The Candle War

The Filter Queen man started it.  He visits our house once or twice a year and always causes some kind of uproar.  Last time he was here, he talked Pat into setting our air cleaner on top of the dresser in our bedroom so that it can "circulate better."  Well, could be, but it sure adds nothing to the already questionable decor in that room.  I went along with it until some space opened up in that room and I relegated it to a corner where it can do its thing and not look so odd. That's just a small example of the domestic disturbances caused by this man who services are overly expensive vacuum cleaner.

This visit is what caused the all out war.  He was here just a few days ago when, fortunately, I had an appointment and couldn't be here.  I'm always glad to be gone when he's here because he is a talkative sort who easily engages Pat and they march around the house talking excitedly and waving their arms as if to produce dust and air currents that they can "test" with the vacuum in strange ways that only the two of them understand.

The issue this time concerns candles. Pat smugly reported to me when I got home that we will no longer burn candles in our home.  They create too much pollution.  After all, do you realize what they are made of?  They are made from really gross smudge found only in China and then somehow vanilla-ized and sent to Target where we buy them by the basket loads.
 "Just look above the microwave, Terry.  See all that soot that makes the ceiling look like the Sistine Chapel before they stopped burning incense in there?"
"So what?" I replied.  "It's easy to clean."  He then silently and ever so accusingly ran his forefinger over the Filter Queen filter recently removed from our vacuum cleaner.  "See that? THAT'S FROM CANDLES," he said as he waved his sooty finger in front of my face.

A heated discussion followed with me bringing up such subjects as wood burning fireplaces and frequent drives up and down I-5 and ended with me dramatically throwing my favorite wicker wicked candle into the trash.  (Don't worry; I retrieved it as soon as he left the room.) Each of us turned on our heels and stomped off in opposite directions and so began a nasty little deep freeze between us.

The war began to show promise of ending when I met with my knitting group (the Knitwits) for our annual Christmas potluck and gift exchange.  I shared my domestic disturbance with them after two people opened candles as part of their gifts.  They were as offended as I was and quickly offered to come over for a candlelight vigil.

That didn't happen but I did do some research and found out that it really is far wiser to burn only soy-based candles or the kind that run on batteries but somehow still smell nice.  The war is over and the candles of Christmas are saved in our household.

It's Never Too Early

I love Christmas.  I love all the commercialism from the 20th time I hear "Jingle Bells" to the appearance of even the smallest string of crooked lights that seems just as full of holiday spirit as the biggest display of lights in the neighborhood. I really like Christmas cards and I buy an extra box or two each year just because I can't resist the scene or the sentiment. I get funny about magazines at the grocery store.  I like to pretend the pictures of the elegant holiday tables would be easy to replicate in my own home and that the plates of cleverly frosted and decorated cookies would be artfully sitting on end tables in my house. Our tree (which always goes up the day after Thanksgiving) would look like the fancy ones at Al's Nursery with their themed ornaments and matching colors. Or maybe it could be like the ones done up by the Nordstrom ladies with all the handmade-looking decorations.  The gift packages under it would be wrapped in just the right shade of red or green paper and feature a candy cane tucked into each fluffy bow.  Tasteful Christmas music will float around the room while a warm fire crackles invitingly.

It's a pleasure to listen to people in the mall talk about what they might get for Eugene or Alice. Going past Bath and Body Works with its great sale causes me to stop in and buy a bagful of good smelling foam for the bathroom sinks.  And I never forget to stop by See's for a sample of whatever candy they're handing out that day.  Even if it's chocolate covered cherries which I can't stand, they taste different, better at this time of the year.  Maybe they cut way down on the amount of sugar they use in the syrup for Christmas. The seasonal books at Barnes and Noble are a pleasure to handle and smile over even though I won't buy a one of them since they are nearly unreadable and not suited for reading except for the few holiday weeks in December.  Who wants to read a tale about "Secret Santa Surprises" in January?

I still spend a day or two or even three making Christmas cookies - sugar cookies, gingerbread men and maybe biscotti. Sometimes I even throw a cookie decorating party for my family members who attend somewhat reluctantly except for my grandchildren who are THRILLED to be here licking big wads of frosting off their fingers and yelling about who's going to "win."

Christmas starts around Thanksgiving time for me.  I have my lists ready and the calendar starts to fill up before we eat turkey.  I don't mind one bit how early Christmas shows up in the stores.  It only extends the joy of the season for me.  I confess, however, that it was a little weird to be looking at light displays in Costco wearing shorts and flipflops in August.  I decided to skip those aisles until after Halloween. I won't get tired of them until the 50% off signs disappear in January.

 

Halloween Costume

I've been getting ready for Halloween all year.  I decided in January to "go as" a young person for the October holiday.  First thing I did was join Weight Watchers.  I've lost 26 pounds.  Then I decided to keep exercising so I go to my trainer once a week, do cardio at my little gym once a week, get myself down to Curves two or three times a week and try to get in a bike ride or two.  I'm down a size in jeans and my socks aren't so tight anymore.

Next, I went hardcore and scheduled a facial complete with microderm abrasion.  An hour and a half and a cool hundred dollars later, my face felt clean and tingly and had a youthful shine going.  I liked that look but didn't like spending that much money so I made an appointment with a dermatologist.  He looked over every square inch of my old puckered skin for signs of scary things that might indicate the C word.  All is well in that area, but what about the various tag warts and scratchy patches and dark spots here and there and mostly everywhere?  He got out the magic spray can and applied stingy cold spray to many places on my back and several spots on my face.  He said that these spots would blacken up and then drop off altogether in a week or two. The results would approximate the microderm abrasion treatment but would be paid for by insurance.  He even sprayed some bonus spots on my hand just to see if I'd like the results.  He was a friendly, understanding young man and I plan to see him again.

All through the months I have studied what my pre-teen grand girl wears and looked around in the mall at other younger aged people to see what they wear.  There's a pretty even split between looking like you're about to go berry picking, work out, or sell your body on the street.  I opted for a combination of all three and bought myself some pants that look like leggings but were a lot less expensive because I bought them at K-Mart.  Then I got myself some trick Nike running shoes that look like they were dipped in rainbow paint.  They produced enthusiastic comments at my gym but gave me blisters immediately.  Next, I went to Fred Meyer and got some colorful long sleeved, fairly well made t-shirts and hope to keep them free of those tiny stomach holes at least through fall.  So my attire indicates that I may be on my way to the gym but I don't have time or interest in earning any money on the street corner.

Halloween is tomorrow.  I'm ready to appear as a young person in my fake leggings (my stomach does pooch out a little); my horizontally striped t-shirt (my upper arms, I admit, are still flappy), and my owl socks.  I'll skip the Nikes because I'm too afraid that I might get those painful blisters again.  I'll just shuffle to the door to greet the trick-or-treaters in my slippers that are now too big.

I don't look a day over 65.

And Speaking of Words . . .

there are a few of them that I'm getting mighty tired of.  One is awesome.  It's lost its punch and is used to describe everything from the dog's poop in the park to the new OPI fingernail polish color.  In other words, this descriptor is really totally useless other than to let the listener know that the speaker finds something likeable.

Another lame word is amazing, the other attempt to convey, well, awesomeness.  It's amazing how many people use this word to convey how awesome they think skateboarding is. (See what's happening here?)

And then there's the ubiquitous use of like.  Even people older than 17 are using this word to sort of suggest that they're saying something is kind of real as in: "We were, like, sick of going to the zoo."
So are they just approaching a state of being sick of going to the zoo or are they in fact and in reality sick of going to the zoo?  It's as if people are afraid to describe their own reality.

And how about facebook?  This has become a lifestyle of dubious value.  Why in the world do people post the ugly reality of their lives for all the world to see?  What's more curious is that they don't even use the word like to do so.  facebook lives suddenly become amazingly real and available for anyone to view and judge.  What happened to the reality of pride and privacy?

You get extra credit if you find the most uses of irony in this blog post.

Wildwords

My friend Sarah and I are working on a writing project she calls "Words of Wisdom."  It's a fun writing game in which we send each other a word a week for the other person to respond to in any way she wants.  Our goal is to keep this up for a year's time then Sarah wants to put them together in a book.  She's not sure about the look or format of the book yet. That's okay.  Books have a really long gestation period.

She's figured out that all the words I'm sending to her are somehow related to nature.  And I might have my own book idea growing.  I have a working title:  wildwords. I have a vision to share with my graphic artist. And I'm working on the purpose of the book.  This is a very hazy part of the process for now but I know that given time, I will figure this out if the book is to come to fruition.

Here a couple of wildwords for your enjoyment:

waterfall - natural spilling of water from one level of terrain to another causing hiker bliss.

tree - wooden earth angel with green feathers and wings.

I think I'll continue to share the words once in a while in this space.  They are so much fun to work with and I would be so happy if someone else finds them fun. Can't you just see the artwork that could go with these words?????

Shades of White

We need new siding and a paint job on our house.  Once we recovered from learning the cost, we had to decide on what kind of siding which was no big deal since this came under Pat's jurisdiction.  But the paint choice involved a tedious struggle requiring many miles of cruising around looking at people's house colors, the hiring and meeting with a professional colorist, several trips to the paint store, and, finally, painting one side of the house four different colors for voting purposes. Other struggles:  Trim, garage and front door colors. I know this doesn't really sound too bad, but each step of the choosing process has its own land mine of possible explosions.

First, the driving around neighborhoods makes people suspicious.  You have to drive really slowly and stare fixedly at houses with potential choices of paint schemes.  People don't take well to this kind of activity.  They probably think we're casing the area for good sites to burglarize. I kept telling Pat to, "Hurry up!  They're gonna call the cops on us!"

Second, the hiring of a "professional colorist" involves eyeballing colors of paint samples that most of us wouldn't consider suitable for dog houses unless those animal homes were  located deep inside a nearby heavily forested area. It finally dawned on us that these professionals are far more interested in presenting trendy new shades that are a.) the color of their personal houses or b.) colors of houses that you'd see on HGTV. The one she said would be just perfect for our house looks vaguely like the color of new and understated camouflage hunting fabric. It wasn't a good match for our cottage/ranch style home. 

Next, come the uncounted number of trips to the paint store. I challenge you to find a more boring retail establishment.  There is nothing, NOTHING for women to look at of any interest whatsoever.  You even get tired of looking at paint chips even if they do have catchy names like "watermelon winter" or  "Steen Mountain white sheep."  That brings up the color family that will actually make your brain circuits short out:  WHITE. Unless you've looked for paint yourself, you will be astounded at the number of whites there are. Once you settle on three or four color possibilities, the fun of a paint store is totally gone and remember, it wasn't such a thrill to begin with. While Pat got himself absorbed in looking for rollers, paint trays and other needed equipment, I tried to strike up a conversation with a couple of the young employees who were probably students of mine at one time.  They were polite, friendly and quite interesting but kept needing to leave our conversation to go mix paint or answer painting questions. I was finally able to maintain a grip on my sanity after I found an old copy of a Pottery Barn catalog.  I went through it twice.

We went straight home and Pat painted three large sample areas on the side of the house.  We stared at them silently for several minutes.  Neither one of us was struck with any kind of certainty except that we could definitely and absolutely eliminate the military style color suggested by the colorist. Pat finally admitted that he liked the color on the far left but wished it were "slightly more brown." I could barely tell the difference between that color and the one next to it. So the next morning found us paying another visit to our new friends at Sherwin-Williams where Adam assured us that he could custom mix the color Pat described.  And so he did.  And so Pat painted another sample. I still can't tell the difference but with the new paint, named "slightly more brown" by the way, I could be happy with either of the samples on the far left.

You'll probably recognize yourself in this experience if you've ever done any house painting, and if you don't, you won't be surprised at the twists in your thought process when you do face a house color updating project.  It's even harder than you think it's going be.   

Bonus Room Growth

You may remember Boobs Clea and her sister, Boobs.  They are two of the 64 or so Barbies who live in the bonus room at my granddaughters' house. They are called "Boobs" not for any suggestive reason but only because their mother liked the name.  She liked the name so much that she gave her second daughter the same name. They seem to be in their middle teens and are active in sports as well as being among the more fashionably dressed people in their world. Well, sadly, they lost their mother.  Actually, their mother literally lost her head due to the frenzied behavior of a house guest and the girls (all of them - Boobs, Boobs and the granddaughters) have been fairly distraught about her demise since her head wasn't the kind that snaps back on.

Happily, we restored a mother to the family last week during Granny Camp.  Alicia's favorite event at Camp was the field trip we took to Toys 'R Us. She'd been given a ten dollar bill and told she could buy anything she wanted. She started negotiating on the ride over. What if the desired item cost a little more than $10.00? Would it be possible to come up with a few more dollars?  We knew we were in for quite a bit of pressure, but we acquiesced. Well, after we found the right puzzle as the already agreed upon bonus prize, we headed for the Barbie aisle.  After lengthy study and discussion, we decided to purchase the on sale "Princess Barbie" who would make the most perfect new mother for the Clea sisters.  Her hair was just the perfect color of blonde and we could most easily swap out the ball gown for an outfit more appropriate for a mother and gift the princess dress to any of a number of deserving family members. And since she was such a good price, why didn't I just buy her as my contribution to the happy bonus room clan and let Alicia buy the even better priced "Surfer Barbie"? She  would fit in so wonderfully with the other surfers in the family.  Somehow $10.00 had managed to materialize into one puzzle and two Barbies plus an ice cream treat on the way home.

The Clea sisters have had their mother restored to them, the grand daughters were pleased with the new family members and Granny really didn't have to spend too much to make it all happen.