Living the Leftovers

After decades of delightfully overstuffed Thanksgivings spent baking, cooking and cleaning, followed by pre-dawn combat shopping on Black Friday, today is new day. 

No turkey and fixings yesterday.  No swarming masses wandering through the kitchen, blithely lifting samples and moaning.  No parades or football games blaring in the background. 

For the fun of it, throughout the day I leisurely baked a loaf of bread and a couple potatoes for stuffing,  made a small apple crisp and steamed some asparagus, before throwing in a marinated beef tenderloin roast as an early evening meal for two. 

I enjoyed numerous turkey-rescue cell phone clinics with my Phoenix son who’s bird didn’t thaw in time.  A simple “Happy, happy Thanksgiving” text from my traveling daughter made me smile, inside-out.  I sat down in an Austin dining room, via my Droid X, with my first-born twin as he thanked another mother for including him in their feast.  My darling red-headed son who lives locally dropped by for kisses, hugs, leftovers and a laughing walk down memory lane. I played at some internet shopping and online Scrabble, and then wandered to bed sometime after midnight. I slept indignantly late this morning, long after mad merchants flung open their doors and cash registers to bloated, sleepless bargain hunters.  Been there.  Done that.  Today I am sleepy and full…..with thankful memories.

I will eventually shower and dress before taking a precious package to UPS for shipping to my great-nephew, Coleman, whom I’ve never met.  It’s not a Christmas package, but a thanksgiving gift.  The little box holds a cherished memory; a small, hand molded clay challis with his great-grandpa’s name scribed on the bottom.  Running John, as he is fondly remembered by his heirs, won the treasure in one of his many 10K races, somewhere in Arizona.  He is also remembered for his giant heart, gentle manner and humble nature.

Dad was an avid runner. Beginning his trek in his 50’s when most choose to slow down, he completed many 10Ks, half-marathons and full marathons before his shoes wore out; his shoes, but never his soul.

Coleman runs in his great-grandpas footsteps, though he never had the opportunity to train at his side.  He is thankful to run with the stories passed to him by his family.  For a school assignment on an ancestor who influenced his life, he is preparing to share his running heritage with his classmates.  The humble trophy will bring memories to life and Dad's spirit will stand proud and smiling beside his great-grandson as he passes the baton.

Thanksgiving is a condition of the heart.  It’s a timeless tradition of remembering the price and preciousness of the past, celebrating what has been given, and endeavoring to make a brighter tomorrow.  It's the living leftovers.

Twice Thankful

“In everything give thanks….” 1 Thessalonians 5:18a

Seems appropriate for this week.

What makes this verse doable is the word “in”.  Notice it’s not “for”.

I am not thankful for the pneumonia that’s made my life hell for the last ten days, but I’m very thankful in the feeling better.  I’ve been thankful in my misery for a good doctor, modern chemistry, a compassionate boss and good health insurance.  Misery can make you mindful and mindful can make you thankful.

I am not thankful for moving to a new work cubby on my first day back from the edge of death.  I’ve  worked hard for 3.5 years in Area 10 and it took me all day to downsize and off load to Area 11. But I give thanks in my angst for the efficiency engineers who reshuffled the deck and, by default, forced me to weed out my files, dig through my drawers and reorganize my workspace.  Note to self, “save” more, “print” less.

And then there was the “just in case drawer.” Disturbing: nine packets of sweet ‘n sour sauce, two fortune cookies, a ziplock bag of unlit birthday candles, one set of jewelers tools, an eyeglass kit, Band-Aids, Neosporin, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, deodorant, nail clippers, a mending kit (minus the needle), breath mints, three On-The-Go iced tea packets, a Planter’s peanut snack pack (stale date 9-2008), Rolaids, Tylenol, cellophane gift bag with curly ribbon (gift missing), two marbles, a lint roller, one Dove chocolate heart and keys to something.  Great!  If we’re ever snowed in and lose power on a Friday night, I can survive the week-end in Area 11.  Hoarding makes you mindful and mindful makes you blush.  New note to self, don't save just in case.  Loose your marbles early.

I give thanks I didn’t die of pneumonia and force my co-workers to sort out Area 10.  I shall thankfully endeavor to live green in Area 11.

The Other Shoe

"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed."

Four, four and under; that was the count when my last was born.  I started with a pair; twin boys, followed by my third son 20 months later and my daughter in another 21.  It was a very busy shoe, so I adapted the famous eighteenth century nursery rhyme to fit my particular "shoe" style.

There once were four children who lived in a zoo.
Their mother? Alas, she had not a clue.
So she tortured with tickles each night before bed,
And threatened to beat them but kissed them instead.

What is a mother to do?  Children don’t come with instructions.  They don’t fit, they’re always untied, they won’t heel, their tongues are always wagging, they’re rarely in step, they create blisters and you can’t return them.  No wonder I have shoe issues!

My advice to mothers?  Buy the most comfortable sneakers you can find, teach your children to bake bread and make soup, tickle whenever possible and don’t blink.  The shoe will be empty too soon.

Out to sea

I was going through some favorite memories that never fail to make me laugh. One of my favorites includes my younger, older sister, Emma Jay. Just typing that nickname brings on a grin.

She and I had a beach day with her kiddos when they were small....and we weren't. Unfortunately, the rafts were also small. And slippery. We took great pains to shipwreck each other repeatedly and laughed so hard we should have drown. As sisters will, we exchanged mock insults and blamed our gene pool for how we looked in our bathing suits. New nicknames were assigned. Emma started it by calling me...with unnecessary volume...Eleanora Elephant. With a fine dunking, I christened her Hennrietta Hippo. Hey, I give as good as I get. I'm the younger sister. And...because I always liked to have the last laugh...I wrote this poem, just for Emma Jay, aka Henrietta.





Henrietta Hippo took
a venture out to sea

upon a raft but large enough
to keep afloat a flea.

Henrietta then did sink,
but by some quirk of luck
came Eleanora Elephant
astride her rubber duck.

Henrietta grabbed ahold
of Eleanora's tail and
by a mild pass of gas
to shore the two did sail.

Beauty is only skin deep.......

....but ugly goes all the way to the soul.

Nothing annoys me like arrogance.  Nothing moves me like humility.

On my way to work the other day I stopped at my corner mart to grab juice and cold medication.  When my turn came to cash out, a flashy woman in a business suit slipped in front of me with her coffee and a plastic smile.  “I just need to pay for this.”  Really?   Did she think the rest of us were in line for rebates?  She fumbled for her money, tossed a dollar on the counter and said, “Keep the change,” as she swished out the door.  The young cashier actually blushed.  “I’m really sorry.  She does that every morning.” 

I’m not big on confrontation, but I was actually hoping she was still in the parking lot when I left.  Just as well.  Calling her out would have made me late, but maybe I could have sneezed on her.

That same day, I stopped at the grocery store on my lunch break to grab a few things.  A few became too many and I bobbled my purse rounding the aisle cap.  When I managed to stop and see what I’d lost, an ancient gentleman was coaxing my lip gloss from under a display.  Before I could thank him he said, “It’s a good day, missy.  I can still help.”  

Pretty is as pretty does, my mom would say.

8.5

Act your age, not your shoe size.  I remember my mom saying that to me when I would meltdown over something irrational.   She had a tendency to repeat herself….or maybe it was me.  At any rate, the admonition stuck and even today, I hear her in my mind reining me in.  Unless there are shoes involved.

I figure I’ve run 6.7 laps around my shoe size by now and frankly, I’m tired of acting my age, especially when it comes to shoes.   So I don’t.  I wear an 8.5 and I am 8.5 when I’m within sight of Macy’s shoe department, a Zappos’ link or  the Victoria's Secret boot catalog.  I am safe nowhere.

According to a child psychologist, the average 8.5 year old girl is explosive, excitable, dramatic, and inquisitive.  

She:

·       Possesses a "know-it-all" attitude.   I’m a shoe expert.  I know which ones will hurt more than they’re worth, but I’m curious.  Would a half size larger and some cushion insoles balance the equation?  I know that a platform style will allow me to add an inch to the heel and not break stride.  Is there an over-the-counter remedy for nose bleeds? 

·       Is able to assume some responsibility for her actions.  My Macy’s account is in my name.  I never ask anyone to pay the mortgage on my shoes, but really?  23% interest and $7 for shipping?  That’s just not right!

·       Actively seeks praise.  If I’m shopping with girlfriends, a raised eyebrow will suffice.  When shopping alone it’s drama over dignity.   The sales rep will do.  “So.  What d’ya think?  Don’t these look great?”  Works best if they’re getting paid commission.

·       May undertake more than she can handle successfully.  Well for crying out loud!  I only have two hands and I’m wearing 5” stilettos!  I crammed four of the shoe boxes in two bags with handles but I can’t balance the other three all the way to the car.  Hey lady, I’ll give you $20 to rent your stroller for five minutes.

·       Is self-critical.  What’s the matter with me?  I’m such a klutz.  Jessica Simpson could do this.

·       Recognizes the needs of others.  I’m sure there are women out there who have only one pair of shoes.  So sad!  I’ll take two old pair out of my closet when I get home and put them in the Salvation Army drop box tomorrow.

I can be 8.5 for the duration of the shopping trip, but when I get home, I’m happy to act my age and soak in the tub with a double vodka tonic. 

As my mother got older she would say that age is just a matter of mind.  If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.  I get it, Mom.

Fantasy for real life

Recently I indulged in some great girl laughter watching Comedy Central roast veteran, Whitney Cummings’, “Money Shot.” Funny, funny, funny….but don’t put it on your Instant Play queue if you have delicate preferences. I reference her merely to give her credit for making me think….and laugh. Thanks Whitney.

She suggested that women are ill equipped to handle reality because they are raised on fairy tales and referred to as Princesses. There’s probably more than a little truth in that premise, but looking back at my early Brothers Grimm, Aesop and Disney tutors, I realize they prepared me to survive reality.

There's wifedom.  You absolutely must have princess training in order to be Queen of that kingdom. And, there’s a reason why they call it motherHOOD. You’re managing a band of outlaws who charmingly rob your heart blind. My four hoodlums are grown and gone, but they still hold me hostage.

And so, my kitchen tale.

What happened in my kitchen
is a fairy tale, yet true;
magic, old and wonderful.
magic bright and new.

King and queen and bold prince dined
with wizard, thief and slave
on Twinkies, Tarts and Domino’s
and sometimes we behaved.

King Arthur and his football knights,
at the table, round,
ate chicken wings with fingers while
grand stories did abound. 

Merlin mixed his magic there,
grew crystals in a lid,
to conjure up a Science "A"
and earn a contest bid.

Cinderella scrubbed the floor,
each inch on bended knee.
Lost her glass stiletto there
on prom night after three.

Prince Charming in his underwear
slew dragons in the dark,
deep within the pantry,
while munching Almond Bark.

Robin Hood was known to raid
the cabinets, on an eve,
of fish and chips and amber ale
to ply his band of thieves.

A husband and four children,
plus a multitude of strays,
with joy, inside these kitchen walls,
so humbly did I raise.

Now I sit here many nights,
with moonlight on my face,
and smile through teary mem'ries in
my kitchen filled with grace.

And I live happily ever after.

Pique Banking Hours Saturday 11/5/11

What’s all this buzz about dumping your too-big-to-fail bank and joining a credit union?  More like a cacophony of 57,000 fed up consumers with chainsaws.  Saturday, November 5^th has been dubbed Bank Transfer Day and it’s making headlines everywhere.

I’ve been a credit union member for half a century.  As a child in the late 50s, my dad took me to open my first savings account at the credit union affiliated with his employer.  Once a month he’d take me in to deposit some of my allowance.  I could barely peek over the counter.  The teller would count my little pile of coins, note the deposit, enter any interest and calculate the balance…by hand… then loudly stamp my paper passbook.  Clu-CLUNK!  It was great!  At five years old, I considered“interest” the lollypop that followed the stamp.  The teller always remembered that I preferred orange and little sis liked grape.

While raising my family, our credit union financed every car we owned and helped us save for the holidays by direct deposit to a Christmas club.  They didn’t offer mortgages, but they helped with home improvements, and yes….the kids got lollypops.

Today I do my banking online or on my phone.  If I do have to venture into a branch or use the drive through, they greet me by name.  I haven’t seen any lollypops, but I’ve occasionally strayed off with one of their pens.  My credit union’s field of membership is open to anyone who works, lives or worships in my community.  I enjoy direct deposit, free checking, interest bearing savings, a credit card, and a debit card (no monthly fee) that I’ve used across the country and in a foreign land.  Disneyworld counts, right?  When my tired, old Pathfinder finally calls it quits, I’ll find my best interest rate at my credit union and they’ll make sure the trauma of taking on monthly payments for the first time in 15 years is as painless as possible.  If I ever decide to buy a home, they can handle that, too.

It’s a good banking gig for me.  But there’s something else about my credit union.  It’s a cooperative.  As a member, I have a say in how it’s run and who oversees it.  When I retire, maybe I'll run for the board or the supervisory committee.  Because its board of directors is made up of volunteers, none of my money winds up in their pockets.  Instead, my credit union pays me dividends, gives me lower rates, fewer fees and invests in the community I live in.  I feel pretty good about that.

I’m glad I won’t be spending my Saturday moving my money.