Observations

Bye, Bye Flintstones

My daughter is nearing the end of her first year on the High School cross country team.  She has PRed (Personal Record) a few times and continues to show improvement nearly every week.  Even though she has had to get up terribly early almost every day since school started, she is still committed to doing her best.  “Best” includes doing a 4 mile run on her day off of school when no practice was scheduled. (Columbus Day)

During track season in the spring, the coach noticed she had a breathing issue.  We went to the pediatrician and got an inhaler for her to use before she runs.  (Their was cross fit training or running nearly every weekday this summer.)  When cross country started, she was given the advice to use the inhaler twice within a couple of minutes.  This was to be done 30 minutes before the beginning of her race.  As the season wore on, this seemed to address most of the breathing issues she was having.  Unfortunately, during a couple of windy days, the coach became convinced that her breathing problems were more allergy related than asthma.  We thought getting her tested could wait until after the season.

As I went to pick my daughter up on Thursday afternoon after she completed a 3 mile run, the coach had some additional advice for me.  “The State meets are in just over two weeks.  If the weather is really windy, I don’t know if the inhaler will be enough.  She should start taking a Claratin every day until after the state meet.”  This brings us to today.  It took us a couple of days to get the Claratin picked up.  And, it was not chewable, so we would have to do a swallowing tutorial….

Right after dinner the past couple of nights, we have played a “game”.  We had purchased a big bag of bulk, mini, peanut butter cups at Sprouts.  Last night and again tonight, I threw a number of pb cups into the air near my kids heads where many were caught in the mouth and quickly swallowed.  Most of them arched pretty well, and many (not all) of the pb cups were caught.  Cheeks, noses, and tongues got in the way of some of the catches. (There is an art to throwing well arced food items [M&Ms, peanuts, popcorn, etc], but it will have to wait for a later time.)  Sometimes the pb cup nearly went straight down the throat without chewing or anything.  I mentioned to my daughter, “Maybe, you can try to catch the Claratin in your mouth so you won’t have to think about swallowing.” (My wife has always been a little softer when it came to the art of swallowing.  My near adult son still has trouble swallowing, so she will give him liquids whenever she can.  I come from the other school that says, “Grow up!  It needs swallowed, so swallow it!”) Of course, dads are more likely to be soft on their daughters (I did check when buying the Claratin. There did not appear to be a chewable variety….) Since the “catching” of pb cups by my daughter was a little sketchy at times AND because she needed to learn to swallow anyway, we filled a glass of water, and I tried to go to work!

I have been a member of the “Good Swallower” club for a number of years.  I take a few vitamins daily.  They are stored in plastic container with the days of the week on it.  The days of the week don’t matter to me–it is the same mix every day.  (Yes, these are identical to what is used by our senior citizens.)  Usually, I dump the contents of the “Monday” (or whichever) compartment in my mouth; I carefully arrange them on my tongue; I drink the water slowly; I let the pills float up into the water (maybe swishing the water in my mouth a little) and try to get them to all be approximately in the center of my mouth, and then I swallow.  Usually they (Okay, their are 8 total–I am getting old) are gone in one swallowing, and at most two.  This is the technique (if technique can be accurately applied to the sketchy details provided) I tried to convey to my daughter.  She decided to practice on something small.  She suggested peanuts.  I suggested something a little smaller.  Since the Claratin is really only about the size of a baby aspirin, I was very hopeful the “lesson” would be a short one.  After swallowing a small piece of granola a couple of times, she was ready to take her pill.  I watched her center the pill on her tongue, and practically before the water was in her mouth, the pill was swallowed.  She enjoyed it so much she cleared out the box and took all 30 of the Claratin in one evening.  (not really, but she did enjoy the accomplishment)

I think she realized what swallowing the pill would mean.  Another part of her childhood was slipping away.  No longer could she eagerly look forward to another morning of chomping on the Flintstones (or other chewable) vitamin.  (Chewable in my youth was a chalky like thing–it wasn’t a gummy bear!) She had to accept the bottle of vitamins in the cupboard was the end of an era in her life.  No more “candy” with the vitamin chaser.  She was going to have to take her vitamins the (almost) old fashion way–by water.  (The real old fashion way was just eating well–she does that pretty well, too.)

I know some kids achieve this “milestone” earlier in life.  I know my kids are not perfect, and are not “100th” percentile on everything.  I know we probably could have found a solution that involved the preservation of her “no swallow” policy.  And, I also know she didn’t do something she didn’t really want to do because it was the only option presented to her.  I am pretty sure it is okay to “secretly” celebrate a milestone if it means your child is daily winning the war against their negative thoughts and the “I can’ts”.  I know she is going to be a great adult–I am just hoping she doesn’t figure it out before I am willing to tell her!

Relighting The Pilot

Each time the pilot goes out on the water heater, it falls upon the oldest male (me) to get it relit.  And, tonight was no exception.  If the people who showered earlier in the day would have mentioned the water was not that warm for their showers, I might have been able to avoid the unavoidable “near” shower experience.  Unfortunately, I was well along the path to jumping into the shower before I realized my predicament–get an uncomfortable shower over with or have a warm shower and enjoy it?  I opted for warm.

When the pilot goes out, I say a silent prayer that I will not blow our house or any of its occupants into a million pieces.  It seems relighting the pilot light is so traumatic for me that I need to relearn how to light it every time.  With a “grill lighter”, flashlight, and screwdriver in  hand, I approach the water heater with all due respect.  I reread the directions attached to the side–hanging on every word.  I allow the words to fully marinate my brain as I disconnect the necessary water heater pieces so I can have the best possible access to the pilot.  I look at the hardware–fully capable of releasing the natural gas that could blow me and my fellow house occupants up if not completely respected–and seek any memory of our previous interactions.  As I reread the directions, our past entanglements become slightly less distant memories.  I commit to holding the lighter in the “presumed” pilot area. (without the grill lighter I would be dead.  When the directions say use a “match”, I go into a semi-panic.  I think certainly the spot I have the lighter is wrong.  It must be closer to the edge than I am trying to light.  Certainly I am going to blow myself up.  I shift my prayer to “Please at least protect the downstairs and my family from anything stupid I may do within the next few minutes”….) I push the red button down and watch to see what havoc my lighter creates.  Even after my finger cramps, I still find a way to hold the button down.  When my lighter finger cramps, I hope the 60 seconds have passed.  After releasing the lighter flame, the pilot remains lit; my body remains intact within our attic, and I shift my prayer to “Please keep the pilot lit.  Please, please, please!”

Past “lightings” have involved ripped pants, stretching of patience beyond any previously stretched amounts, and hugging of the water heater as I was certain my last moments were upon me.  The lighting ritual seems to be an annual occurrence.  Sometimes it is the natural gas line freezing shut (pretty rare–when it gets cold, I now wrap the gas meter to discourage this outcome), or as it apparently was today, it was an overly mischievous breeze.  I do not ever want to take this relighting for granted, but my muscle memory seems to be much better than the trauma-wiped actual memory.  A bit of self-hypnosis before again approaching this task might be a good option.  Or, maybe the better option is the gift of a hot water heater blanket to my under-appreciated and only occasional foe.

 

My Semi-Lucid Camera

CasioZ280Camera

No this is NOT a selfie!

As I continue to explore the new paths in our neighborhood, I like to have my camera on my hip.  I don’t have a fancy camera, but I have had it for over 4 years.  I have used this camera for SO many things:

  • I have taken pictures of the kids at so many different sporting events, fairs, and other activities.
  • It has gone on many vacations with the family.  It was fastened to my hip for most of our trip to China last year.
  • I have taken lots of videos of the kids blowing out candles, cooking food, doing quirky human tricks, and a variety of other oddball things that only I would consider entertaining.
  • I have taken work pictures for eBay, blogs, and whatever other place I needed.  I probably through in quite a few videos as well!

As my camera has aged, our affection (I like to think it is shared, but I know he just thinks of me as the annoying guy who pushes his buttons and yanks out his guts [the SD card and the rechargeable battery]) has grown.  I have relied on him for all of those special moments that words just would not be able to do justice to.  This was how our relationship went for the past few years until last week.  He started letting me down more often then not.  I missed a few key shots:

  • The chickens wandering in the front yard along my walk route.  There was no fence or anything.  Even telling you now, you are going, “Really?  There were chickens wandering without a fence.  If you had a picture, I might believe you!”
  • At the cross country meet, I went to snap a few pictures, but the camera still needed to take a nap or something….

Well, I am not stupid.  I thought to myself, “I have never bought a new battery for this camera.  Certainly that is the problem.”  Two days later, I was able to test this theory when the new battery arrived.  Initially, I thought it was more than the battery.  After I charged the battery, I popped it into the camera and grew to expect this type of result when I wanted to take a picture:

  1. I turned the camera on and prepared to take my picture.
  2. After waiting for the camera to come to life, I aimed it at my intended target.
  3. I was usually greeted by the lense being sucked back into the camera with no desire to help me capture any memories.

Starting this morning (the day after I bought a new camera online w/ an expected delivery tomorrow), the camera seemed to be embarrassed by its recent behavior.  It was cooperating about 50% of the time. (As an example, it only took 3 tries to take my first picture.)  By the time I got to my 2nd and 3rd desired picture, the camera was “almost” reliable.  At my 4th picture, it did make me try twice, but it took the picture without complaining again and it seemed to be ready for more.  (It was not easy, but I kind of pictured a dog who was trying to please—his tongue was hanging out and all of his body language was saying, “Let me help.  I want to play.”)

At this point, this camera, at best, will be my backup.  I am not sure if it is rethinking the whole “death” idea, or if the internal battery needed extra time to recharge off of the newly acquired battery.  Whatever the problem was or is, now that the camera has broken my trust, this camera will….soon be in the trash heap.  (I completed the last few words after the recent adventure at the state fair.)

At the Texas State Fair, the camera was on my hip, but the camera was barely lucid.  He acted like he just left a sanitarium and had no idea what he was supposed to do.  He would stick his tongue out at me, and quickly pull it back in.  (The lense would quickly suck back in as I tried to take the pictures.)  He would pretend to take pictures and leave me disappointed later when I could not find the pictures I was certain he had committed to memory.  He was not reliable, and without a good camera, I am better enjoying the moment then fooling around with an electronic device that has made different career plans.

The camera, when acting according to its DNA, takes pictures.  Not being an artist, my brain needs a good image to remember all of the subtle details of the camera captured event.  A good picture can add color to an otherwise boring description provided by a somewhat overburdened brain.  While my active memories only seem available in black and white images, a camera captured image from MY camera can provide my brain the adrenaline boost it needs to propel my descriptions into a color palette that make the events seem like it just occurred.

Fortunately, the new camera awaited me on the front porch when I got home from the fair.  It is a little bulkier, and it only came with a manual in Japanese.  In its first outing (daughter’s cross country meet), it appears to know what it was designed to do.  If it gives me a few years of mostly lucid service, I am eager to trust it with helping me preserve some amount of the past…regardless of how lucid I am when the pictures are reviewed.

 

 

 

Monster Mashed Potatoes

As we were sitting around the table Sunday night enjoying my daughters birthday meal, one of our guest commented to our Korean exchange student, “Have you ever done the “mashed potato” dance?”

After looking at him rather strangely due to our inability to make a connections with where his brain got that one from, the only thing we could puzzle out is he was thinking of “The Monster Mash”.  (The meal did in fact consist of mashed potatoes, so we did figure that part of it out.)

Although a “monster mashed potato” dance does not exist, I could not help but wonder what it WOULD look like.  Just a couple of thoughts on the subject…

  1. Is the potato so huge it would be called a monster potato OR is it a monster smashing the potatoes?  The answer to this question would greatly influence the dance.  Is it a monster smashing to potatoes or is it an all out scramble to smash this many-eyed, starch laden wonder into digestible form?
  2. What appendages are available?  The “monster” option  is either the hands smashing with a madness or the feet being used to stomp with reckless abandon.  If an imaginary massive tuber is a part of the dance, it would seem teamwork might be an effective way to reduce the potato to a smooth, semi-creamy consistency.

The older I get, the more memories I seem to have available for all of the random paths a dinner conversation may take.  I love it when some comment, noise, or random thought can serve as a catalyst for a completely different trajectory to an otherwise “normal” communication.  I love it that I don’t have to take full responsibility for providing these catalyst.  My kids (and exchange kids) are confident enough in themselves and comfortable enough in their environment that they can be willing to throw out the obscure quote/fact/observation.  If it takes the conversation no where today, it may reappear in a future conversation.

Some of our best standing jokes have been over dinner conversations.  And, some of our best laughs have been while eating dinner.  Whatever mistakes we have made as parents, one of them was not failing to eat and dine around the table on a very regular basis.  The quality of the food has improved over the years and the dialogue has matured.  The kids have brought various friends to the the table to share meals with us.  When they left/leave the table, we hope their hunger is an ancient memory and their only real thought is “Did we eat dinner, too?”

My Daughters Embarrassing Parents

CIMG5601 CIMG5603

At this Saturday’s cross country meet, it was one of those “close” meets.  It was less than 15 minutes from the house, so we got to sleep a little more than most Saturdays.  And, this may have been part of the problem with our excessive energy levels and the need to “share” it with the unsuspecting masses.  (The above picture is of both my daughters at the sidewalk running the perimeter of the course.  It appears someone with limited mental capacities took two big steps through the wet concrete while nobody was looking.  And, nobody looked again until after it dried.  The secondary theory is some super hero living among us stepped on the sidewalk without “turning down” his super powers.  He inadvertently burnt a “hole” into the concrete before he realized what he had done.  As you can see from my daughters footwork, the steps weren’t baby steps…)

Having sat in the intermittent sun for over 2 hours, having endured nearly 3-4 races already of primarily 2 miles each (The HS boys run 3 miles) and with it getting on toward lunch time even though our commute home was short, we were excited to have my youngest daughter run her race.  As all of the girls lined up on one end of the field, there is always some narrowing of the course that takes place by design.  They know not all of the kids will maintain that line for very long as they work their way down the course.  So, by the time the course goes a couple of hundred yards, the width of the course is probably 1/2 the width it was originally.  On Saturday’s run, my wife hops out to take pictures of the runners (specifically my daughter and teammates as they line up).  As she looked to the left and saw all of the parents encroaching on the course, she could not help but put her I-want-to-help-people hat on.  Even though she did not have any event related paraphernalia on, she started pushing and/or strongly requesting the crowd back up so the cross country runners would have a little more space to jockey for position before the course “officially” narrowed.  Her words did not fall on deaf ears.  They people backed up without much hesitation.  She acted like she had authority, and I suppose most of them pulled out the GPSes on their phones and realized the course went right through where they were standing.   Regardless, the athletes got a little more space to shuffle into the position where they would run/walk the better part of their race.

I used the term athletes above somewhat loosely.  I am truly confident some of the girls found out the day before they were running a race the next day.  I believe many of them were walking before they were 100 yards into the race.  One whole team of girls provided the entire tail for this beast that weaved its way through the course.  After my daughter and her teammates worked their way through the course, my opportunity to embarrass “my ladies” presented itself.

The last 100 yards of the course was a straight away right behind the teams tent.  I was impressed by many of the girls who hit this last stretch.  They seemed to be able to pour it on and pass 3 or 5 or 10 people in that last stretch.  It made me wonder how many of these “2 Milers” were really sprinters masquerading as 2 milers.  When the sprinters stopped appearing, we had a huge quantity of the “participant” class.  I started walking down the line yelling out words of “encouragement” to the runners.  Things like, “You aren’t allowed to walk once you turn the corner.”, “Don’t be last.  I can walk faster than you are running.”, “I don’t tolerate any walkers back here–get moving!”, “You can rest all weekend. Right now, you need to finish your race strong.”, and “You may have walked most of the rest of the race.  Right now, you need to finish for yourself and your team.”  I probably did get a little more colorful at times.  If I said anything else, it was quotes like these that provided my inspiration.  Although my lips may not have always obeyed my self-imposed rule, sometimes, in the moment, the creative “encouraging” phrases just can’t be held in! 😉

I was mostly relieved of my duties as the last few girls struggled in.  Faster fellow teammates were running/jogging alongside their slower counterparts in matching jerseys.  Everyone at the race-participants and parents-realizes someone has to be last.  If done correctly, you can be in last place with class.  I am not a proponent of the the fluffy, “Everyone is a winner.”  Everyone who tries and tries to always be there best, is a winner in my book.  Bad days excluded, not all girls who ran this race were winners.  (More accurately stated, they probably don’t have a winner’s attitude.  Without the proper foundation, they don’t have anything to build on.)  I am not blaming coaches or any of the other parents who were there this weekend.  If parents make kids their priority, maybe kids will find the inner winner.  As middle schoolers or older who don’t already have a winning attitude, there is likely to be lots of losing in life before they find their inner winner–if they ever do.

Now, back to those embarrassing parents….it is our job to take pictures when they don’t want to pose.  It is our job to give hugs and tell them we love them and are proud of them no matter who is around.  And, if the coach says something inappropriate to them and makes them want to be done with cross country forever, it is our job to tell them not to quit and to get up on Monday at 5:00 AM so they can go through another week of fun.  Behind every “winner” is a parent (or an adopted “parent”) who is willing to be whatever needs done to best prepare their kids for life….or the next meet.  I love my winners!

 

 

The Kind Of Story That Can Make Your Weekend

In a world where a teenager in a nearby town uses affluency as a defense in a drunk driving crash (there are numerous other stories that put teenagers in a bad light), it is good to find a story where teenagers in a town just southeast of me did something good.

Lillian, Anahi, and Naomi

 

Two girls on the court decided they would make the day of a girl who was pranked if either one of them became the homecoming queen.  There will still be youth in my kids generation that will make me doubt whether the country can survive them.  (We have, however, survived the past 6 years.)  It is acts like what was done by these two young ladies and the school that allow me to keep my fingers crossed!

 

Tonight’s Walk Around The Neighborhood

After enjoying our 4th Asian/2nd Korean meal since our exchange students arrived, my wife and I took off on our walk.  After we settled into our walk pace with only the occasional yo-yo-ing as either my wife or I assumed the lead, we dodging a few sprinklers and the set of grandparents walking all of their grandkids, the walk really only had two, make it three, alright four is my limit, highlights.

  1. As we rounded one of the 4 courts we walk (the walk in total is about 3 miles), an older hobbit-like gentlemen with a 4-pointed cane visually separated himself from the HOA-demanded, brick mailbox.  As we got closer to him and prior to him looking up, my wife said, “How are you doing tonight?”  Without missing a beat, he looked up and said, “I hate healthy people!” (His response was definitely an exclamation point.) Instead of risking saying something that might falsely assume he was joking, I simple replied, ” We like you too!”  In my one previous encounter with this neighbor, he did seem a little eccentric.  I am not completely sure what the “boring-psychotic” spectrum looks like, but this guy just graduated out of eccentric.
  2. Over the past 2-3 weeks, we have continued to pass the same location at just over our half way point in our walk.  At a built up stone wall with grass behind, there is a brush that I do not believe has moved during the whole period.  Initially, I thought the girl who gets on the school bus there used it to kill time and get beautiful prior to getting on the bus.  (This was the theory after the “she-just-left-it-there-this-morning” hypothesis soon was realized to be horribly incorrect.)  My present theory unless I become brave enough to try and physically move the brush is the many hairs on the brush have become semi-sentient.  They will/make themselves to go into the soil, and they are now bringing nutrients and moisture up into the brush, the giver of life.  Should I start to see a stem, I will go to the tree under the cover of darkness and dig it up so it can be transplanted in my backyard.  I do not know what a crop of brushes will look like, but it is sure to sell on eBay.
  3. The house that has been “Just Listed” for the past month has apparently reached its statute of limitations.  The real estate police came out and let them know once you exceed 30 days, the word “Just” can’t be used on your real estate sign UNLESS it is the name of your realtor. Also, on the same real estate sign, they have 3 baby signs underneath the parent signs.  (I believe the three say, “Pool”, “Unbelievable”, “Must See”, respectively.) We are convinced the listing price will go down $10,000 per “baby” sign removed.
  4. The “Yard of the Month” sign finally moved yesterday.  The other house had been allowing the sign to camp in their yard for the past 5 or 6 weeks, and I think their bushes, perennials and annuals were feeling the pressure.  When plants can’t relax, no amount of water can relieve the stress. The newly appointed “yard” seems to be dwelling in the yard with the second best flowers in the neighborhood.  The yard with the best flowers must be a recent recipient of the coveted award or they must be behind on their HOA dues.  We thought planting all of our roses in the spring would have paid off, but the sprinkler guy adjusted all of the heads in the front bed, and the petunias all died.  We will be sure to be early with the dues next year!

We enjoy our walks, the Texas fall night, and the healthy bodies God has blessed us with.  Although not all walks bring the incredible insights I received this evening, I continue to be grateful my wife is by my side, and I can always hold out hope the kids finally did the dinner dishes while we enjoyed our walk.

 

 

Da Do-Rag Rag

 Do-RagArt

My daughters (exchange and bio) went to a birthday party today (as I post this it was almost a week ago) for a daughter of one of my wife’s work friends.  With the party being for a 4 year old, the theme being pirates, with my wife providing decorated pirate cupcakes & cookies and with almost no RSVPs to the party, there was some concern what percentage of the attendees our bus of 5 would provide. (My two daughters and the two exchange students did allow the party to be an international as well as domestic success!)

When they came home, they had all participated in all the many planned activities.  Besides the art project above (notice the do-rag incorporated into the art – this is the Wikipedia approved spelling of do-rag), there was a less than delightful boy there who is soon to become a big brother to, as unfortunate as it may be, twins.  All of the girls complained of how this boy stepped through and NOT around people playing games or eating food or just talking.  Our exchange students did not deny that there are also bad kids in their native countries, but this kid was certainly on the wrong end of the behavioral spectrum.

With so much art work bearing do-rags and so much talk of pirates, a synapses was some how bridged in my intermittently creative brain.  I am sure I don’t view Shaun Cassidy as a pirate (although his hair is long and as Joe Hardy in the Hardy Boys show there may easily have been an episode with a pirate mystery of some type.  His brother, David, got in some trouble lately.), his song came to mind.  The full pirate-version lyrics have not come to me, but the simple change in title seems to be a no-brainer.

Beyond “Pirates of the Caribbean”, (I have also read another series of fantasy books lately that has flavored my thoughts on pirates – The Liveship Trilogy.  Good at times; slow at others.  Very good character development.) my knowledge of pirate romance is not well researched.  Some thoughts….

  • Eye could make some reference to eye patches.
  • “Walking” should mention “walking the plank” at least once
  • Someone the pirate needs to be at port and not on the pirate ship.  And, with pirates having a less than good reputation with women and vices in general, it would seem the pirate should have a huge conscience.
  • Or, maybe the whole song could still be “Da Do Rag Rag”.  But, it would be a pirate looking back on his life as a pirate now that he is a family man.  He still wears his do-rag and thinks of the special bonding that took place when he was united as a team with a bunch of scalawags despite the activities being done as the “male bonding” took place.

If the lyrics roll off of someones keyboard, I would like to see what they look like. (It is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.  Writing a song and singing one about pirates would certainly help you meet your quota!) Until then, I will try to sever all relationships with any brain cells holding onto songs from past teen idols.

 

 

DA DOO RON RON
Shaun Cassidy

I met her on a Monday and my heart stood still
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron
Someboy told me that her name was Jill
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron

Yes, my heart stood still
Yes, her name was Jill
And when I walked her home
da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron

I knew what she was thinkin’ when she caught my eye
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron
I looked so quiet but my oh my
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron

Yes, she caught my eye
Yes, but my oh my
And when I walked her home
da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron

Well, I picked her up at seven and she looked so fine
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron
Someday soon I’m gonna make her mine
Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron

Yes, he looked so fine
Yes, I’ll make her mine
And when I walked her home
da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron
Yeah, yeah, yeah
da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron ron
(repeat & fade)

Read more: http://artists.letssingit.com/shaun-cassidy-lyrics-da-doo-ron-ron-q1r8vct#ixzz3DKkTs7um
LetsSingIt – Your favorite Music Community

Milk To The 4th

We like milk. Well, at least we used to.  Now it seems regular milk is simply not good enough for our population of mammals.  Where once we had a total of 3 types of “cow” milk (Our kids drank 2%, my wife(on the rare occassions she drank milk) and I drank skim milk, and our undernourished foster child drank whole milk) living in our refrigerator, we now, today as I write this, have a variety of things that have never seen the inside of a cow.

The milk-ish products in our frig include the following:

  • Gallon of 2% milk:  Our only shout out to the milk of my youth.  (Growing up, we got milk directly from our neighbor who milked the cows.  We got whole milk that was unpasteurized and unhomogenized.  Once the milk settled out, my mother scraped off the cream that rose to the top and made yogurt.  I don’t remember eating any of the yogurt, but she told me she used the dehydrator to make it.  My daughter has heard this rumor and wants me to put the dehydrator on my Christmas list so she can experiment.  Since getting the blender for Father’s Day, she has had far more fun with it than I.  Why shouldn’t she ask for it?)
  • Almond milk:  My mother has been buying Almond milk at Aldi’s for a number of years.  She has been cheering its merits for quite some time.  I have tried it, but remain a traditional mammal.  The non-traditional mammals will drink it knowing full well there is no guarantee when or IF the carton will be replaced when emptied.
  • Soy milk:  This one was one I did not really ever planning on drinking.  Our Chinese exchange student doesn’t ask for much, so when she requested the soy milk, it seemed hard to turn her down.  She drinks it very diligently….a cup in the morning and at night. [I believe.]  (My experience with Chinese students [I am guessing adults, too.] is they are very disciplined.  And she certainly is that.  She likes sweets, but limits (at least she gives all appearances of limiting) her consumption of them.  She may sneak an extra cookie into her lunch, but she is rarely seen getting a snack after dinner.)
  • Coconut milk:  This one is my fault.  I had this incredible plan to make a Caribbean feast for dinner.  I had 15 or so skinless, boneless chicken thighs marinated w/ a bottle of Caribbean Jerk marinade.  Since I was such a good planner the night before, I had set 4 cups of beans in a bowl with 12 cups of cold water.  They expanded nicely and after cooking in the crockpot all day, they were ready to be blended with some rice in an INCREDIBLE (or not) Caribbean Beans w/ Rice.  Since last time we made rice, I doubled it and there was barely any left over for school lunches.  I determined I was going to get ahead of the curve and double it.  The plan was good, but I failed to factor in the impact of the coconut milk on the flavor of the rice.  Needless to say, the rice wasn’t a hot mover at dinner.  When the containers came out for pre-packing tomorrow’s lunch, the rice was almost completely absent from the festivities. Only one container had the rice paired with some broccoli.  I don’t fault them for not being more enthusiastic.  A happy, satisfied cook is much more likely to experiment and sometimes hit one out of the park.  Right…..a half gallon of coconut was purchased for the bean and rice experiment.  It was cheaper than buying 2 cans, and it may tempt us into other experiments.
  • Hazelnut creamer:  We have had one of these in the frig for quite some time.  I am NOT a black coffee drinker.  My wife sometimes dances with the black brew. I am also a recovering sugar user–why does my wife stay married to me?  I usually don’t use full strength creamer.  I will splash the creamer and make up the difference with milk. I have attempted to take walks with other flavors of creamer, but I usually reach the bottom of the cup  unsatisfied.
  • Chocolate Caramel creamer:  Since my son moved back home while commuting to school, he has revealed a variety of new habits.  The habit that pleases my wife the most is his graduation to coffee drinker.  As an added bonus, he usually has coffee in the morning and another cup in the nightish time.  The chocolate caramel is definitely his creamer of choice.  My daughters have also been known to make an iced coffee where this creamer is an ingredient.  If our youngest son would only start drinking coffee, my wife would know her job as mother was a successful one.

I suppose milk to the 6th might also have been an appropriate title.  Having sometimes been overly a purist, I was not sure exactly if the creamers qualified for a “power of milk”.  In my desire to be accurate, I may have inadvertently offended any whose entire dairy consumption comes from their coffee cup.  (Better milk than those little, non-dairy creamer cups–yuch!)

Also, I have failed to address any cheese present in the frig.  For those who are curious:

  • we have mexican shredded cheese for our frequent tacos, carnitas, and fajitas
  • cream cheese for any of those bagel purchased at the discount bread store,
  • American cheese-we really don’t eat it.  It is only to show our support for America–kind of like putting out the flag on various holidays,
  • Provolone-one of the best cheeses ever.  When it goes on a hamburger, the meat gives it a big hug and takes a bite out of its neck in a pseudo-vampirian embrace,
  • Mozzarella-the pizza cheese of choice–as long as it hasn’t already gone moldy,
  • Parmesan- a nice thing to have around for those Italianish things us Americans think we do so well.
  • The final holdout…sour cream– not a cheese, not a milk.  It is a big glob of dairy goo that is all too necessary when I make banana bread.

Maybe at some future day, I can give a tour of the vegetables presently residing in our frig.  (Even more exciting, the ice cream and dairy products residing in our freezer.) It is not as good as an adventure movie, but may compete with “Honey Boo Boo”.  (I doubt they have many vegetables in their refrigerator.)  Making a milk “suicide” (in my youth, a suicide was a little bit of each soda/pop available at the fountain.  Cream soda was essential for a good one.) might just be the right way to bring closure to my dairy adventure….

Learning To Breathe

If you came here looking for something profound and life changing, you need to change the station now.  This is exactly as stated….

As I attempted to refill my black mango tea cup today, the sweetener was not set up correctly. As I poured a small taste into my cup of both non-sweetened and sweetened, it was clear there was a sweetener issue.  The staff at QuikTrip confirmed the sweetener issue and made up a new batch.  And, because of my wait, they provided two coupons for a free drink refill.  As I attempted my second draw of tea, I must have been distracted because it did not go so well.  I coughed and hacked and drooled on the floor.  As I attempted to clean up my mess and draw a normal breath, my tea princess popped her head around the corner to check on me.  I thanked her and let her know I would make it.

I have been breathing all of my life.  (Well, since I believe life begins at conception, I guess “darn near most of it” would be a more accurate statement. Breathing without lungs is something not even an illusionist like David Copperfield could get away it.)  And, with the exception of the time frame just mentioned, I have been drinking (i.e. milk, tea, coffee, water etc.)  most of my life.  Maybe I have been occasionally choking most of my life as well.  It is bad enough having a self-inducing coughing/choking fit in your home with just your children or siblings to mock you.  When you have such an attack in a public place where you have already drawn attention to yourself, every one of the spittey, drooley, frothey, projectile balls flying from your mouth seems like a reason to be referred to you as an aging member of society with compromised bodily functions.

I am not that old.  I don’t look that old.  But, I do creak more along with more of all of the other noises that are part of the human experience.  And, maybe living in my body for a number of years now makes me sensitive to the odd looks and personal questions more than I should.  I was young once with an absolute certainty I would never age.  I used to look at older people and wonder how they were able to function in a body so lacking in youth.  Now, the mirror, my ears, joints and hairline confirm I am on the path to what I saw as old.  Fortunately, I continue to reset the boundary.  Although I am older, old is reserved for people in the cemetery–I have PLENTY of time!