Keep on keepin' on

 

The national news is depressing.

Todd Akin makes me want to commit candidaticide, but I can't because that's not a valid solution, 

even in the case of asshat idiots.

And I'm trying to channel lovingkindess.

I'm crippled with anxiety about still being unemployed and knowing the only solution is to 

FIND A JOB.

It hurts to wake up in the morning.

I'm almost afraid to leave the house.

On the other hand,

Logan and Noah took after Great-Grandpa Hart, sort of,

 and Brody learned how to smile.

In the meantime, 

We manage to do it all for 78 cents on the dollar.

(Kicking aside misogynists the whole damn day.)

And I'll have "all the dates I want", too, [as long as all I want are no dates.]

In a couple of weeks I get to go spend a long weekend in San Antonio with this cute boy.
On his company's dime
because somehow he grew up to be a stellar employee.
And he invited old Mom to share his reward.

So, looks like all I need to do is:

And things will get better.

Anything for you, dear

 One of two female buddhas,  White Tara at the
Tashi Choling Center for Buddhist Studies, down the road a piece

"With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come."  

- Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The first official convention, minus one or two.  Event shirts and everything!

So the fifth Jenny Creek Cafe convention and dance-athon is now in the archives.  It was probably the most ambitious production yet, but at the same time simpler because we'd done it four times.  This is purely conjecture because I didn't really do any of the planning.  I was flattered because the location was chosen (in part) because it is near Ashland (Oregon, about 140 miles north of my town), where I traveled to absorb a little culture and gather with my siblings,  but I could still get there in time for a bedtime drink snack on the first day.

There's my mountain, looking south out our windows

"Heaven & Earth" is a beautiful, sprawling house in the rolling hills right on the California border with big bedrooms for almost everyone and a vast kitchen/dining space where we spent most of our time cooking and eating.  (If you decide to look, the "master bedroom" was mine, but only because one couple had to cancel.)  The single unpleasant surprise was an inadequate refrigerator which required daily additions of bagged ice to keep our food from going bad and poisoning us all.  I realize it's bougie to whine about no Wi-Fi, but there was also no air conditioning and the first two days were well over one hundred degrees outside, rendering us too sweaty and lethargic to dance much, but we compensated by enjoying our booze on-the-rocks instead of neat.  (Sadly, being sweaty and lethargic is almost a given in this, the happy hour of our lives...)  There was a walkout basement level with a family room (and most of the bedrooms) which was nice and cool and an excellent place to gather to watch  M and Dr L's African safari slideshow, judge the crusty heel contest, play a few hands of Name-That-Symptom,  or sing along to the Music Man.  (We are still perplexed by what appears to be at least a twenty-year age separation between Marian [Shirley Jones] and her little brother Winthrop [Ronny Howard], who was clearly Mrs Paroo's change-of-life baby.)

Yes, we are still hungry

The salmon cook and the pizza cook

There was plenty to eat, which is like saying there was plenty of air to breathe.  Despite each superb meal starting the instant the previous one ended, I brought home SIX bulging sacks of groceries as well as several bottles of wine, and only partly because the other Creekers either had to fly home or drive too far to make toting home leftovers impractical.  I won't have to shop for quite a while as long as I'm not too particular about the combinations on my plate, and so far I'm not.  However I really miss the coffee elf who not only brought along her own Santa Cruz blend, and who also drew the short straw and slept on the couch,  but got up before dawn to start the first pot of the morning.  I'm the elf at my house but I'm not nearly as doggone cheerful about it.

The under-functioning refrigerator photo-bombing the shot

From the Cafe's inception we've counted two spouses in our numbers--indeed they are charter members--but this year the circle expanded to welcome two more husbands (Neither of whom had avoided us on purpose, mysteriously, necessarily, it just seldom worked out that they could make the pilgrimage.)  Both of them had a great time or are skilled actors; either circumstance obviously makes for good husband material, in my somewhat impaired opinion.

  We might be Susan and Sharon, if Hayley Mills had actually been two people 

Once again I drove home with the sweet taste of bone-deep friendship on my tongue and the delicious warmth of laughter in my heart.  I guess one good thing about being this age is that the days will fly by and next year's reunion will be here in the blink of a presbyopic eye.

former-girl-child subcommittee meeting over cocktails

Sunday evening stragglers (me in a Kikoy channeling my inner  African queen) enjoying a thundershower

We're so dang real, we even have a logo.




~This one's for Thunder.  Sleep well, old man~

This really should be an Olympic event. We would totally win.

The gold medal. Silver medal. Bronze medal. Preliminaries.
We would totally march in the opening ceremonies.

Hey kids, it's almost that time again.

The annual reunion of the used-to-be-kids now known as the Jenny Creek Cafe.

Like the actual creek, it was not named after me.

But I forgive you for assuming it was.

Too cool for school.  Even now.

Last year's team performed quite ably.

It was merely a coincidence that we had already killed several bottles of wine.

Four team members are in this picture.  If you don't already know, can you guess which one is me?  

If that was too easy, can you find Dr L?

Do you see the old guy in glasses shown performing in last year's revue?
Do you remember who that guy in the corner with the turtleneck dicky is?  I don't either.

Anyway, this is the weekend.  Most people will get there before I do; this is also the Oregon Shakespeare Festival gathering of all my siblings and my mom in Ashland to see some plays and celebrate Mom's ninetieth birthday.

I'm excited about seeing this play.  Maybe next year I can catch some actual Shakespeare, although my favorites so far have been by other playwrights.  

My overachieving family is better at this, but what else is new?

After dinner and cake on Friday I'll jump in the car and roar back down the road a ways to our chosen venue, a large, beautiful house named Heaven & Earth.  I didn't do any of the planning this time (okay, I never do any of the planning; I just show up) but it promises to be wonderful.   We're hosting several non-JCC-members-but-beloved-friends as well as a couple of  spouses who haven't joined us before--I hope they have a good time!  

Here in town, the siblings are beginning to accumulate.

Peach cobbler is being prepared.  And vanilla ice cream has been purchased.

 Let the games begin.

Check back next week for the post-game.

Gratuitous grandson shot.

Can't fit through the kitchen door

Fatty fatty two by four, at an impressive nine pounds, arrived last week.

Hey old lady, 

I believe there are laws to protect me from you posting pictures of me naked without my consent.

Brody Michael was scheduled to arrive Thursday but was unwilling to wait that long.  This was Annie's third c-section, and based on that giant cranium, it's probably just as well.  He was born last Tuesday as I was driving the three hours to get here.  The family recently bought a house and just got the keys--they've been able to take over most of the boxes Annie packed and all the yard/garage stuff, but the  nitty gritty items like silverware and underpants should go tomorrow (maybe, or maybe not.  Things are a little uncertain around here.)  I've been trying to stay on top of the wave and be helpful, and although logically I am, I'm a little discouraged about the whole project.  I think everyone just wants to BE MOVED ALREADY.  You know the feeling.  So I cook, clean, and chase  Curious George  Noah as he escapes out the gate, out the front and back doors, turns on the hoses and sprinklers,  snatches everything off the counters, climbs in the oven, refrigerator and dishwasher, dashes into Mama's room and gets into her makeup, sneaks into the garage and throws all my clothes out of my suitcase,  climbs onto the dryer, jumps into any unlocked car and honks the horn and turns every knob and locks the doors, and on and on all the livelong day.  Add one slightly bored and jealous older brother and it multiplies by five.  

Yo Grambob, you'd better come in here real quick.

I'm currently laundering the Snuggy (Noah's special blanket) for the third time since I've been here, so things are a bit tense.  He dumps his sippy cup on it for his own reasons (bored, angry, or just to hear me yelp.)  I love these little lambs more than I can explain, but this is harder than it was when their Mama was small.  I'm sure it's no picnic for them right now, either.

So you people just wake me when we get there.  Or actually--I'll wake YOU.

Brody Michael
July 10, 2012

Mom, she's copying me!

Recently I was wasting time looking at one of my favorite DIY blogs.  A lot of Jillee's ideas are downright dopey, but I have to hand it to her: she keeps rolling out the posts.  As I hopscotched through her archives I landed on a clever item (which she borrowed from someone else)  about making grocery bags out of  T-shirts.  As clever as that project sounds, I'd never thought of it, and it was ridiculously easy.   Believe it or not, I can't think of everything.

God, my carpet looks grimy.  Might be about Bissell-time again.  Disregard.

I'm willing to bet that you have far too many "event" T-shirts.  (Until now, one = too many.)  They multiply almost as fast as plastic grocery bags.  If you're like most women (and some men), you never wear them after the event because, let's face it, those boxy crew-neck Hanes tees are woefully unflattering.  I understand; they have sentimental value so you don't get rid of them or anything else.  

See where I'm headed with this?

I had already cut the crew neck and sleeves off this one: nope--still dorky 

First, I turned one inside out and cut a U-shape out of both sides of the neckline (I traced a plate and pinned it together, but I think you could just free-hand it.)  Next, I cut off the sleeves.  I used my old pinking shears only because Lillian's boss Martha Stewart  scissors were hidden in her room and I didn't have all day to  am reluctant to dig around in there.  Knit fabric doesn't ravel;  the edge rolls over nicely and looks finished.

I measured down about 12" (you could go longer if you wish, of course) from the armholes, and sewed straight across the bottom with a double row of stitching; nice and sturdy. I trimmed that seam.   Since I prefer box corners I folded the bottom corners into points and sewed across, about two inches in. 

See where I'm pointing up there?   

Still with me? You can do this!

Here's how those box corners look from the outside.  Deluxe!

 I trimmed that seam  and turned my new grocery bag right side out.  It almost couldn't be any easier.

Bam!  Done.

I'm thinking about Santa Claus right about now, aren't you?

And there's my new bag pretending to hold groceries.  A medium-size T-shirt makes a bag about the size of a regular plastic grocery sack.  Man-size shirts will logically make deeper sacks.  You could sew those a little shorter, to keep you from stuffing in too many  wine bottles  fruits and vegetables.  

I sincerely love my stash of cloth bags and don't shop without them, but these are softer and cuter.  

Move over, bougie Old Navy stuff-'n-save bags!  You've been out-greened.

These took about five minutes each and cost nothing.  I've used them already!

Obey the rocks

"The ship that will not obey the helm will have to obey the rocks"  --old English proverb

I may have mentioned that I -sort of- collect rocks.  Not valuable, portable things like hundred dollar bills.  Nope; it's rocks.  I am descended from dedicated rock-hounds, my adventurous maternal grandparents, and just can't help admiring pretty or unusual rocks.  I lug them home and pile display them all over my house and yard.  I have only one box-full of my grandparents'  beautiful, carefully labeled specimens because, in a rare flash of insight years ago, I realized that it was truly unwise to own more special rocks than I could carry.  Besides, if I ever want to look at the rest of them I can since my brothers have them, which makes their wives extremely happy, because I mean really, wouldn't you want your spouse to bring home half a ton of rocks?  Don't you want to live right where you do now, (because who moves a thousand pounds of freaking rocks), until you die?  

At least if either sister-in-law ever wants to bash my brother's head in frustration, there are hundreds of lethal weapons within easy reach.

When I bought my house, it hadn't been built yet, but alone on the lot stood an old fireplace, hand built of native stones.  Patiently waiting for me to come along and build a house with this view out my front window.  The Dowager Countess of Grantham had Downton Abbey; but I have 

The House With the Fireplace. 

I don't believe in fate, but if I did, then this was meant to be.

If I stand in my yard and look west I can see this pile of rocks heaped in my neighbor's side yard next to the street.  It's been there for years--there are weeds and lizards in the pile--and when I  go past on my morning stroll power-walk sometimes I look to see if any of them are pretty or remarkable in some way.  They are just garden-variety boring old landscape stones, but one day I spied an attractive tiger-striped one and rationalized that if I replaced it with several similar-but-plain stones from my yard, I wouldn't feel bad about bringing the stripey one home.  After all, her net rock volume would be twenty pounds higher than it was before, which seemed more than fair.  Generous, even.

So that's what I did.

Apparently she saw me.

I'll never eat lunch in this town again.

"Next time do it in the middle of the night!"

He tried to tell me.

The cat and I have divergent talents

Yes,  I neglected to photograph everything before I started, but you've seen plenty of old furniture before.  

Insert your own appropriate memory here.

Last week I finally dragged my dowdy old dresser into the garage and took off the handles.  See how the unfinished wood inside the drawers looks nice and dark?  Hold that thought.

Is it really the safest?  Well, 3M makes Post-Its, and they're pretty safe, so yeah--probably.

I lightly sanded and primed everything, filling in a few dings with Dap spackle first.  I decided to strip the  top entirely and stain it, or just seal it if I liked the color.  This 3M stripper did a fine job--it took a few coats with scraping in between, and all that Navajo White paint came off.  But instead of nice dark bare wood, it was really light; almost like maple or ash.  I remember it originally being dark so it must have had walnut stain on just the top so the whole thing would match.  Whose idea was that?  

My groovy DeWalt hand sander looks apprehensive about all my projects.  Lillian refinished that little drop leaf table.

Anyway, since I had already chosen to paint rather than replace the brass hardware, I elected to sand the top smooth and stain it with some leftover black Minwax stain.  It took three coats to darken the pale wood, and then I sprayed it with clear sealer, painted the body and drawers with my special not-quite-white blend Rustoleum Ultra Cover,  reassembled the whole thing, and dragged it back inside. 

Anyone see a little smoochy-face there?  Just me?  God, I'm such a romantic.

Later we hefted the ugly television on top, but here's how a dresser should look.  No old tv anywhere.  

The dresser lives in the corner of the room, so I can push the bulky tv back further. 

Nobody sees it but me, and I like to watch for a while until I fall asleep, so I deal with it.

That's Annie, Sam and Lillie in a picture taken almost twenty years ago.

I'm very happy with the result.  I can (and probably must) live with it for another few decades.  I actually painted my pine bookshelves first (purchased unfinished when Annie was born and stained golden oak), and also a humble gray end table that was most recently Lillian's (one of a pair from a neighborhood garage sale twenty years ago) but I haven't taken their picture yet.  

My poor bedroom is a wrecking yard these days.  Be patient.

Kitty demonstrates the Y in DIY:  She has to catch her own lizards.

Not to be outdone by my species-specific skills, Lottie sneaked another big cranky lizard into the house while I was occupied.  I intercepted them before she could turn him loose in Lillian's room.  I did let her admire him in his plastic prison for a while before I dropped him in some ivy across the street; but she was miffed for the rest of the afternoon.

Forever or until I forget

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.^[1

Please do not get me started on curly bulbs

My mother (age 89) recently asked me how many Forever stamps it took to make 65 cents.  I told her two Forever stamps would do, because I knew she didn't have any twenty centers.  (I'll bet you did not know that the second ounce needs twenty cents.)  Why did she need 65 cents of postage?  Because her mail-in ballot needed that much.  I said I couldn't remember ever needing extra postage for my ballot--in fact I was pretty sure most ballots were postage-paid, but I'd go home and check.  Of course then I couldn't find my ballot.  I finally unearthed it from a large pile of unrelated crap--no doubt segregated from the regular mail so I could spend time reading and deciding.  I admit there are a lot of issues about which I am confused and candidates for all the various seats with whose politics I am completely unfamiliar.  

At any rate (postal humor-lol) the enclosed purple envelope indeed required 65 cents postage. The instructions stated that purple envelopes needed postage, but green envelopes were free.  Do some elections have green envelopes?  If so, why?

I'm trying to use up all my old stamps;  I overestimated how many I'd need before the last rate hike and have to mail everything with an obsolete 44 cent stamp and a leftover 2 cent stamp; of which I also have too many.  It seems ridiculous to buy a sheet of 1 cent stamps, after all, rendering the 2 centers useless.  If I were rich and/or smart I'd buy a lot of Forever stamps to send the occasional birthday or thank you card.  I might save a dollar or two each year.

But then if I were rich and/or smart, I'd do a number of things differently.

Three movies cowboys you remember, and one you don't

William Hart was actually my uncle, and a cowboy, just not that William Hart.  

Rest in peace, Uncle Bill. 

There is a section of Interstate 80 named the Alan S Hart Freeway, but not for my dad, Allan S Hart.   

When I was little that same dad told me that Jenny Creek behind my house was named for me and for years,  I told everyone who would listen. 

  

It was not named for me.

Come on'a my house, my house. I'm gonna give you candy. *

* Rosemary Clooney--click to watch the video

When Lillie was in Chicago living with Sam and three other boys, one of them dragged home a sorry little particle board side table, which was sort of beige with tan speckles.  Not endearing, but resolutely sturdy in a Mennonite kind of way, and Lillie saved it from being hurled into a dumpster.  Actually Sam wanted to drive over it a few times first with his Jeep.  So when she moved home the little round table (along with a stunning old headboard and footboard,which lived in the basement and no one in the building claimed, and which I am planning on putting to use eventually), made the long trip to the Golden State in one of those wobbly zippered U-Boxes.  Imagine the wonder in the little refugee table's eyes when we unzipped the U-Box and turned it loose to frolic and play in the land of milk and honey.

When I was pregnant with Annie and putting together her nursery, I painted my husband's childhood dresser, a hand-me-down crib, and a little square end table, Benjamin Moore Navajo White (I don't know why I remember that except that my mother-in-law [who is a Realtor and landlord] used that paint in every house she ever painted, including mine.)  It was a good color, although a little too banana milkshake for my taste now.  Remarkably durable too:  I've used that dresser and end table through three decades and many moves and it's looking pretty ragged    with nary a touch-up!  It's a little depressing that my living room holds the only furniture I have purchased since 1980 (except for a TV and mattresses)...but fortunately someone invented paint--so I could have "new" junk, and also to keep me from job-hunting.

What's this, round lizards?   No.  Phooey.

The little round table has a peculiar orange-peel  texture and the curves defy sanding.  Maybe I should have painted it orange?  And there is Lottie, checking out the larger ball feet (Michael's, with coupons) I chose to replace the odd small ones it was born with. It's still several inches lower than my mattress.  Yes,  well.

These are the new feet, painted Martha Stewart Camellia Pink Satin. 

Reptilian rapture, even while sporting a stump from his last pilgrimage.

When I came in from painting I almost fell over this lizard in the bathroom.  I am very grateful that I was not already...sitting down.  After an involuntary shriek I ran for the plastic cookie tub we keep handy atop the fridge to clap on top of the steady stream of lizards who come inside of their own volition (I'm convinced lizards have no brains at all) or are smuggled in by Lottie.  It does help if I am diligent about keeping the doors closed, but on the other hand, I've come to believe that lizards (1) enjoy being tortured by the cat and will find their way home from across the street just so she can chew off their tails and legs again, even sprouting replacements to keep her happy; and (2) think the inside of my house is actually lizard heaven and are divinely delighted to be here. Who am I to disagree?


Here is the round table all pink and ready to go live next to my bed.  When it's cured for a few days and I've artfully arranged a few things on top, I'll take a picture.

Time to come inside, little table.  Lizards love it in there, and you will, too!

That's the headboard leaning against the wall in my garage.  It requires a different  kind of bed rails which will cost about seventy-five dollars on Amazon and as you recall  I don't currently have much income to speak of.  It has a few minor dings and I don't know if I want to paint it or not:  yes it's beautiful solid wood (walnut, maybe?) but my walls are chocolate brown so it might not stand out much and it's not a family heirloom or anything (even if it was, that family's heirs [probably boys] couldn't be bothered to take it along when they moved); on the other hand most of the other bedroom furniture is painted except for my cedar chest which I use as my other bedside table, and my bedding is white with a jade green quilt.  My current bed, which I purchased with my husband, is brass and white iron and I never really cared for it but apparently neither did his girlfriend, so I got it along with the kids and his mother's old chairs and her kids' dressers.  I got the better deal though because the girlfriend had to take my husband.  Of course they bought all new furniture.

The next thing on my painting roster is that old Navajo White dresser--I think I'm going to strip the top down completely and stain or seal it, and paint the rest with my custom blend of 3/4 White : 1/4 Heirloom White Rustoleum Ultra Cover, but I have to heave the wretched heavy television off the top before I wrestle it outside.  Speaking of Memorial Day--where's there a big burly Marine  when I need one?  (That's what she said.)

Update:  The other side of the room looks like looters came--everything from my dresser is in shopping bags while I sand, prime and paint that dresser (which is turning into rather a pain in the paintbrush).  But I promised to take a picture, so there you go.  Here in all it's Samsung camera phone splendor, is the little pink table confidently performing its job as a nightstand.  Now I'll go put back all the litter that actually lives on top.

Photo credit to Meg from Radical Possibility for the Feminist Killjoy barrette picture.