Oh, rats

I have long been aware that Prince Charming isn't coming to my house anytime soon.

But imagine my horror when I glanced up at the porch light this afternoon to see what Lottie was hollering about.  I am so naive, I thought I'd see one of her idiot lizards.

It was definitely not Prince Charming.

It was not a lizard.  

It was a mouse.

 Lottie had apparently chased it up the wall onto the light fixture, and from there it tried (and failed, thank my stars) to squeeze into my attic.  Nightmare alert: mice can climb stucco walls, did you know that?  Lillie and I brought the cat inside and jumped up and down and screamed tried to decide what to do.  I posted its creepy crawly picture on Facebook and asked the team for their best advice.

Among the comments was this unpleasant news.  My furry intruder is not a mouse.  

It is a rat.  

A baby rat.

Baby rats most definitely have parents, siblings and cousins.  

Google agreed that I probably have entire families of rats running around my property.  There is a lot of that nasty ivy nearby, and rats LOVE ivy.  Google says it is only a matter of time before I have rats in my walls and attic.  I recently noticed what I thought were mole hills around my house but are, apparently, rat burrows.  Maybe I'll stuff snail bait down the busiest-looking holes--I recall, way back when I lived in an old house in San Jose, whenever I scattered Snarol there would always be a few dead roof rats lying around in a day or so.   I'll go to OSH and figure out which kind of actual rat poison seems the safest for every non-rat creature in the vicinity.

I would love to imagine that this little rodent lives alone and has no friends or relations. 

Well,  I wasn't born last night. 

 Looks like there's some pest control on my agenda.

Rats are sort of the herpes of home-ownership.  

You might control them; you might not see a rat for years; but they're never really gone forever.

Have you ever had rats?

I know something you don't know

Sunday night in the United Kingdom, people gathered around the telly and watched Season Three, Episode One of Downtown Abbey.   

Sunday night in my living room, Lillian and I gathered around her Mac and watched it, too.

And man, oh man, is it good.

I readily admit that if I lived here by myself, I would be just like you, writhing in agony because THEY have it and YOU DON'T.  But Lillian is a kid from this generation, and she knows what buttons to push.  In fact, someone at your house might figure it out, if you pester them relentlessly.  

But I like you so I won't spoil it for you, just in case you have to wait until January.
My dear sister in law   Someone I know asked me for a synopsis,
so I wrote it up and sent it to her, but you have an iron countenance and can wait, right? 

Rest assured, it's every bit as delicious as you hope.

  

Shirley McClaine is miraculous.  New plot lines burst forth at every turn.  Carson says "hobblety-hoy."  Edith finally wears flattering clothes.  Sybil gets a peculiar haircut.  Mary's wedding dress is incredible.  Disaster is imminent.  

You wish you were me.

Sam's mom messes with Texas

I'm back from a grand weekend in San Antonio with this cute little boy and plenty of delicious margaritas.

I am sorry to report that this a color photo of the first draft of my travel wardrobe.
I shook things up by adding in a pink scarf, a green cardigan and some  purple flats.  Snappy!

His company paid for every imaginable whim of several hundred employees and their guests, including round trip travel (involving six separate flights for me.)  I had a lovely massage at the hotel spa and we even had enough room credits left over to buy a few souvenirs for the home fries. I also passed around a few pictures of Sam before he was a a successful grownup, including this shot:

Sam was rocking that scruff at age seven, and yes,  Lillie's [unappreciated] costume is Amoxicillin 

Look kid, if you're going to invite YOUR MOM to this kind of event, you'd better reconcile yourself to a little humiliation in front of your bosses and coworkers who still see you as some upstart pup.  I was therefore obligated to prove them right.   I expect there will be a parental-exclusion policy in place next year.

I am kind enough not to show you the multi-colored fanny bruise under that hotel robe

The first afternoon, we played on the hotel's water slides and floated around the 'lazy [pretend] river' (me slathered in sunscreen to ward off my enemy, the too-friendly Texas sunshine).  Flailing and struggling  to climb out of an inflatable  plastic inner tube, I sat down way too hard on some concrete steps and am now nursing a rainbow-hued, fist-sized bruise on my can. Leisure time is fraught with danger.

When I was lamenting to the friendly hotel desk clerk that it would take three flights and all day to get back home, she laughed and said her hometown is an hour south of mine.  And the clerk in the gift shop asked where in Chicago Sam lives; turns out she grew up a few train stops away from his apartment in Bucktown.

airline travel is so glamorous

Too soon, I was back home again to find anxious cats, more political bad news, and smoky skies.  At least the badly needed rain in Texas held off until I left.  It was a wonderful trip.

 my poor kitties cried themselves to sleep every night

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!