner her.
Mrs. Gaelic picks up a lap blanket from the couch and walks into the family room.
MRS. GAELIC
Finola, you stay by the door. Maeve, you help me get her.
Maeve and Mrs. Gaelic close in on Thing Two, the female cat, behind the couch. Mrs. Gaelic tries to wrap Thing Two in the blanket as Maeve and Finola gather around Mrs. Gaelic. Thing Two squirms her bottom out of the blanket and immediately lets go a wet kitty fart that send some wet kitty poo flying onto Mrs. Gaelic's hand.
FINOLA
I guess that's where they got the term "She had the sh*t scared out of her" from.
Mrs. Gaelic laughs even though her teenage daughter just used a four-letter word. But in context.
11.8.09
Mama Needs a New Pair of Shoes
Don't you love when your state offers a tax holiday on certain goods? My state held the annual back-to-school tax-free weekend recently. Thankfully, my fashionista teenager was out of the country and was none the wiser that while the cat's the mice will buy.
About thirty miles from my house is an outlet mall; so off we went in the waning hours of the tax holiday weekend. We were on a mission: blue jeans for my youngest daughter who grows like a weed but whose slim frame makes it nearly impossible to buy ready-to-wear that's not cut for the ever expanding waist lines of America's children.
Horror of horrors awaited the 11-year-old. I dragged her into a store for me! Bad Mommy! Buying something for the child then expecting the child to reciprocate and wait patiently for Mommy!
Come close and I'll tell you a secret. I'm a shoe snob. I will only buy really well made shoes. Ladies, check your shoes. If you see a vertical seam on the instep side of the shoe, the manufacturer cut corners by using two pieces of leather to make the shoes. If there's no seam, they used one piece, which takes up more leather, and is therefore more expensive to make.
My shoe snobbery leads to a closet full of mostly designer shoes. But realizing that I could be the next Imelda, I only buy my shoes at outlets or places like DSW.
Having decided on a pair of the baddest, blackest, pointy-toe patent heels to cross my path in years, I resigned myself to paying tax on them since, even at their deeply discounted price, they were over the $100 per item limit for tax free. (I also had a replacement pair of black sandals under my arm.) As the cashier rung up the total, she said if I bought two regularly priced items I could get another thirty percent off the shoes. Any two items. Even two dark chocolate bars of chocolate.
My haul of two pairs of designer shoes, regularly priced at $379.99 and $249.99, plus two bars of Godiva dark chocolate, came to a whopping total of $132. No taxes paid!
About thirty miles from my house is an outlet mall; so off we went in the waning hours of the tax holiday weekend. We were on a mission: blue jeans for my youngest daughter who grows like a weed but whose slim frame makes it nearly impossible to buy ready-to-wear that's not cut for the ever expanding waist lines of America's children.
Horror of horrors awaited the 11-year-old. I dragged her into a store for me! Bad Mommy! Buying something for the child then expecting the child to reciprocate and wait patiently for Mommy!
Come close and I'll tell you a secret. I'm a shoe snob. I will only buy really well made shoes. Ladies, check your shoes. If you see a vertical seam on the instep side of the shoe, the manufacturer cut corners by using two pieces of leather to make the shoes. If there's no seam, they used one piece, which takes up more leather, and is therefore more expensive to make.
My shoe snobbery leads to a closet full of mostly designer shoes. But realizing that I could be the next Imelda, I only buy my shoes at outlets or places like DSW.
Having decided on a pair of the baddest, blackest, pointy-toe patent heels to cross my path in years, I resigned myself to paying tax on them since, even at their deeply discounted price, they were over the $100 per item limit for tax free. (I also had a replacement pair of black sandals under my arm.) As the cashier rung up the total, she said if I bought two regularly priced items I could get another thirty percent off the shoes. Any two items. Even two dark chocolate bars of chocolate.
My haul of two pairs of designer shoes, regularly priced at $379.99 and $249.99, plus two bars of Godiva dark chocolate, came to a whopping total of $132. No taxes paid!
8.8.09
Say When
A few days ago I complained about all the death and sickness around me. To paraphrase Dory, Knock it off, God.
Sitting at my birthday dinner Thursday night, I inquired of Mr. Gaelic how his day had been. Big mistake. He said that he hadn't wanted to tell me because it was my birthday, but that the woman in the office across the hall from his collapsed at her desk from an aneurysm. It took the EMTs over 20 minutes to get there.
Yesterday's mood at his office was very somber. All meetings were cancelled. The news is that they're keeping her on life support until her kids can fly in from Hawaii.
Enough already!
Sitting at my birthday dinner Thursday night, I inquired of Mr. Gaelic how his day had been. Big mistake. He said that he hadn't wanted to tell me because it was my birthday, but that the woman in the office across the hall from his collapsed at her desk from an aneurysm. It took the EMTs over 20 minutes to get there.
Yesterday's mood at his office was very somber. All meetings were cancelled. The news is that they're keeping her on life support until her kids can fly in from Hawaii.
Enough already!
7.8.09
A Wine Is a Terrible Thing to Waste
Six courses. Superb! Wine pairings. Inspired!
To begin...
An interpretation of arctic char and tuna carpaccio served with a Sauvignon Blanc SudTirol “Tramin” 2007
Lobster salad with heirloom tomatoes, diva cucumbers, english peas and Bellavista served with a Roero Arneis “Prunotto” 2008
Carrot flavored pappardelle with a rabbit ragu in a white wine sauce and fresh thyme served with an Aglianico Bisceglia “Terra di Vulcano” 2006
Risotto with saffron, Tuscan Pecorino and fava beans and garlic pesto served with a Barbaresco “Produttori” 2005
Roasted Muscovy duck breast with Trevisan radicchio puree, chicory and raisin timbale and 25 years old Balsamic served with a Giampaolo Motta “Giorgio Primo” 2003
Carnaroli rice pudding parfait with blackberry compote and citrus tuille served with a Maculan “Dindarello” 2006
Before the dessert course, the waiter presented me with a silky tiramisu served in an extra large martini glass complete with a single candle and a rectangle of white chocolate inscribed with Happy Birthday. The only thing better would have been if our table was in the kitchen and the chef was the one telling us about each course rather than the waiter.
To begin...
An interpretation of arctic char and tuna carpaccio served with a Sauvignon Blanc SudTirol “Tramin” 2007
Lobster salad with heirloom tomatoes, diva cucumbers, english peas and Bellavista served with a Roero Arneis “Prunotto” 2008
Carrot flavored pappardelle with a rabbit ragu in a white wine sauce and fresh thyme served with an Aglianico Bisceglia “Terra di Vulcano” 2006
Risotto with saffron, Tuscan Pecorino and fava beans and garlic pesto served with a Barbaresco “Produttori” 2005
Roasted Muscovy duck breast with Trevisan radicchio puree, chicory and raisin timbale and 25 years old Balsamic served with a Giampaolo Motta “Giorgio Primo” 2003
Carnaroli rice pudding parfait with blackberry compote and citrus tuille served with a Maculan “Dindarello” 2006
Before the dessert course, the waiter presented me with a silky tiramisu served in an extra large martini glass complete with a single candle and a rectangle of white chocolate inscribed with Happy Birthday. The only thing better would have been if our table was in the kitchen and the chef was the one telling us about each course rather than the waiter.
5.8.09
My Little Town
Everybody, sing with me now... "Nothing but the dead and dying Back in my little town..." That about sums it up.
I've had enough of death in the past two years to last me well into my 80s. But now, that hooded figure is lurking around again. He took a friend of 20-plus years over the weekend. She was only four months older than I and never smoked a day in her life but succumbed to lung cancer. Speaking of lung cancer and never smoking, the wife of a friend of mine has been diagnosed with it even though she didn't smoke either.
Then there're the brain tumors. A friend and neighbor's tumor was discovered after she had a seizure. Her son had to go back to his city an hour and a half away. She needs someone to stay with her, mostly for balance issues and helping with fine motor skills.
Speaking of staying with friends who need help, I signed up to sit with yet another friend who has colon cancer while his wife is at work. My youngest daughter will go with me since she and his son hang out together at school. His wife warned me that he doesn't look like what I'm used to, having lost his hair and is down to just 125 pounds.
Quite frankly, I'm sick to death of death, dying and bereavement. For once, I'd like to go for more than six months without finding out that another friend has some life-threatening illness.
But the only way to do that is to cut back on the amount of friends we have. Because as the songwriters of this blog's opening song remind us in a different song, "a rock feels no pain and an island never cries."
I've had enough of death in the past two years to last me well into my 80s. But now, that hooded figure is lurking around again. He took a friend of 20-plus years over the weekend. She was only four months older than I and never smoked a day in her life but succumbed to lung cancer. Speaking of lung cancer and never smoking, the wife of a friend of mine has been diagnosed with it even though she didn't smoke either.
Then there're the brain tumors. A friend and neighbor's tumor was discovered after she had a seizure. Her son had to go back to his city an hour and a half away. She needs someone to stay with her, mostly for balance issues and helping with fine motor skills.
Speaking of staying with friends who need help, I signed up to sit with yet another friend who has colon cancer while his wife is at work. My youngest daughter will go with me since she and his son hang out together at school. His wife warned me that he doesn't look like what I'm used to, having lost his hair and is down to just 125 pounds.
Quite frankly, I'm sick to death of death, dying and bereavement. For once, I'd like to go for more than six months without finding out that another friend has some life-threatening illness.
But the only way to do that is to cut back on the amount of friends we have. Because as the songwriters of this blog's opening song remind us in a different song, "a rock feels no pain and an island never cries."
4.8.09
Here a Moo, There a Carrot
Ever noticed how people tend to go green only when it benefits their own bottom line? Think about all the money saved by switching to CFLs, grouping errand runs, replacing old windows, and a myriad of other cost- and environment-saving ideas.
At one of my favorite grocery stores, they give you a credit for each reusable grocery bag you fill up rather than one of theirs. Our parish has a recycling bin next to the trash can (granted this doesn’t save the church any money but it looks responsible). There’s even the Cash for Clunkers program designed to get inefficient cars off the road.
There’s one place that no one goes when talking about climate change – eating meat. Nobody touches the subject. Like it’s a sacred cow or something. But I read something both interesting and disturbing the other day. According to a 2006 United Nations report, raising livestock produces more greenhouse gases than driving cars.
Chew on this for a minute: Consider how much energy is involved in growing the food that is fed to the animals long enough for them to become large enough for slaughter to feed you and me. (Yes, I’m an omnivore. Nothing better than a rare to medium-rare filet.) On top of the energy used to rear animals, there’s also the poop that leaches nitrous oxide into the air and streams. Don’t forget about the methane that they emit.
Carnegie Mellon University found that the average American would do less for the planet by switching to a totally local diet than by going vegetarian one day a week. Just one! That’s like have a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, some fruit or carrot sticks for a snack, veggie lasagna for lunch, a handful of nuts in the afternoon, a plate of baked beans, corn pudding, and creamed spinach for supper, and some popcorn for a late snack.
When you look at it in terms other than micro economics, you’ll be saving more than money. Meat costs more than vegetables. It also adds more calories to your diet. Save money while cutting calories while helping the environment. All by just going vegetarian once a week.
So if my family eats all veggies once a week, can I keep my gas-guzzling SUV?
At one of my favorite grocery stores, they give you a credit for each reusable grocery bag you fill up rather than one of theirs. Our parish has a recycling bin next to the trash can (granted this doesn’t save the church any money but it looks responsible). There’s even the Cash for Clunkers program designed to get inefficient cars off the road.
There’s one place that no one goes when talking about climate change – eating meat. Nobody touches the subject. Like it’s a sacred cow or something. But I read something both interesting and disturbing the other day. According to a 2006 United Nations report, raising livestock produces more greenhouse gases than driving cars.
Chew on this for a minute: Consider how much energy is involved in growing the food that is fed to the animals long enough for them to become large enough for slaughter to feed you and me. (Yes, I’m an omnivore. Nothing better than a rare to medium-rare filet.) On top of the energy used to rear animals, there’s also the poop that leaches nitrous oxide into the air and streams. Don’t forget about the methane that they emit.
Carnegie Mellon University found that the average American would do less for the planet by switching to a totally local diet than by going vegetarian one day a week. Just one! That’s like have a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, some fruit or carrot sticks for a snack, veggie lasagna for lunch, a handful of nuts in the afternoon, a plate of baked beans, corn pudding, and creamed spinach for supper, and some popcorn for a late snack.
When you look at it in terms other than micro economics, you’ll be saving more than money. Meat costs more than vegetables. It also adds more calories to your diet. Save money while cutting calories while helping the environment. All by just going vegetarian once a week.
So if my family eats all veggies once a week, can I keep my gas-guzzling SUV?
3.8.09
You Say It's Your Birthday
I don’t know what’s a better birthday present – starting my birthday week with the Paul McCartney concert or finding my long-lost bestest guy friend on Facebook.
Update of the friend first: He made it out of Iraq alive even though some of his fellow pilots weren’t as lucky. He’s got a brand-new baby girl and enjoyed some very productive turkey hunting.
History lesson for today: I was born on the anniversary of the first wartime use of an atomic bomb. And also Lucille Ball’s birthday. Which sort of explains me as a whole – a redhead with the temper of a nuclear bomb. Oh, wait, that’s redundant. Nevermind.
Sir Paul: Come to find out that our third child’s godfather was attending the concert as part of his 50th Birthday celebration, thanks to his wife’s posting it on Facebook. Rather than fight traffic closer to concert time, we arrived two hours ahead of time, found our friends, and tailgated our way through a couple bottles of sparkling rosé and some wicked vodka tonics. We parted ways at the gate, us to our cheap seats, them to their prime real estate on the field. A little ways into the warm-up act and Mr. Gaelic gets an email on his Blackberry from a friend at his office saying that the man has two extra tickets on the field, do we want them? Do you have to ask?
On the field! Section B, Row 10, Seats 19 and 20! Didn’t have to use the binoculars! Soot on the nose from the fireworks during Live or Let Die. Confetti down the shirt after The End. Stood (or should I say danced?) the entire two and a half hours of Beatles, Wings, and Macca.
So he didn’t play Birthday. Who cares? He played Something.
Update of the friend first: He made it out of Iraq alive even though some of his fellow pilots weren’t as lucky. He’s got a brand-new baby girl and enjoyed some very productive turkey hunting.
History lesson for today: I was born on the anniversary of the first wartime use of an atomic bomb. And also Lucille Ball’s birthday. Which sort of explains me as a whole – a redhead with the temper of a nuclear bomb. Oh, wait, that’s redundant. Nevermind.
Sir Paul: Come to find out that our third child’s godfather was attending the concert as part of his 50th Birthday celebration, thanks to his wife’s posting it on Facebook. Rather than fight traffic closer to concert time, we arrived two hours ahead of time, found our friends, and tailgated our way through a couple bottles of sparkling rosé and some wicked vodka tonics. We parted ways at the gate, us to our cheap seats, them to their prime real estate on the field. A little ways into the warm-up act and Mr. Gaelic gets an email on his Blackberry from a friend at his office saying that the man has two extra tickets on the field, do we want them? Do you have to ask?
On the field! Section B, Row 10, Seats 19 and 20! Didn’t have to use the binoculars! Soot on the nose from the fireworks during Live or Let Die. Confetti down the shirt after The End. Stood (or should I say danced?) the entire two and a half hours of Beatles, Wings, and Macca.
So he didn’t play Birthday. Who cares? He played Something.
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