Getting Smart

I'm finally getting some free time. I don't know why. I think I'm just taking it as opposed to having earned it or having a lull in the action. There is always action. I'm always behind. Today, I should have mowed the lawn before it rained. I should have vacuumed Teddy's fur out of the car. I should have changed the sheets, done laundry, dusted.

Instead, I walked with Teddy today. It was a sweet day for a walk. I may have told you that I'm not a fan of enduring sunshine. I would not be happy in California, Arizona, or New Mexico, though I might try New Mexico some day because the mountains are so bare, seem so open to walking. Plus, there's a great art community there. I'd like that. I'd have to get used to the dazzling sun, though. I prefer clouds. Today, the sun broke through, then the clouds overcame them. Back and forth, the weather tipped. It was perfect.

I went along a trail I usually skip through without seeing. I stopped at a copse of trees, looked at the view of the falls, and considered sitting on the bench. I didn't, but I did get to looking at the bark on the trees. They were all messed up. Damn!

These trees had slash marks in the bark about five feet up. Why can't people leave well enough alone? Then I looked closer. Maybe they were territory markings of the black bear that lives in the neighborhood. I didn't see anything like a pile of garbage or a carcass that would cause territory to be an issue. I didn't want to see either of those things. It would have been ugly, but on top of that, I really don't want a bear to think I'm after its food. Still, I studied these scratches. It didn't exactly look like a kid did it. But if it were a bear, it would have to be a short bear. Fur stuck to the bark, tan fur. Not a kid, then. Well, black bear can actually range from dark brown to nearly blonde, but I'd never heard anyone around here reporting a light-colored one. All the pictures I'd seen on Facebook were very brown. So, if it were a bear, it would be a short itchy blonde bear. Hmmm.

I took pictures of these marks and sent them to Mike. His response? 'Cool!' Then, I wandered around, connected up to another of my normal trails, circled back around, and waved at the groundskeeper on my way out.

When Nick got home from school, I showed him the pictures too. I asked him if he thought it was some kid with a pocket knife or maybe a bear.

"No Mom, there's fur all over. Those marks are from elk," he said. "Look at the color of the fur. They're rubbing their antlers and it's scratching the bark off the trees."

Hey, when did my kid get so smart?

Thank you for listening, jb

Feeding the Hordes Continues, Part III

So, it turns out that when you approach people with a clipboard and pen in your hands, they start to get that trapped look in their eyes. Tonight, I walked up to anyone over eighteen at the Scout meeting and began my spiel. Some of us stood outside while the boys met inside with committee members. Mosquitoes swarmed us, micro vampires looking for a meal.

"Are you guys planning to go to the Camporee?" I said, approaching one group wearing my best salesman smile.

"Ah, I'm not sure yet. When is it?" one guy said.

"It's the weekend of May 31st," I said, still smiling. By the time I'd run through the whole thing with the second adult, the first one, still reeling from my assault, was warning the others that my intent had nothing to do with the Camporee. If they tried to say 'no,' thus avoiding the dreaded sign-up sheet, they were stepping right into my trap.

"I don't think so. I think there's a tournament that weekend."

"Ah, so if you can't make it to the Camporee, maybe you could help out at the pancake breakfast? We have a conflict and Mike has asked me to get things going." Then, I quickly rattled off the details. Before they could check their mental calendars, I said that they could come for part of it even if they were busy later. One guy said he was going to Hawaii. Yeah right. I'll believe that when I see the boarding passes.

Once they were on to my tricks, quite a few more people signed up to go to the Camporee. I lost a perfect pancake flipper who had originally said he was too busy for the Camporee. He actually told me outright that a Camporee was going to be more fun than a pancake breakfast. Bummer.

In the end, though, I have more than the four adults and at least six kids that I need to keep things going that day.  A few of the adults even have food handling permits. The really good news is that one of my recruits is someone who's done this kind of thing before. She momentarily infused me with a calm that could only be described as Zen-like. She knew Costco volumes, baking bacon tricks, and suggested a pseudo-buffet line to speed up service. By the time I was done picking her brain and begging her to come, I was quite a bit more confident about this pancake breakfast. I just might be able to pull this out of the hat yet.

On the way home, I stopped at the library to pick up my holds. There was a movie, some music, and a couple of books of Japanese prints waiting for me.  I could feel my new-found confidence slipping when I ran into a friend of mine before I walked out of the door. We stood outside amid another swarm of mosquitoes and talked. Maybe they were the same mosquitoes and had somehow followed me to the library in my car. I told her how I'd dropped one commitment, the club she's in, only to add another. I told her that Mike had put me in charge of a pancake breakfast. I'm not sure I like being in charge of anything.

I'm not sure how you figure all that food, food for somewhere between fifty and two hundred people," I told her. "I'm not even sure how long bacon can sit in a chaffing dish before it starts to go bad."

"You could pick my husband's brain," she said. "He's a chef, you know."

"Really? I could. That's a good idea. Hey, maybe he could come, make everything happen, and somehow I could stay in bed that morning with my head under my covers," I said.

"You only get services like that if you're married to him," she said and she laughed as if I were joking. So, I pretended that I was and laughed too.

"Yeah, that. I can't make that work. There's the problem with that tall guy that I really like at home."

So, my job now is to send out notices, make up fliers, and to get back to that Zen-like state. My meditation words will be 'bacon, pancake mix, butter, syrup, coffee, cream, sugar.' Breathe in, hold, and release slowly. 'Bacon, pancake mix, butter, syrup, coffee, cream sugar.'  And repeat, ignoring any monkey-mind suggestions about induced illnesses and no shows. 'Bacon, pancake mix, butter ... '

Thank you for listening, jb

It's a Rough Life, Part II

Every day should be Mother's Day. This morning, Mike made eggs Benedict for all of us. As if that weren't enough, the guys cleaned the house while I took a leisurely walk with Teddy. At first, I walked, wishing the guys had come with me, but then I got into a groove of looking at patterns in the leaves. I tell you my head was in the clouds as I walked, my eyes glazed over, when suddenly, Teddy jumped a few feet straight in the air. The he proceeded to suspiciously sniff an extra long dandelion puff that had touched his leg. Then he turned and recoiled from a stick that seemed to have snuck up from behind him. It occurred to me that I might sound off kilter laughing that loud out on the trail by myself.

"Oh honey, did you think a snake got you?" I said to smooth over the strangeness of laughing alone in the woods. Teddy looked at me and hung his head a little.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'd have jumped too." I looked along the sunny edges of the grass after that but never did see a snake. I don't doubt that Teddy saw one. I like that the snakes on this side of the mountains are benign little creatures. All I've ever seen were garters, some with green stripes, some with orange, and occasionally, one with blue stripes. It's a good way to get to know snakes. Where I grew up, there were garters, hog-nosed snakes, and blue racers, but there were also copperheads, rattlers, and the dreaded water moccasin. I hate water snakes. They're outright aggressive. The garters eat small rodents. I used to have a garter snake in tall grass by my driveway, but I haven't seen him in a dog's age. I knew where he lived, so I wasn't surprised by him very often.

When I was done walking, I stopped at the market, got into a conversation with the checker about his college studies and with another shopper about hunting mushrooms. Someday, I should tell you about hunting mushrooms when I was a kid. I loved hunting mushrooms. I used to fall asleep trying to picture them among the leaves when it was the season. I swear that made it easier to spot one in the woods. This guy could have talked for hours, but I was missing my own guys. I like to talk, but there was a point when I just want to go home to see what the guys had done with the house.

Oh, it looked good. The garbage and recyclables were out by the road. The foyer wasn't vacuumed that I could tell, nor were the stairs, but all the toys were put away and the upstairs carpet was vacuumed despite a small pile of rocks I'd collected and left in the middle of it.

I put away groceries, leaving dinner parts conspicuously on the counter.

"What are we doing for dinner?" I asked.

"I don't know. What do you want to do?" Mike asked.

"I got steaks. We could have them tonight or we could go to the River Cafe," I said. I could tell he didn't want to go out. He could tell I didn't want to cook.

"I'm tired. I don't want to go anywhere," Nick said. He was back to playing video games and didn't see my visual cues.

"Nick, we're making dinner for your mom," he said.

"We'll be having steak, roast potatoes, and bean salad on the menu tonight," I said. Nick lit the barbecue and Mike scraped the grill and got the steaks going.

"I don't know how to make bean salad," Mike said, coming back into the kitchen and started putting in a load of dishes.

"I'll show Nick. The hardest part is opening the cans." The thing I like about bean salad is that it's so pretty. I use kidney beans, wax beans, canned carrots, butter beans, garbanzos, and green beans. Nick came into the long and narrow kitchen, not used to the 'kitchen dance' that Mike and I have developed over the years. Mike whistled the theme song to Sesame Street as I helped Nick measure the rest of the ingredients. I was so sick of struggling with my favorite recipes when I moved away from home and grandma would say 'a pinch of this' or my mother would say 'a little bit of that.' That's how I cook most of the time now myself, but it would be nice for Nick to know general amounts for his favorites when he gets to that point. Nick added some red wine vinegar, olive oil, sugar, oregano, and basil and we were set. He used all the basil and I actually got him to put it on the white board grocery list. The crunch of a little chopped onion would have been nice in the bean salad, but Mike can't eat onions. Then, the three of us stood around the bowl and tasted. Mike scooped some up in a big bowl and went into the living room to eat it while the steaks finished on the grill.

"This will taste better tomorrow," he said with beans in his mouth, "if there's any of it left."

So, I'm about to sit down to a dinner I only had a little to do with making. It's beautiful food. I'm always happier when my food is colorful.

I'm not sure what's going on with me these days. It feels like I'm a little bit done with the crabbiness of menopause or something. Life has turned into this peaceful groove and I'd like to stay stuck in it.

Thank you for listening, jb
 

It's a Rough Life

When I carried him inside, Seth felt like a fleece jacket just out of the dryer. Somehow I've spent the last few afternoons on the back deck at my little table and somehow, the whole family has come out to be with me. Teddy whined at the door until I let him out, but he ran off, so I got him back, then chained him up to his run. He didn't seem to mind, but groaned just a little when he got bored just lying on the deck next to me in the sun with his new yellow dog toy. His biggest mode of expression is through his groans. He's groaning now.  Then, Nick came outside to do homework and brought Seth out in his harness, which he'd put on him upside down. Seth was ecstatic, sitting at the edge of the deck, looking at bugs, tail twitching in excitement. We can't let him off the lead because of the busy road we live by, but this is a pretty good compromise. When Mike got home, he came outside and sat with me for a while, telling me a story about how he had to separate the expenses for just two people at a team pizza party picnic because, technically, they belonged in another group. Then, he went inside to play video games. The deck shields me from television noise. Nick finished his homework and headed inside to play on the TV too, but before he left, he got Seth a blanket and lined a chair with it. When Seth got bored with the bugs, he settled down in the sun in his cosy bed and looked up at me, now and then, with sleepy yellow eyes. His eyes change color, from green to gray, but in the sunshine, they're yellow, like the newest leaves on the trees in spring.

Meanwhile, I read my book, propped up my feet in the sun, doodled in my notebook, ate a large salad, and drank a frosty Perrier flavored with lime, and conveniently forgot stuff I should be doing but wasn't. What a good life, huh?

All good things must come to an end, but it was lovely that when I picked Seth up to bring him in, he felt as if he'd just come from the dryer. It was cool enough that I hugged the warmth from his cosy body until he was normal temperature again.

I'm not sure he appreciated that. I think he liked being the temperature of jeans warm from the dryer. At least I didn't have to worry about the rivets.

Thank you for listening, jb

 

A Memory Metaphor

I don't know what I'm about to say. Let's just say, I haven't figured out what is important about my day amid the tangle of everyday events. I may not really remember the events of the day anyway, so all of this is fiction. I've told you that before, haven't I, that it's all fiction. It ended up being true. Just ask David McRaney.

I'm nearly finished reading his book, 'You Are Not So Smart.' It turns out that this guy also has a blog of interesting psychological studies about how your brain can be tricked. I love this stuff. Still, when I looked at today's installation, the poor guy has a photo of the way a tornado ripped the roof off his house. That sucks, doesn't it? I've never lost my home, but it's got to be an incredible jolt.

Now, think about it. David McRaney writes a book about how we plebs, all of us, think our memories are great but in fact, they are full of holes. We can watch a video with a man in a gorilla suit running through it and miss it if we're given an assignment to do at the same time. We might even miss an entire change of person in front of us if we're focused on some task at hand. Right? Then he posts a photo of a homey wall with a photo on it yet the roof is missing. Is there a more apt metaphor for his blog than that?

So, here's what I want you to do. Go visit his blog. Buy his book. See, he's going to need it to put the roof back onto your memory, I mean, his house.

Really, he could use your support.

Thank you for listening, jb

Pre-Dance Video Games

I'm sitting here in my living room in front of the computer. There are four boys behind me playing a violent video game.  I put a tray of veggies out with dip, cheese, crackers, and strawberries. They aren't eating much. I've been sitting here quietly for long enough that they don't seem to think I can hear them.

If I were hosting four girls, they'd be in the bedroom, trying on clothes, sneaking more makeup than they should wear, listening to music, and giggling. The only thing these boys are doing from that list is the giggling. Never mind getting ready for the dance. The dance is nearly irrelevant. It's a party right here and right now.

"Clash of the newbs," one yells.

"We should do a match where we put someone out there with her and someone just whales on her," another screams.

"Let's just do the cannibalism thing."

"That's for lunch. That's for dinner. Who's she going to eat next?"

To be honest, I can't type fast enough to catch everything they're saying or even who's saying it. They're laughing themselves silly.

"I'm just coughing up blood. Don't worry. I'll be okay."

"Yep, just choking here."

"Dude, you're a girl. We're not supposed to hit a girl."

"I'm going to just put this knife in your stomach. Can you hold it for a second?"

They are yelling at each other and at the TV.

This stuff is not funny. It's really not if you listen to their literal words. The problem with being invisible in the room is that I'm not sure if I should step in and end it.  Mike said not to worry. I worry. One of the boys wants to play a different game. Thank you! Please, go outside and play. Please. Let your energy out by running around.

Good. Nerf swords. Should I tell them to do all that outside? Nah. I'm going to assume it'll go okay. Books will fall. Maybe a picture in a frame. It's happened before. Not the end of the world.

Now they're fighting on the stairs. It's how they always sword fight in the movies. It looks good, better than it looks here with a concrete floor at the bottom.

Whew! Now all that energy is downstairs when I threatened to take pictures of them. Nick is tired of me always clicking pictures. They might even end up outside. I hope so. I just heard a door slam. It's Mike! He has pizza!

It suddenly got very quiet with the pizza.

Thank God for pizza!

Thank you for listening, jb

 

Feeding the Hordes Continues, Part II

So, Mike and I met with the man at the Eagles Lodge to discuss the pancake breakfast the Boy Scout troop is going to have while Mike is away at a Camporee. This guy looked like Bruce Willis. I liked him immediately. Mike introduced us and the two guys got down to brass tacks, talking about the menu. I interrupted them.

"How many people do you think will come?" I asked Bruce.

"No idea," he said. Then he jumped up out of his seat and we followed him into the kitchen. "We have plates here. Are you going to use these or bring in paper plates? I think you should use paper plates. Makes everything easier."

I imagined how many times loaded plates could collapse before I switched to porcelain. I wondered how many porcelain plates I could break at one time. We followed Bruce back to sit at the table where my notebook lay with one entry - number of people.

"We'll probably use the plates you have here. It's better for the environment," Mike said, easing back into a seat.

"How do we figure how many people we'll end up serving?" I tried again. I held up my pen, ready to get it down on paper.

"Well, you could have fifty. You could have two hundred. It all depends. Better hope it doesn't rain. You should go to Cost Plus for the bacon and the pancake mix. They'd have paper plates too if you decide to go that way." He jumped up again.

"You'll have to get cooks," he said walking back into the kitchen.

Cooks? I don't know any cooks, I thought, as I waddled behind both him and Mike.

 "Yup cooks. This grill works pretty well, but once it gets heated up, it overheats. You'll put your meat over here and your pancakes here. Just fiddle with this knob when as it starts to overheat." I remembered working at a restaurant when I was in college. I generally avoided the grill. I stared at the thing now, imagining it glowing red. Only one time back then, I'd been asked to clean the grill using salt and oil and I'd leaned into it, lost my balance, and burned a line across my wrist. It took three years and about seventy-five questions about attempted suicide before that scar faded. I didn't like this grill any better.

"We'll have two adults at the grill," Mike said. "The boys will be serving and another adult will take money at the door."

"Sounds good," Bruce said. If the two men were working together, we'd be set. They talked about how to broadcast the news of the event, how they might draw in some tourists on the morning if they sent a couple of boys out with fliers. These two seemed to know their way around a pancake breakfast, but I was stuck on how many people would eat. Was it fifty or was it two hundred? And there was the little matter of the overheating grill. I didn't like the sound of that overheating grill.  Did I tell you I almost burned down my house a couple of weeks ago. Should I be the one showing an adult how to use a grill that overheats? It might be dangerous. I stopped staring at the grill and caught up with them at the baking trays I was supposed to use for the bacon.

"Are you going to have bacon and sausage?" Bruce asked getting a look in his eyes.

"Yup. We'll put both bacon and sausage on their plates," Mike said.

"If you cut the bacon strips in half, it looks like you're getting more."

"Good plan," Mike said, nodding.

"But how do we figure out how much food to buy?" I asked again.

"Well, you should probably serve four good-sized pancakes, a slice of bacon cut in two and a sausage link. Your grocery list will be pretty simple - maple syrup, butter, coffee, orange juice, bacon, sausage, and pancake mix." I zoned out while he talked about where we could get the best prices for the ingredients. I knew how much food to put on the damn plate. I just didn't know how many people to buy food for, fifty or two hundred or more than that. Bruce got up and looked in the freezer to show Mike how they had a couple extra bags of sausages and quarts of orange juice concentrate. He looked like he was about to whip up some breakfast right then and there. Then two men moved on and stared into the refrigerator for a little while.

"Strawberries and whipped cream would be good," Bruce said.

"Mmmm," Mike said.

I don't know how many times I asked Bruce how many people he thought would come to a pancake breakfast. I could never nail down an answer better than the first one he gave me, twenty or five hundred. Bruce closed the refrigerator door and we walked back to the table and sat.

I stewed as he and Mike talked about a few other details, the key, someone to keep an eye on the place, the pool table. They laughed about boys in the kitchen using knives and boys at the grill playing with fire and boys being responsible with the money at the door. Plus, Bruce said that the kids were not allowed to use the pool table. They could play Foosball, but not pool.  Okay, so now I have to put a chain around the cover to the pool table? At this point, Mike and Bruce were laughing and talking about how the Eagles had run a karaoke night fundraiser there once and a couple of guys drank too much and started fighting outside on the sidewalk. I have to worry about having twenty-five extra pounds of bacon and six bags of pancake mix after the breakfast is over. I have to worry about the grill overheating and burning down the building. I have to keep teenaged boys from tearing the felt off the pool table. I have to keep from losing all of our money. And now I have to worry that somebody will start a fight and tear the place down?

 I knew it wouldn't work to tell him I couldn't handle burning pancakes at the grill or boys sneaking a shot at the eight ball or men fighting on the sidewalk. I knew I should tell him that I have the capacity to drop ten porcelain plates at a time and to organize an event with plenty of plates but no silverware. I should have told Bruce that if I undercooked the bacon, everyone could end up catching intestinal parasites.

Mike and Bruce were wrapping it up when I said, "Well, I guess we'll take a guess at how much to buy."

"We'll plan on a hundred and fifty people," Mike said.

"I can figure that out," I told them, trying to look confident.

"We're going to want this to be run primarily by the boys," Mike said, looking at me. "You might want to double-check their quantities and go with them when they shop."

Holy cow! I have to do boy-led grocery shopping too?

Strawberries, whipped cream, bacon, sausage, syrup, butter, orange juice, milk, coffee, decaf, half and half, creamer, sugar, napkins, some cups, some plastic utensils, pancake mix, M&Ms, chocolate chips, Doritos, chocolate donuts, bologna, pizza rolls, hot Cheetos, jerky, chocolate chip cookies, macaroni and cheese, a Frisbee and rocky road ice cream.

 Thank you for listening, jb