Water Works

Today is day three in waiting around all day for a plumber to arrive.  This time I paid the big bucks to find my water leak and diagnose my sewer problem.  American Leak Detection sent their best guy out with a camera, air compressor, and fancy listening equipment.  American Leak Detection (hereafter known as Paul), listened carefully at every sink, washer, water heater, and water connection in and out of my house, saying "that's weird" after every one.  He couldn't hear a leak anywhere, but knew there was one, because the meter was spinning.


So he hooked up an air compressor to the line and could tell that there was a leak somehow.  Then...there wasn't anymore.  It just suddenly, magically stopped.  Not unheard of, Paul said, but "weird".  I crossed my fingers and hoped it stayed that way.

Now that the water leak was no longer an issue, Paul moved on to the sewer.  First he had to find the elusive 'clean out' that generations of plumbers before him had never found.  He found it alright - right where it should have been, in front of the house next to the main water valve.  It had been slightly buried, it's true, and there was an irrigation tube connected to it. 

"Weird", Paul said.

I said "what is it?"

"I don't know" said Paul.  "It looks like tubing used by a sprinkler system, but there's no reason to hook it up to the sewer.  That's just...weird".

It was then that I remembered that I had a water softener, installed in 1996 and not in use for the last 10 years or so.  Sure enough, that was the source of the tubing.  And, it turns out, the source of the leak.  All I had to do was push a knob on the softener in to bypass the machine and my leak problem was solved. 

So now on to my sewer woes.  Now that I had a clean out, Paul put his camera in to see if he could find the source of my problem.  Before he got more than 3 feet, he found a huge clog of toilet paper that couldn't even dislodge with his camera. 

 "Weird", he said.

Then he moved the camera around and found the real source of my problem.  The sewer pipe in the house is cast iron, and it connects outside of the house to a clay pipe, which then carries my waste to the city sewer.  I should say that it should connect to the pipe outside.  The camera plainly showed a 2-inch gap between the two pipes, which is where everything lodges and causes my clogs.  Paul couldn't move the camera any further, so I might also have a tree root problem, but this gap is definitely the problem of the moment.

Paul collected $381.00 from me today, and is coming back on Tuesday to jack-hammer the sidewalk, fix the pipes, and collect another $1600.00. 

Although this truly sucks, the plumber yesterday had me prepared to pay between $5k and $6k.  $1600.00 seems like a bargain.  Of course, once he fixes that he'll be able to move his camera down the pipe to see if there's more bad news...

Now if I can make it 5 days without clogging up the toilet again, I'll be good. 

Better go call the credit card company to see if they can increase my limit...

Deep Breath In, Slowly Let It Out

It seems that this time of year there's usually some major purchase I have to make or expensive home maintenance work that has to get done.  This year is no different, with my annual stopped-up sewer issues.

About once a year I have to have a plumber come out.  My house was built in 1961, and sewer pipes back then were made of clay.  Nice porous stuff that sends out engraved invitations to every tree in the vicinity to come wrap their roots around it and dance a slow dance with it.  As the love affair continues, the pipe eventually loses its virginity and the tree roots get inside, where they breathe in the rarified air and decide to stay, birthing new baby roots along the way.

To add to the pain of this once-yearly visit from the plumber, I apparently don't have a "clean out", at least not one that is visible.  It may be buried, but since no one knows where, it's not a huge help.  So the toilet has to be taken off and the pipe snaked to dislodge the roots that are causing the clog, or the plumber has to use the sewer vent on the roof of the house.  Yesterday's visit was $337.00, but would have only been $165.00 had there been a clean out.

Knowing that I need to replace/repair the sewer pipe eventually, and also knowing that I have a water leak somewhere, I asked for estimates to fix these issues as well.  The plumber looked around my front and back yard, and basically said that they'd have to dig to find the problem, since they didn't even know where the sewer pipes were for sure.  In my innocence I asked "isn't there better technology out there to figure that out, rather than digging up my yard?"  Defensive, the plumber said if I wanted technology, I should call American Leak Detectors.  He also said that based on a job he had just completed, the sewer replacement alone would probably run in the neighborhood of 4-5 thousand dollars.  Gulp.

So I had him unclog the sewer and called American Leak Detectors to set up an appointment to find out exactly what my sewer and water leak problems were, how serious they are, and where they are located.  The estimate for the investigation alone is $475.00, and they'll come out Wednesday.

This morning I took a shower and heard the toilet make its familiar gurgle, which means that the sewer is backing up again.  So I called Eddie's Plumbing and told them that my toilet was clogged again.  I asked if I'd have to pay to have it unclogged, and they said no.  Another day of sitting around waiting for the plumber.

Twenty minutes after the window passed when he was supposed to be here, the same plumber shows up at my door.  By now, the toilet flushes, but I asked him to run the water in the bathtub for a few minutes anyway, and then try.  Sure enough, the toilet would not flush when there was water in the line. 

He told me that his job yesterday wasn't warrantied since there were tree roots (not what he told me yesterday - there was a 90-day warranty, or until another company removed the toilet for work).  I told him that he needed to either unclog the sewer completely today without charge or I would be calling his office and getting my money back.  He threw a hissy fit and said that he'd climb up on my roof and snake the pipes for free, but not again.  I heard him on the phone to his office complaining about it - they must have told him about customer service, because when he came back in he was all cheerful and smiley.  I wished he wasn't all cheerful and smiley, because he was missing a couple of front teeth and it didn't really help my sour mood.

So here I am on my two-week vacation.  My plans to go to the movies have been spoiled again.  My home owner's insurance policy considers all of this "normal maintenance" so it's not covered.  Depending on what I find out tomorrow, I'll probably have to take a 401k loan out to replace the sewer line and fix my water leak. 

But, and it's a big but...I'm not homeless, and I know people who are.  I may have to go use the bathroom at the convenience store 1 day a year, but I don't have to rely on that store's sink to clean my clothes and my body 365 days of the year like some do. 

I'm aggravated, yes I am.  But such a small thing when you look at the big picture.  I'm lucky my town had flouride in the drinking water, for example.

Breathe in, breathe out, and a big toothy grin to you all!

Chapter 2 - No Longer the Baby

49 years ago today I was no longer the baby of the family. 

Mom and Dad left the safety and security of Wisconsin in the late summer of 1961, where Mom's family lived, to move to North Dakota, to a small town on the prairie where there was a hardware store for sale. 

In this picture, they're still in Wisconsin, celebrating August with a barbeque (Mom was about 6 months pregnant here).

They moved into a new 3-bedroom house situated on two lots.  To the North was a wheat field as far as the eyes could see.  The school was only 2 blocks away, which was a bonus.  Although 3 bedrooms, the house was only about 900 square feet or so, with an unfinished basement.  For those of you that have been there, imagine the house without the family room and without the back porch.  Now imagine raising 3 children there, with one bathroom and a 1-car detached garage!

Unlike me, Bruce was born in North Dakota (I was born where my parents met - in Wisconsin).  Yet another reason for big brother Mickey to miss his baseball games for feeding time (he says he missed a good deal of his childhood having to give me the bottle). 

Being only 13 months old at the time, I don't remember the fuss everyone made, although I understand aunts and uncles came bearing gifts for the newborn prince.  Less than a year later we almost lost him to the flu - he ended up in the hospital with an IV in his tiny foot trying to keep him full of fluids.  The rest of us got the milder form of the bug and stayed at home in bed.  Or maybe it was measles - I don't remember that either!

My first memory of my little brother was at Grandpa Fred's house in Oakes, ND.  His house seemed like a mansion to me, a three-story built in the early 1900's, with a pool table on the top floor!  Bruce and I were running around the house like 2 and 3 year olds do, and we stopped for a picture, with Bruce putting his arm around my neck.  For years after that I claimed that he was trying to kill me even then.

My next memory (7 or 8 maybe?) was asking a babysitter "when I turn 8, will I be able to beat him up"?  It was a serious question from the serious child that I was.  Bruce was a physical boy, and would punch my arm to annoy me every day until I left North Dakota.

One day, in my teens, I learned how to use one of my powers.  He had just punched me, and although I wasn't really hurt, I collapsed on my bed and started to cry hysterically (crocodile tears).  He started singing to me and telling me jokes just to make me stop crying.  "Do You Love Me", from Fiddler on the Roof still makes me giggle to this day. 

King of Excess

My mother's penchant for making more food than necessary has long been family lore.  We all have memories of her walking behind all of us at the dinner table, asking if we wanted more mashed potatoes, and before we could answer, having a large heap plopped on our plate.

She was, after all, a child of the depression, she said to explain her tendencies to feed us more than we could possibly eat.  Her father was also a restaurant owner, a "supper club" in Wisconsin that was quite popular in its day, so she grew up knowing how to cook well, albeit in large portions.

This trait of excess was passed on to her children, at least to her youngest two, myself included. 

For the first time in 15 or 20 years, I went home to North Dakota for Thanksgiving.  I volunteered to make the meal that day for 14 people.  When making the shopping list, I put down 5 pounds of potatoes, and truly thought that I would be laughed at for making so much.  But my brother informed me that they would make the potatoes, yams, and had already bought a turkey and a ham.

The rule of thumb when buying a turkey is 1 pound per person.  Being a McCartney, I would have bought an 18-20 pounder "just in case".  But if a ham was also in the mix, I would have stuck with a 14 pound bird and still thought it excessive.

But apparently the McCartney Excess curse rained heaviest on the youngest member of the family, my brother.  His wife got some of it too, because they proudly told me that they had bought a 25 pound turkey, and were planning on cooking 20 pounds of potatoes.  I gasped, and asked if they had a roaster big enough? 

"Don't worry", my brother said, "we'll figure it out".

I prepped the turkey the night before by rubbing herb-infused butter under the skin, and stuffing it's cavity with onions, garlic, and lots of thyme.  My brother was in charge of getting it into the oven early the next morning, since dinner was at his house.

When I arrived mid-morning Thanksgiving day to start the prep for the rest of the meal, I saw the monster turkey in a Nesco roaster, probably the biggest one they make, but still too small for the bird.  The cover of the roaster was at least 4 inches off of the base, and tin foil had been used to seal the gaps.  It cooked just fine, although the breast wasn't evenly browned.  I rather enjoyed myself teasing my brother about it.

We ate about half of the 20 pounds of potatoes.  The rest are probably still in the fridge for leftovers.  The sweet potatoes were divine, with chunks of brown sugar swimming in the mix.  We had homemade sausage and mushroom stuffing, fresh asparagus, turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, cinnamon apple cranberry sauce, homemade gravy plus lots of appetizers including shrimp, but my brother panicked at the end, thinking there wasn't enough, so he steamed a bag of corn to add to the buffet.

I refuse to be laughed at for my excess any longer.  Long live King McCartney - the proud receipient of my mother's legacy.

Jury Duty

My friends all gave me advice on how to get out of it - "say he looks guilty", said one.  "Say you're a full-time advocate for gay rights", said another.  But I knew that it was part of being lucky enough to be an American, so I knew that I would speak only the truth.

We had to be there at 8 am.  There were 600 of us, all packed like sardines in the room, patiently waiting for our assignments.  The Clerk of Court had a sense of humor at least, interjecting funny personal stories along the way, like the lady that just decided to leave one day and got sentenced to 8 hours of community service - in that very room.  And since she wasn't a potential juror nor was she a government official, she had to be introduced as a lady serving her sentence of community service. 

Finally my name was called along with 60 others, and we shuffled over to one side of the room to fill out questionnaires.  What was my religious affiliation, what were my hobbies, what TV shows did I watch...easy enough questions.  The final question gave me pause though - "do you believe that a child's testimony can be trusted as much as an adult's"?  I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist.  I answered as best I could, and when we were finished we were given orders to appear the next morning at the 213th District Court.

The next morning I arrived on time, and sat in the hallway with the other 60 jurors for an hour.  Actually, I stood, since there was only room for about 6 people to actually sit.  The bailiff called us in and we had to sit in the order of our juror number - I was number 18.

Juror 19 to my left was an older man, who I immediately nicknamed "Old Man Denture Breath".  I could actually hear the clicking noise as he occasionally adjusted his teeth.  Even when he breathed through his mouth all I could smell was rotting stomach contents.  I turned to my right, and juror number 17, although more middle-aged, was almost as bad, just from poor dental hygiene I guess.

Voir Dire - pronounced in Texas as Vore Dyer, means to speak the truth.  First the prosecution gets to ask us questions for an hour, then the defense gets the same opportunity.  The defendant was there too, and looked to be about 18 or 19 (which at my age means he could be 35), and although he was dressed in a suit, seemed by his posture to be a gang-banger.  There goes my presumption of innocence, huh.

We were told what the case was, but no details.  As I suspected from the questionnaire, this was a molestation case, involving a child under 14.  At least 5 people said that they were biased towards the defendant and thought him guilty right off the bat.  At least 4 of those people just didn't want to serve and hadn't really thought out their answers very well.  Some of the potential jurors had molestation in their family, some had multiple cases.  At least two women and one man were brave enough to say that they themselves were molested and didn't think they could be impartial.  One incredible man said he had been molested, but felt that he COULD be impartial, and that he felt it was his duty to do so. 

The majority of the potential jurors were native Texans, and when the lawyer would ask them a direct yes or no question, quite often answered "probably" (pronounced as 'probly').  Or "maybe", as in "maybe so, maybe yes, maybe, probly".  The poor defense lawyer being a yankee, finally had to confess to being frustrated with the answers, and begged for these people to give a yes or no answer.  Didn't work - the habit is too ingrained.   

Voire dire finished around 12:30 pm, and we were given 30 minutes to grab a bite downstairs from the snack machines.  My back ached from the hard wooden bench we had been sitting on for hours, and my heart ached for the child concerned, as well as the jurors who had gone through the same thing.

We got back, and with no ceremony, the judge called out names of 12 people who would serve on this trial.  Old Man Denture Breath was called, but I wasn't.  I wasn't really sure how I felt about that.  On one hand, I was relieved that I didn't have to experience the raw pain that would surely come from this trial.  On the other hand, I felt like I could have been a good juror. 

I was shuffled down to the jury dismissal area to get my check for service.  They're quite generous here.  The first day is $6.00.  Every day after that is $40.00, which is a huge increase from days gone by.  I took my check and walked a few blocks to bus station, which took me back to my car.  Back to my world, which doesn't include child molesters, old men with bad dentures, and hard wooden benches seemed designed to punish even the innocent.  Sometimes you have to peek behind the curtain just a little bit to see the dirty side of life to make you happy to go back to your ho-hum, boring, existence.

Clean Your Plate - Adventures in Ethiopia

Most people my age remember their parents saying to them as children, "clean your plate - there are starving people in Ethiopia".  As we got older, the smart asses among us would offer to package up the leftovers and send it to them if they were that hungry.

So a week ago Friday, when I got a frantic e-mail asking me if I could go to Ethiopia for a 2-day meeting, that's all I could think about.  I've been to Addis Ababa twice before - it's nothing to write home about, but the starving children are kept well out of sight.  Maybe they're in the countryside? 

I'm not trying to make light of the plight in Africa - it's real.  When I was having lunch with the team there, I got into a discussion about chicken.  My new friend from Ethiopia explained that the chicken found there is all organic.  I laughed, because I thought he was trying to impress me.  But he followed it up by saying, "no really, it's organic because we can't afford fertilizer." 

The next day, he brought in an egg from an Ethiopian chicken to show me.  Much smaller than the eggs we're used to, the yolks are much darker than the "European chickens".  Showing me the egg caused quite a debate amongst the Ethiopians in the room, saying that the European chickens were not as tough as the Ethiopian chickens (probably because of the chemicals and hormones they're fed). 

My hotel, the only one available at the time, seemed okay on paper.  It had "high-speed internet", was newly built (2008), and was close to the airport.  I knew that I was in a high-class hotel when I arrived, because there was an ATM in the lobby.  ATM's are almost unheard of in Addis.  There was no check-in counter, but instead 2 desks, where I was asked to sit and fill out a form.  They didn't take American Express, and the card key machine wasn't working, but they showed me to my room.  I actually upgraded to a Queen room, so they led me to the 2nd floor, through the restaurant, to room 105.  The door was opened, and I saw a bed so close to the floor I knew if I rolled off of it I wouldn't wake up.  The locks on the door were broken, but then so was the door to the bathroom.


The overhead light was burned out, but there was a mini-bar.  The bathroom had a tiny sink, and a rather large bathtub, with no shower, hence no shower curtain.   
 
The room itself had a desk.  One (and I mean one) outlet with only one plug-in was available in the room, but there were three lamps and a bedside clock.  If I wanted to power up my laptop, the lamps had to be unplugged.  If I needed light, I had to unplug the clock and the laptop.  And since there were no plug-in's in the bathroom, you can imagine the sacrifice when I wanted to straighten my hair.

The next morning, I went outside to the front of the hotel to await my pickup.  As I looked around, I thought to myself, "this isn't so bad - it looks like any area near an airport in the world except for the skyscrapers with the bamboo scaffolds surrounding them and the strange crow-like black and white birds hanging around."

I thought that until the donkeys walked by, loaded down with bundles of fabric, followed 3 paces behind by two boys deep in conversation.  The donkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, lucky for the boys.

Then a man walked by with huge open cartons of Ethiopian eggs (or were they European - I wasn't close enough to tell) on his shoulder.  Children in dirty school uniforms, really old cars spewing exhaust fumes, and a hooker.  I could tell she was a hooker because she didn't go anywhere.  She was dressed in what looked like a rayon or polyester dress from the 80's, quite modest actually, and she walked back and forth across the street from me. 

I spent my 50th birthday in this place.  The CIO of Ethiopian Airlines took me out to dinner to celebrate with a roasted lamb dinner.  It too must have been organic, because I could barely cut into it.  But it's the thought that counts.  The people I have met there have been generous, good, and kind, as airline employees around the world tend to be once you get past their tough exteriors.  A new adventure to tell, a new story to remember.

Chapter One - The Beginning

I have wrung more joy out of this life than I deserve. I wish I could say that it was because I had a grand plan and executed it well, but I'm not that organized. Everything I have and everything I've done is because it was dropped into my lap by an unseen, yet unbelievably kind, power.


According to my mother, it was a sunny, warm day the day I was born, 50 years ago. Her due date was 3 days prior, so it seemed like a good day for me to be born. I was supposed to be born on Halloween, and if I was, my name was to be Wendy. Lucky for me I decided that being Wendy the Witch was too much of a lifelong stigma, so I stayed snug in Mom's womb for another few days.

The doctor that delivered me said that I was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen. Several months later he went to rehab for drug addition. But I was a cute child, with a broad smile, and blonde hair that I kept until I was in Kindergarten.

My folks lived in Antigo, Wisconsin, where Dad had a hardware store. We didn't stay long after I was born - Dad yearned to go back to North Dakota, where he was raised, and when the opportunity arose to buy the Coast to Coast hardware store in Casselton, he jumped at the chance. Mom wasn't so sure - she had spent her life in Wisconsin surrounded by family, rolling hills, trees, and green. Her idea of North Dakota was that it was flat, windy, cold, and unforgiving. She wasn't far off.

More Picklin'

With all of those extra quart jars in my camper after canning 5 quarts of dill pickles, I decided to see what else I could do with them.  I found a recipe for Chipotle Pickled Eggs and know what my brother's family loved pickled eggs, so what the heck.

I only have 5 days to wait to see if these turned out. 

Some of the stuff that went into the brine: vinegar, salt, onions, garlic, and chipotle peppers with adobe sauce.  Should be interesting!

Shopping With Maddie

Maddie is my great-niece, and is 2 1/2 years old.  She is a delight (most of the time) to her mother, and her grand-parents. 

I'm not much of a child person, although little ones seem to like me.  I've always thought of it as the same thing as if you, a dog hater, enter a house with a dog, and the dog won't leave your side.  Or the dog just continually humps your leg. 

Something about the lack of cooing and attention makes them like you.

Did I tell you how smart Maddie is?  She knew all of her colors well before most children, and can count to 10 with ease.  In fact, I'm pretty sure she can count to 100 in Spanish but doesn't want to show off.

Maddie and her Mom came over to my camper last weekend 'cuz they were bored.  So I gave Maddie a straw tote bag I use to carry my beach towels in, and said "let's go to the Market". 

She put the tote bag on her shoulder and followed me around the camper.  We stopped, and I said, "should we get a tomato"?

She said yes, so I handed her a tomato from the counter.  We walked some more, and I asked "how about some garlic to go with that tomato"?

She thought that might be nice, so I gave her a head of garlic.  We collected a couple of potatoes, a pepper grinder, and an onion on our trip.  Later, I asked her what we had in the bag to make supper with.  I asked her "do we have a tomato"?  She pulled out a tomato.  I said that we needed an onion and some garlic to go with the tomato, so she correctly pulled those out too. 

Now I know that everyone thinks that their child/grandchild/niece/great-niece is smarter than average (certainly prettier than average, since she looks like me).  But I think that next summer I'm going to teach her to cook for real.  When she's much much older she can look back and remember the times she spent with Auntie Sandy going to the market and using the ingredients we collected to make a delicious supper.

Ode to the Pickle

I've wanted to try it for years.  I've studied the opinions of experts on how to do it, how to spice it up, and how to make sure it doesn't go bad after a few months.  And it's not my love life I'm talking about!

I'm talking about making kosher dill pickles.  I used to help Mom make dill pickles, and remember stuffing those cucumbers into the jar, finding every spare nook and cranny to cram more into.  I remember the sound of the cucumber squeaking along the side of the jar as it slid into its permanent place, or at least permanent for a month or two until we'd eat them.

We'd have a jar of pickles on the table at every meal other than breakfast.  That and a plate of white bread (don't ask me).  If we couldn't reach the pickle with our hands, we'd stick a fork in the jar, cursing as we tried to hook on and bring it out and into our mouths.  That salty, garlicky sensation, so unlike the taste of the original cucumber, would make my taste buds shrivel up in delight as I sucked the juice off the pickle before my first bite, just a tiny bit off the tip so I could curl my tongue around the inside and get all of the juice before I took my first big bite.

I think that understanding how dill pickles were made was one of those "aha" moments in my life.  Something so ordinary transformed into a taste sensation.  I have 5 quarts of my own tonight.  Mother would be so proud.

Bittersweet

There are moments in everyone's lives when moving on is the best thing to do; when the sweet outweighs the bitter.  Luckily, I get to move my home with me.  My Summer Palace is going to relocate about 20 miles away in a new campground. 

I will miss the people I've met here over the years more than they will ever know.  This campground is full of young families full of life and promise.  Their energy is infectious, and I've spent many a great night at one of their campfires laughing, drinking beer, and making new friends.

My new campground is still getting up and running, and I suspect that the neighbors will be quite a bit older, since it's more expensive, and a longer-term committment.  But just like buying a house instead of living in an apartment, this feels like it's the right thing to do.  And if my employer continues to be the best employer on the face of the planet, I hope to make Minnesota my permanent home in a couple of years, so I can sell the Summer Palace and move into a year-round palace.

The new 'hood has paved roads, an indoor swimming pool, and lake access (a motorized tram takes the boat from the marina over the land to the Pelican River, which empties into Detroit Lake, Little Detroit, Muskrat, and Sallie).  Like the Jeffersons, we're "moving on up...to the east side", well it's the west side of the lake, but it's still a move up.  My brother and family are going too, so I'll still have boat time most weekends.

And I'll be much, much closer to a decent sized grocery store, a Walmart, and hair salon.  These things do matter when you live in a camper and you are desperate to get your roots touched up!

So goodbye to the film of dust over everything because the roads are unpaved.  Goodbye to ATV's speeding through the campground (they're not allowed in the new place).  Goodbye to hauling the boat in and out of the public access when we want to go on the water.

Goodbye to my flower garden - I hope to build a new one, but it won't be the same. Some of you are coming with me - I hope you survive the transplant.



And most importantly, goodbye to good friends that I've made in the years I've been here.  I'd like to say I'll visit, but we all know that 20 miles is too far to drive home after a night at the campfire.  I hope that some of you will follow us - maybe not this year, but sometime in the future.  In the meantime, I wish for you nothing but warm cloudless days where the wind is only strong enough to cool you down but leaves the water looking like glass.  I wish for you no dog poop on the sandbar, no idiots putting their boats in at the public access, and lots of good food that Tom cooks up on his fancy grill.

I will miss you all.

For Emily

Sometimes a leap of faith makes all the difference.  In 1984, my friend Denise called me and asked if I would drive with her to Texas, where she was moving after college.  In order to do so, I had to quit my jobs (I had 2) and hope that I would find another one when I returned after 3 weeks. 

After those three weeks, Denise and my other best friend Karen asked me if I wanted to make it permanent.  So I took a deep breath, went back to North Dakota, packed up my little car, and started the long drive back to Texas with your Grandma Joyce.  She went as far as Oklahoma City with me, where we spent a couple of days visiting with my cousin who lived there at the time. 

And then it was time - I was leaving home forever to create a new life for myself, far away from everyone I loved.  I reached Dallas and by the time I got to the apartment I had to run for the toilet.  Turns out I had the flu, so it wasn't the best start to my new adventure!

I felt out of place for a long time - Karen and Denise already had friends there, and I was an outsider.  I wanted to go home.  The weather was stifling hot, and I wanted to go home.

I got a job and moved into an efficiency apartment, where my water bed took up most of the room.  I got robbed one day - they took my TV, my boom box, and an afghan I made myself.  Everything I had of value. I wanted to go home.

I struggled so hard, making many mistakes along the way, but somehow kept going forward on my new life adventure.  I wanted to go home countless times, but never did.

There were really good times too, like being able to be close to my two best friends.  We were all poor, and used to go to Happy Hours on Friday simply because they would have free food.  We'd order our one drink and nurse it for hours.

And now, 26 years later, I want to go home for a better reason.  My life adventure has taken me around the world many many times, and I've seen and done things that would make your jaw drop.  I have the best life ever, and would never have had any of it if I hadn't done exactly what you're doing now.  You must leave home in order to find out who you are, what you're made of, and what is possible for you. 

I am so proud of you, Emily Joyce.  You have begun the biggest adventure of your life and the world is waiting for you!

Reconnecting

Last weekend my big brother Mick invited me to spend the weekend with his family at a lake resort about 2 hours from my place.  All of his kids and their spouses would be there with their kids - 8 adults and 5 kids under the age of 10.

I arrived Friday afternoon just in time to help prepare for supper.  My great-nephew Andy loved my fruit salad, making me love him even more than I already do.  The rest of the night was spent talking, laughing, and drinking beer and wine until the last arrivals rolled in.

Saturday we spent some time in the lake.  Although the resort was beautiful, this lake had a horrible algae problem, with clumps of it floating on top of the water.  It made me appreciate the lakes near me, which are clear.  Later in the day we all went for a pontoon ride around the lake, admiring the pelicans soaring overhead and the loons popping up near the boat.  We also found some not-so-nice things, like giant dead fish floating near shore. 

For supper, we had yummy steaks grilled over real charcoal - I can't remember the last time I had anything cooked on charcoal!  The campfire S'Mores were a bust since the skeeters were so bad, so we went in to play Phase 10 after the kids were put to bed.  There was lots of giggling, and several more bottles of wine disappeared. 

Sunday was golf day.  I don't golf, but I asked if I could drive the cart and be the beer girl.  I was told that my titles wasn't beer girl, it was "beer bitch".  The golf course alone was worth a trip - no houses built along the edge, you felt like you were in the middle of the North Woods.  The view from the 2nd hole was spectacular, where you could see the lake from a hill through the trees.

It was great fun until the rain started.  We went as fast as we could to the rain shack, but we were all soaked through by the time we arrived.  After 9 holes I had to say my goodbyes and head home, since I had to prepare for a trip to New York Monday.

The weekend brought back memories of childhood vacations spent much the same way on a lake, where the adults played cards, children played in the sand, the women spent a lot of time in the kitchen preparing delicious meals, and everyone slept soundly, exhausted after fun days in the sun. 

Turkey Royal Progress

I've been missing seeing the lone turkey that sometimes marches through my backyard.  This afternoon, I noticed two squirrels going crazy, running in circles around a tree, and jumping in the air as if to get my attention.  Behind the tree I noticed a familiar tail - my turkey was back!

Then another head poked out of the bushes, and I realized that my turkey had a girlfriend....wait...more movement, and I see little turkeys!  Three, four, six...eight?  No way!  Final count was 10 baby turkeys out for a stroll with Mom and Pop. 

The two squirrels were like court jesters, doing cartwheels and somersaults for the swamp royal court, and heralding the arrival of Their Majesties and the royal heirs.  After the family and squirrels walked the length of the swamp, they retired to their swamp palace for the day.

What a great way to cap off the weekend!

First Produce Delivery of the Summer

This summer I'm supporting a local organic farm by purchasing a share in their CSA (Community Supported Agriculture).  For money up front, I get deliveries every other week of whatever is in season. 

This week's box contained Spinach, Mixed Lettuce, Napa Cabbage, Baby Bokchoy, Daikon Radishes, Garlic Scapes, and Strawberries. 

I had to do some surfing on the internet to find out what some of these things even were, but went to work planning the weekend's menu.  A couple of weeks ago I purchased a leg of lamb from a local farmer, and had that in the crock pot rubbed with rosemary, garlic, salt and pepper.  I threw in a couple of new potatoes and onions and let it cook on low for 9 hours.  But what to do with this bounty of fresh from the garden produce?

A mixed salad was up first.  I used the lettuce greens, some of the radishes and spinach, and sliced up some red onion, baby cukes, and carrots that I had in the fridge.  For the dressing, I used about a tablespoon of fresh dill from my garden, a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar, a splash of red wine vinegar, and about 1/2 c. olive oil with salt and pepper to taste.  I threw a package of feta cheese into the dressing, and added to the salad right before serving.

I had never used Bok Choy before, much less the baby version, so I went to the web for some ideas.  I ended up cooking a few slices of bacon, removing them from the pan, adding a bit of olive oil and some chopped onions, and then the bok choy (whole).  I put the lid on the pan and let them cook for about 4 minutes, removed the lid and let them cook a few minutes more.  I added them to a serving platter with the lamb and potatoes. 

We're planning to go on the boat today, so I made a Napa Cabbage Slaw by rolling the cabbage leaves up and thinly slicing them.  To that I added a bunch of chopped green onions and the rest of the radishes (I used a veggie peeler to shred them).  Separately, I melted a stick of butter, 2 T sesame seeds, a package of slivered almonds, and a package of ramen noodles all broken up.  I threw that on a pizza plate and put in the oven at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, turning often.  When it got nice and brown I took it out, cooled it, and added it to a separate container.

For the slaw dressing, 3/4 c. vegetable oil, 1/4 c. apple cider vinegar, 1/2 c. sugar were brought to a boil until the sugar melted.  That was cooled too in a separate container.  When we're ready for lunch I'll add the crunchies and the dressing and toss.  We're also planning on having grilled shrimp (we have a grill on the boat, how cool is that?) and whatever snacks we wrangle up (there's a couple of strawberries left over, and snow peas are always good).

Gotta love the bounty of summer!

A Darn Good Night

Yesterday I awoke with stomach cramps and felt pukey - even had to lay down for an hour.  But I took three Advil and got up and went back to work.  I had put chili in the crockpot, and was planning to make Emeril's cheese-stuffed, bacon-wrapped hotdogs to with it.  And cornbread muffins.  I invited my friend Jane and her daughter Kirsten to join us for supper - they really wanted to experience a good campground campfire, and it looked like we might have one if the weather held. 

My brother  Bruce had been in Mitchell, South Dakota (home of the famous Corn Palace) most of the week, and wasn't expected home until around 9 pm.  And Emily and Sarah, Bruce's daughters, weren't coming to the lake this weekend for various reasons.  So supper would be just the girls - me, sister-in-law Monica, Jane, and Kirsten. 

And then my niece Maureen called me, and asked if her family could come visit on their way to their cabin on Ottertail Lake. 

"Of course!", I said, mentally tallying what food I had, and if it was enough to feed 2 more adults and 2 children.  "Stay for supper!"

And then Bruce got out of his class early, so he was headed to the lake, and would make supper too.  So at 5 pm I moved all the food to his camper, where he has a spacious deck and large dining set.  I plugged the crockpot in outside, and put the wieners in the fridge, then sat back and waited for everyone to arrive.

Maureen, Jesse, Andy, and Woody were first on the scene.  We hung at my house for awhile so they could admire my garden and try the newest flavor of Diet Snapple.  Then I took them all over to Bruce's camper on his golf cart.  Soon after that Jane and her daughter arrived, and lastly Monica came, straight from work.  Bruce fired up the grill, I cooked the wieners and we all ate until we were stuffed.

Bruce told a story from our childhood.  The first word Bruce and I had ever learned how to spell was Mississippi.  We used to spell it out loud all the time, in a sing-song rhythm.  Now Mom used to wax our wood floors once a week, on Dad's bowling night, which as it happened was also our bath night.  After the floors were waxed and cleaned, Mom would get us ready for our bath by stripping us down to our socks.  Bruce and I would escape and run, sliding down the slick hallway in our socks, spelling M i s s i s s i p p i at the top of our lungs.

That wonderful little game ended when I picked up a sliver in my foot big enough to necessitate a trip to the doctor to have it removed, along with my very first tetanus shot.

A gang of little kids came running down the gravel road - we knew all but one of them.  Soon after, their parents came by on their golf carts and we sat on the deck and visited a little bit.  Maureen and her family had to go, and I got hugs from all.  Then Ryleigh, a little girl from the campground, wanted me to pick her up for a hug too.  She hugged me hard and kissed my cheek. 

Mothers and fathers took their kiddos home to get their pajamas on, and then it was campfire time.  Bruce has a great setup - a big yard ending at the swamp, and woods on one side.  He's parked an old fridge in a shed on the edge of the swamp, where the beer and pop are kept.  The wood for the fire is stacked neatly (sort of) on the edge of the trees, and so everything is easily within reach.

A small winged creature kept buzzing us, which some people saw and others claimed they didn't.  It had to have been a bat or bats, but we hadn't experienced them before, so it was a little creepy.  One of the times when someone shrieked seeing it, I looked up and saw a tall shadow move into the shed, which set off all sorts of ghost stories.  Later on Shane, one of the campers, said he saw the shadow too.

The marshmallows came out for the S'mores, more wood was piled on the fire, and Kirsten got to break in her new Fleet Farm boots by kicking wood back into the fire pit when it escaped.

A little after midnight everyone said their goodnights and see ya tomorrow's and went home.  A very good night indeed.

Scorched Earth

I've written before about the neighbor that likes to burn things in his firepit using lots and lots of gasoline.  Tuesday he was back, and must have really missed his firepit, because he spent the day ripping out bird houses and burning them, after dousing them with gas.  Then he took down a lattice fence that hid his yard tools from sight and threw that in too.  Now that the fire was going swell, he threw in his yard tools, including two gas-powered weed eaters!  I'm pretty sure I saw some metal chairs on the heap as well.

After the bonfire cooled down the next morning, a large patch of grass around the firepit was gone, and even more of it has been scorched and won't come back.  The old man shoveled the contents of the firepit into 2 trash bags and threw them away.

I have a suspicion that this man is getting ready to leave for good.  He pulled up concrete stepping stones (I was afraid they were going into the fire too), and I saw him pack some lawn games into the trunk of his car. 

I didn't see his wife, but rarely ever do.  I heard two years ago that she was suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia (they must be close to 80).  They live in Minneapolis (about 3 1/2 hour drive from here), but used to spend most of the summer in their camper. 

They've build a screened in porch the whole length of the camper, and painted it in Florida pastels.  The old man used to get up early every day and build things, like the bird houses that he so recently burned.  Their yard is full of gnomes and signs, and bird houses, and owl statues and other things he's made.  I've never been in their camper, but their porch has windchimes hanging from every possible spot.

I imagine that the old man is dismantling their summer life bit by bit, destroying anything that he can't carry home in his sedan car.  Just like losing someone you love, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind.

Just When You Think It's Over and Done With

About 10 days ago I had to say goodbye to my cat Scottie Sunshine.  A gorgeous long-haired tuxedo cat, Scottie would trot after me everywhere with his tail held high.  I could feel his happy grin with that tail, and knew he was playing with me when he'd walk in front of me and suddenly stop dead in his tracks. 

But for the last few months, Scottie was losing weight and coughing a lot.  I knew something was wrong, and 10 days ago Scottie started breathing funny, wheezing and panting.  Being Sunday, I took him to a clinic open every day, 24 hours a day.  $700 worth of x-rays and blood work later, I found that he had cancer all throughout his body, and the top of his mouth was being eaten away by the evil stuff. 

The poor vet was young, and when I asked her through my tears if it was time, she paused and said, "maybe you could take him home tonight and bring him back tomorrow".  I knew she was telling me there was no hope, and there was no way I was going to put Scottie through this stress again.  He had already buried his claw in the back of the vet tech's hand and had to be put to sleep just to get his blood.

I was led into a back room, where Scottie was asleep with a gas mask over his nose and an IV in his paw.  I told him he was a good cat and that I loved him.  I kissed his head and with my hand on his side, the doctor administered the fatal dosage.  He breathed one more time, and I felt him go. 

I felt such relief when he left - so much so I was able to tell the doctor about his life and the other cats that live with me.  I signed the papers releasing his body, paid the bill, and left with an empty cat carrier.

Since then I've done okay - grief comes in waves, and sometimes I wouldn't know when it would hit. 

I drove to my Summer Palace and arrived yesterday afternoon.  Today, I collected my mail, and there was a letter from Faithful Friends, a local pet cemetery and crematory.  They offered their sincere condolences, and enclosed his death certificate, along with two pamphlets on how to deal with the death of a family pet.  That wave of grief came crashing down on me again, and I have yet to make it past the first sentence of the first pamphlet.  But I will read them, and I'm so grateful that Scottie was taken care of by such caring people.

Cilantro Vindication

When people ask me what foods I don't like, the one rising to the top is invariably cilantro.  I don't like the smell or the taste, even though I make dishes with it during the summer for others.  Heck, I might even grow it this year just to please my family and friends who think my cilantro aversion is nutty.

Today I read an article in the New York Times about people like me.  Here are a few excerpts:

In a television interview in 2002, Larry King asked Julia Child which foods she hated. She responded: “Cilantro and arugula I don’t like at all. They’re both green herbs, they have kind of a dead taste to me.”


“So you would never order it?” Mr. King asked.

“Never,” she responded. “I would pick it out if I saw it and throw it on the floor.”

The authoritative Oxford Companion to Food notes that the word “coriander” is said to derive from the Greek word for bedbug, that cilantro aroma “has been compared with the smell of bug-infested bedclothes” and that “Europeans often have difficulty in overcoming their initial aversion to this smell.”

Flavor chemists have found that cilantro aroma is created by a half-dozen or so substances, and most of these are modified fragments of fat molecules called aldehydes. The same or similar aldehydes are also found in soaps and lotions and the bug family of insects.



The senses of smell and taste evolved to evoke strong emotions because they were critical to finding food and mates and avoiding poisons and predators. When we taste a food, the brain searches its memory to find a pattern from past experience that the flavor belongs to. Then it uses that pattern to create a perception of flavor, including an evaluation of its desirability.


If the flavor doesn’t fit a familiar food experience, and instead fits into a pattern that involves chemical cleaning agents and dirt, or crawly insects, then the brain highlights the mismatch and the potential threat to our safety. We react strongly and throw the offending ingredient on the floor where it belongs.

So I'm not crazy.  I just have strong genetic memory.

Community Supported Agriculture

In my last post I mentioned that I've been craving fresh produce.  So here's what I did about it.

From  Local Harvest, here are the basics of Community Supported Agriculture (CSA): a farmer offers a certain number of "shares" to the public. Typically the share consists of a box of vegetables, but other farm products may be included. Interested consumers purchase a share (aka a "membership" or a "subscription") and in return receive a box (bag, basket) of seasonal produce each week throughout the farming season.

Lida Farm offers CSA shares to people in the surrounding area, and I've signed up for their every-other-week option.  Starting mid-June, I should start getting fresh fruits and vegetables harvested that day and shipped to me cross-county, not cross-country.

I'll let you know how it goes.  I'm excited about the opportunity to support a local business and satisfy my cravings at the same time!

Why Does Texas Hate Rhubarb?

It's that time of the year.  You know the time.  Right after the clocks spring forward, days start getting longer, and there are hints of warm days ahead.  I start to crave fresh produce and exercise.  I'm not crazy - I don't want that much exercise, but the Wii Fit starts getting used again.

Five more weeks in Texas before I move to my Summer Palace in Minnesota.  I'm picking out vegetables to grow there this year - I might try lettuce, spinach, carrots, and radishes in addition to the green onions and tomatoes this year.  Maybe I'll move the big whiskey barrel to a sunny spot and plant the veggies in it - I can call it my salad barrel.

I was perusing http://www.foodnetwork.com/ this afternoon in search of some springtime recipes to try, and looked to see what was in season.  Rhubarb topped the list, along with asparagus.  I thought about the moist & delicious loaf of rhubarb bread that my sister-in-law Monica gave me last year, and decided it was high time to make my own.  Two loaves ought to do it - one for me and one to take to work on Monday to share.

I got a couple of recipes from Monica and headed to the store.  I was looking for fresh rhubarb, but would settle for frozen.  The frozen fruit section had raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, mango, peaches but no rhubarb, so I headed to the fresh produce section.  A nice employee asked me if I was finding everything I needed, so I asked him for rhubarb.  A puzzled look came over his face and he started moving through the produce section.  He finally asked someone else, and they said "we don't carry rhubarb here - it just doesn't sell". 

Now I grew up in a place where almost everyone had a rhubarb patch in their backyard that their parents had started many years ago.  Rhubarb is wonderful as long as you pair it with sugar, otherwise it's really an acquired taste. 

Feeling sorry for myself, I headed home, thinking again about the food items I can never seem to find in the local grocery stores.  I practically peed myself when the stores started carrying pancetta AND proscuitto. 

Here in Texas, I can't get rhubarb.  Or Giant Sunflower Seeds (except I order them directly from the company and have them shipped).  I can never seem to find Manchego cheese, or Fontina for that matter.  Marscapone - forget about it.  I can get all of those in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota though, at Central Market, the one and only grocery store in town.  I can also get oxtails and suet in Pelican Rapids, Minnesota (I never have, but I could if I wanted to).  And lamb - I can get it at the Halal shop in Pelican Rapids, but never see it in Texas except at the specialty markets.  I can also get walleye in Minnesota.  I'm not sure people have heard of walleye here in Texas. 

Both places excel in Mexican food, although I think Larry's Supermarket in Pelican Rapids might do a better job at the authentic stuff, dedicated a large section to the stuff (there is a large Mexican population there, as well as a Somali, Vietnamese, and Norwegian influence.

I like my scrambled eggs with chives, and I've had to make do in Texas with the dry kind.  As soon as I arrive in Minnesota though, I'll have fresh chives in abundance.  I even cut the whole clump back las summer when it got a little unmanageable, and it grew back in a week or so.

In my backyard the climbing rose is about to bloom.  And the chocolate mint is showing its fragrant little leaves to the sun.  I've planted radishes, spinach, and green onions in a big pot, hoping I'll be able to harvest them before I leave for Minnesota.  And I've started basil that I plan on taking with me to hold me over until mid-summer, when the basil in my garden gets big enough to harvest.  And the catnip may go into a pot for my pet sitter to water this summer and for her to treat my cats with while I'm gone.

Here are the recipes Monica sent me today.  I can't try them out because I CAN'T FIND RHUBARB!

Rhubarb Coffee Cake

1/2 c. butter
1-1/2 c sugar
1 egg
1 c buttermilk
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
2-1/2 c flour
3 cups rhubarb, sliced 1/4 inch thick
1 c brown sugar
1/2 c walnuts

Mix butter, sugar, egg, buttermilk, vanilla, soda, salt, flour and rhubarb and pour into greased 13x9 pan.
Sprinkle with the brown sugar and nuts. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees. While cake is still hot, spread
with the following topping which has been cooked until sugar is dissolved - about 3-4 minutes.

1/2 c butter
1/2 c light cream or evaporated milk
1 c sugar
1 tsp vanilla

Rhubarb Bars
3 cups rhubarb
1.5 cups sugar
2 Tbl cornstarch
1/4 cup water
1 tsp vanilla

Dissolve cornstarch in the water and add to the rhubarb and sugar. Cook until thick and cool slightly.

1.5 cups oatmeal
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter
1.5 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda

Combine the crust ingredients and press 3/4 of mixture into the bottom of a 13 X 9 pan. Spread filling over the crust. Sprinkle the rest of the crust over filling.

Bake at 350 for 30-35 minutes.

For Denise

A Mourning Dove sat on the bench on my front porch one morning as I sat down with my coffee. 

"Good morning, Mr. Pigeon", I said.  I often speak to the birds and animals around me, since, well, there is no one else to talk to most days. 

But as soon as I uttered those words, I felt like I had to apologize to the bird. 

"I'm sorry...I meant Mr. Dove!  So sorry to offend you."

Okay, so most of the conversation above was in my head, but it got me to thinking about my ingrained opinions on things.  For example, why do I think that a pigeon is a lesser creature than a dove?  The media has something to do with it I'm sure.  Pigeons are shown shitting on things, while doves are the symbol of peace.  But where did the media get that opinion?  Where did I get that opinion?

Consider rats and mice.  They have fur, and four legs and a tail, just like gerbils and hamsters and guinea pigs.  If hamsters roamed the New York subway system eating our leftovers, would we cringe at the thought of them too?  Why are they different?  Is it because we were taught that they were different by our parents, who were taught by their parents, and so on?  Is there some sort of genetic memory going on here?

When I would see a homeless person on the subway, or in the streets, my first instinct was disgust and avoidance.  And I heard over and over again from my colleagues that they smelled bad.  And that they were panhandlers who would just spend the money on cheap wine.  But almost without exception, the homeless people I saw were sleeping, and didn't smell bad, at least from what I could tell sitting across from them.  I never once was asked for money.  And the panhandlers on the train were in much better shape, and would often perform for the money, with music, or at the very least a rousing speech about Jesus.

So why are we ashamed of people who are mentally ill, or homeless, or addicts, or prisoners?  By the grace of God only I have been spared such a fate.  And trust me, there are some that think that living alone with 5 cats qualifies me for at least one of the above. 

The next time you have a visceral reaction to something or somebody, ask yourself this:  is this something I feel for a reason, or do I feel this way because someone has told me that I should?  Personally, I don't like being told what to do, so the next time I see a pigeon, or a rat, I'm going to speak to them with love and kindness.  Not so sure about Mr. Snake though - the story of Adam and Eve had to be true, right???

Mr. Crazy Himself

My colleaugue who happened to be on the subway with me when the homeless dude started his lecture mentioned the experience to some local friends of his. 

"Oh, he's a legend here in New York - been around for years", they said.

So I googled the guy, and sure enough, he is rather well known around here.

Crazy Crazy I Love Me Some Crazy

My hotel this trip is near Times Square, and I take the subway to Queens every day for work.  The first 4 stops until we hit 53rd street and Lexington are always packed, and I have to stand, hoping I'll have a pole to hold on to.

Wednesday I got on, and was holding on for dear life, when I heard a booming voice behind me. 

"Women are NOT equal to men.  They are meant to have babies, and should not assume that they should have the same privileges a man enjoys." 

I turned around to see who was speaking, something I know better than to do.  The speaker was a middle-aged African American man, round and bearded, and sat by himself in the back of the subway car.  He looked up, and seemed surprised because I made eye contact.  I'm not sure, but I think I saw a glimmer of glee in his eyes when he saw me see him. 

This guy had a radio voice.  As if he was reading from a script, he gave his opinions on women, Obama, and other assorted topics.  I was crammed in the subway, so I turned to my colleague while "The Prophet" broadcast his views.  I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.  My colleage, mistaking my demeanor for discomfort, asked me if I wanted to get out and take another train.  I laughed and said "no, I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

At the next stop, I was disappointed to see The Prophet exit the subway.  I turned around to watch him leave, and as soon as he stepped onto the platform he turned to face me again.  He continued his rant even as the doors closed and the subway pulled away from him.

New Yorkers are pros at ignoring strange behavior.  If you don't believe me, look at the YouTube video of the man who got on the subway with a chicken. 

But as soon as The Prophet got off, previously indifferent travelers started to laugh and talk about this guy.  "You can't argue with the crazies", one older lady said.  We all agreed that the guy had a perfect radio voice and ought to have his own show, but then we decided that there were already plenty of shows just like it.

I love this city!

Random

Someone told me tonight that the Mayor of New York City offered a one-way ticket anywhere in the USA for any homeless person that wanted one. Now Miami has a lot of bums.

My commute to work every day involves 3 elevators, 4 flights of stairs, one subway, and about a block walk.

Tonight I walked from Times Square to Grand Central Station. I'm really glad I wore the long johns. If I do that again I think I'll wear two pair.

My Kindle is broken, and I'm in panic mode about what I'm going to read. But Amazon is going to get me a new one tomorrow. I love Amazon.

I don't have to go to work until 2 am Saturday morning. I feel like I'll have a whole day off tomorrow. Bad news is I have to be back in bed by 4 pm tomorrow afternoon in order to get a solid 8 hours, since my first shift is 18 hours.

A mentally ill person near Grand Central Station tonight was yelling at the pavement about being the prime minister of Nigeria, and fuck the people. I wonder if Nigeria is missing a prime minister?

Second Wish Fulfilled

This week will be the eye of the hurricane workwise. We've finished testing, and the cutover is a go for next Friday night. I fly back to New York City Monday, but in the meantime, I have the weekend off! First time since I started on this project November 10th.

Last night I got one of my wishes - be able to focus on Haiti instead of my work for just one night.

Today, I got another wish - I was able to take a nap, and it was in my own bed (not an airplane). I was finally awakened by my cat licking my ear.

Wish Go Away

In my last post, I wished that I had time and the focus to pay attention to what was happening in Haiti instead of in my own hectic life.

Tonight, life is relatively quiet workwise, and I don't have to work this weekend, so I tuned in to the Hope for Haiti Telethon tonight, quite by accident.

As I watched tonight with tears streaming down my face, listening to the stories of despair and hope, I thought about a couple of things.

1. No matter how bad I think I have it, I was blessed to be born in the USA. I'm not always proud to be an American, but I was certainly blessed to have been born one.

2. It seems to me that the best parts of America come out when people are hurting. The tsunamai, 9/11, and Haiti prove that Americans care about other people more than their day-to-day lives.

3. I'm so going to buy the music from the telethon on iTunes. And I'm glad that it's going to help the people of Haiti.

4. Anderson Cooper is way hot. Especially when he attempts to speak French to small children rescued from the rubble.

5. George Clooney is also way hot. But he really needs to shave that beard and dye his hair.

6. Brad Pitt isn't even hot anymore. What is up with that horrible hair on his face?

Wishful Thinking

I wish that I could take a nap in the middle of the day without being on an airplane.

I wish I could be home long enough so that Sam (my cat) didn't feel like he had to wake me up at the crack of dawn with kitty kisses.

I wish for one day of freedom, where I wasn't tethered to my computer and Blackberry. But with one day, all I'd do is sleep anyway, so make that two days.

I wish I could experience New York like a tourist and eat at one of the finest restaurants, instead of eating whatever I can fit into my mini fridge in the hotel room.

I wish that my company would pay me back for the weekends, holidays, and extra hours I've put in since November 10. At last count, it's an additional 20 weekend days, 4 holiday days, and approximately 276 overtime hours. They did pay me for the 2 weeks of vacation I gave up. And it doesn't look like I'll have a day off until February 27. Four months of 16 hour days with no days off. I thought that slavery had been abolished.

I wish I could eat just one meal without being interrupted by a phone call, instant message, or the buzzing of the Blackberry.

I wish everyone could have the stories I can tell.

I wish my family would come visit me without me having to pay for them to get here. I wish I had as much money as my family thinks I do so I could pay for them to get here.

I wish my friends would know how much it means to me when they IM me or e-mail me in the morning just to wish me a good day. Without wanting anything from me.

I wish hormones didn't make me have mini-meltdowns at least once a month.

I wish I could recognize the tension and stress in others without picking it up myself and carrying it for them.

I wish that I was more focused on the horrible tragedy in Haiti instead of myself.

I wish for peace on earth.

Randomness

I'm fairly certain I saw Alan Rickman (Professor Snapes) this morning at the Starbucks inside the Waldorf Astoria. He was tall, with white hair, and was wearing silly sunglasses inside. We made eye contact as he was leaving. If he had spoken I would known for sure, but he was too many people ahead of me, and frankly, I was half asleep at 7:30 in the morning.

Bums on the subway. For $2.25 they can ride all night and stay warm. Every one I've seen has tucked his arms inside his sweatshirt and hidden his face under a hood. I guess they don't want to be seen either.

I was upgraded to the Waldorf Towers this trip - 41st floor. I keep thinking I'll run into Brad and Angelina or the Obamas. I have a separate entrance, separate elevators, and even my own hallway in the room. I have a nice view of the sunrise in the morning coming up over the skyscrapers. This is where Cole Porter lived for years, and occasionally played his piano in the Park Avenue lobby.

Crab cakes and a Guinness at Connelly's Pub with friends after a long day is priceless.

That soft, warm bed with the down comforter and fancy sheets is calling my name.