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Aren't I Crafty?

I like having a desk job:

• it's air conditioned or heated as needed;
• someone else does the vacuuming and dusting;
• it's quiet; 
• there's a cafeteria right down the hallway;
• I don't have to share my computer with small people who like to watch Taylor Swift music videos on You Tube for hours on end;
• and I get to oversee a variety of interesting projects that simmer along in an orderly and satisfying fashion. 

All in all, it's got perks.

Occasionally, though, there are weeks when all of my happily simmering work projects simultaneously boil over; splatter gunk all over me, the walls and the floor; and, finally, incinerate themselves into a charred, smoking black mass. 

This was one of those weeks.  It is during such weeks that I start to fantasize about how idyllic it would be to be a stay-at-home mom.  I have visions of maintaining a perfectly orderly home; preparing hearty home-cooked meals; helping my children practice their "math facts" every day; and, of course, crafting. If you know me, however, you know those visions are more like hallucinations.  The truth is that I'd get sick of cleaning and cooking in about, oh, 37 minutes or so.  Then I'd wonder whether the fam and I could still sneak back into my old workplace to eat at the cafeteria.  

BUT, there is one thing that I can do:  I can craft.  I come from a long line of crafty people.  My grandma -- who could sew a mean "housedress" (did your grandma wear those?) taught me to sew and crochet when I was a kid.  My Mom even took a crack at teaching us to sew our own clothes for a scary time there.  Also thrown into the mix during my childhood were knitting, making wooden plagues with inspirational sayings written in calligraphy, papier mache, woven potholders made with those cloth loops, hooked rugs, embroidery, painting, quilting etc., etc.  You name it, we crafted it.

The one thing were were not very good at was f. . .f. . . f. . . .finishing our many projects.  It's still hard for me to say that word.  In fact, we called it the F word at our house because it was a word we never used.  I still have the ONE sock that I knitted about 20 years ago, and at least 2 unfinished quilts squirreled away around here somewhere. 

So, I am glad to report, that I do actually finish some crafts with my kids these days.  For instance, we finished these last weekend:

Sure, we started them about 6 months ago, but the kids have already forgotten that part.  These are called Softies, by the way, and the patterns are from this adorable book by Therese Laskey

The really amazing thing about crafting with my punks is that they totally adore anything we make together.  Stuff that they wouldn't look twice at in the store, they think is magical because we actually created it (even if Mom cheats by using google eyes).  Here's Julie feelin' the magic.

And my other punk, with his new friend, Treeling: 

So, if things don't work out with the desk job, my fool-proof back-up plan is to sell 1970s woven pot-holders, inspirational wooden plaques and half-finished quilts on e-bay.  Crafty, aren't I?

Nature vs Nurture

I've been thinking about fashion lately.  If you know me at all (or have read earlier blog posts like this or this), you've probably deduced that  I am not exactly a slave to fashion.   Sure, sometimes I go wild and shop at Kohls instead of Costco, but for the most part I'm just looking for something in which to make it through the day without drawing too much attention to the flabby bits (which, I might add is becoming increasingly difficult thanks to Triple O sauce, Tim Hortons donuts and Cheesecake Factory pasta in garlic cream sauce).

I didn't used to be this way.  Before my daughter arrived, I used to shop at actual clothing stores.  Like those that specialize in clothes, rather than those who just happen to have some clothes on the way to the laundry detergent and baby wipes.  I used to buy elegant suits and blouses from Ann Taylor, lovely wool sweaters from Banana Republic and accessories from local boutiques.   I know those are not exactly Gucci and Hermes, people, but at least I had some standards.

Then my beloved children arrived and my desire to shop just evaporated.   I have several theories for why this could be:

1.  My priorities changed when I had kids.  I now devote myself heart and soul to my children and put their needs before mine.  This may have a grain of truth in there somewhere but fails to account for the fact that my pre-kid priorities are still intact in some areas, like fancy coffee.   Let's just say that I can't guarantee what I'd do if my child came between me and the last Starbucks latte on earth.   [Kids shouldn't drink coffee anyway, right?] 

2.  My clothing choices changed for practical reasons after having kids.   The birth of our darling son filled our lives with joy.   But since he had reflux, he also filled our lives with projectile vomiting.  For a year.  You may be surprised to hear this, but it turns out that none of the major fashion houses  make spit-up-proof clothing.

3.  My daughter actually drained the fashion energy right out of my body and put it to use herself.  According to this parasite theory of fashion loss, it is no coincidence that while I have lost all fashion sense and interest, my child has blossomed into a very fashionable young lady.   She wears scarves.  And hats.  And boots. Here she is with her girlfriends on New Year's Eve:

 

At Christmas.  Note the trendy side-swept bangs.  My hair is not capable of looking this good.

Out shopping (she let me tag along):

 

Whatever the reason, the girl has an innate sense of fashion that I do not.    If Starbucks ever comes out with a fashion line, though, I'm getting back in the game.

So, readers, where do you fall:  fashion master or fashion disaster?

  

The Party's (Way) Over

It's a venerable tradition on this blog to write about holidays weeks after they are over.  And, as much as I'd like to be more up-to-date, who am I to meddle with long-standing holiday traditions? 

So, let me be the first to wish you a HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Speaking of tradition, we always have a dinner party on New Year's Eve at our house.  I absolutely love doing this because it saves us from having to figure out how to spend the evening.  You see, back in the day, when Gary and I were DINKS, we seemed to think that it was important to DO something on New Year's Eve.  It seemed liked two young, urban professionals should be out at a hip hotspot partying in the New Year with champagne and dancing.

Toward that end, one year we did sign up for one of those all-night dinner/party events at a favorite restaurant.  Turns out, though, that we don't actually like champagne or dancing very much and the communal tables forced us to spend the night with complete strangers.  Who would have guessed that it wouldn't be fun to spend New Year's Eve with complete strangers doing things that you don't enjoy?!  Live and learn.

After we had kids, we spent New Year's Eves hanging out at home which was fine, but lacking a certain je ne se quoi [yes, I had to look up how to spell that.]  So, in an inspired moment, we came up with the New Year's Eve dinner party.  And not just any dinner party, but a New Year's Eve Fondu party.  

Now, judging from the holiday windows of Crate & Barrel, I note that fondu parties have become trendy lately, but trust me, we did this when it wasn't considered fashionable.  This was back in the days of  Swedish metal fondu pots balanced precariously over the sterno cans (I have the burned spot on our dining room table to prove it).  We do thank Crate & Barrel, however, for getting with the program in recent years and bringing us the high-tech Cuisinart electric sterno pot.

ANYHOW, if anyone is still reading, here is what our New Year's Eve Fondu Dinner Party looks like:

Gary is the Fondu Sauce Masterchef and they are the highlight of the meal. 

This is Mike.  Hi Mike!  This was before searing hot oil splattered out of the fondu pot onto Mike's hand.  He's so tough, he didn't even cry. Next year, we are having all guest sign a liability waiver.

We fondu hotdogs for the kids.

We have a big bingo tournament with glamorous prizes from the dollar store.

My boy was a good sport even though he came in dead last for both games.

Hey that's me!  I was there!

We detonate  heavy duty fireworks in the driveway.

We break out the New Year gear, which looks better on some of us

than others

And we celebrate the big moment.  This is SO much more fun with people that you actually know! 

So, happy 2010 everyone and a fondu farewell to 2009!

Everything I Ever Learned, I Learned at the Horse Races

In our effort to attend one pro sporting event every week for the rest of our lives (please, God, no), we went to the horse races over the weekend.  And a hockey game last night, but that's a story for another day.

Watching the tableau of these sports unfold before me has made me philosophical.  So it was that during the intermissions between races, I mulled over the big picture of horseracing, the universe and everything.  Here is the literal big picture, my little girl gazing out at the people, the horses, the track, the world.

On the figurative big picture, do you realize that horse racing is a metaphor for the human condition?  No really, it's true.  Some of the many rules of life demonstrated by horse racing are:

You can't judge a book by it's cover.  Before the race, they parade the horses out so that everyone can look them over.   But not surprisingly, the  prettiest horses are not necessarily the best horses.   It's much more important to focus on the things that really matter -- like whether the horse has a cool name or not (we bet on Drop the Puck and Run Mo Run, for example).

You can't fully appreciate the "up" times in life without experiencing the "down" times.  Really, folks, has there EVER been a sport with more down-time than horseracing?  The races last for maybe 2 minutes, followed by at least 25 minutes of prep for the next race.  I suppose if we were hard-core gamblers, we'd be betting on races at other tracks during this time.  Instead, after the 30 seconds it takes us to pick the coolest-named horses for the next race, we read, watch football and work on puzzle books.

or is football watching us?  hmmm, Brett Favre?

 

I'm reading Jonathan Franzen, if you must know.  He's Brilliant.

And finally (and my motto for my blog): 

Don't give up.  The horses that are the fastest coming out of the starting gate are not necessarily the ones who win.  There are always those races where one long-shot horse refuses to  give up and comes from behind to win it all.   

Of course, we never happen to have bet on that horse.   And, come to think of it, "don't give up" may not be the best motto when you're betting on the horse races.  We are still learning that final lesson the hard way:  quit while you're ahead.

Not For the Faint of Heart

We went to the Cardinals vs. Green Bay playoff game last weekend.  It was the most amazing football game I've ever seen and I think I've finally recovered enough to write about it. 

In our brave (but so far fruitless) quest to turn the punks into football fans, we took them  along. 

I'm not sure this experience furthered our quest, even though we had front row seats.  Er, well, that is if you don't count those other 100 or so rows below us.

For most of the game, the kids actually couldn't see anything since everyone was standing up or periodically jumping up and down and leaping into each other's arms (the Green Bay fans do this a lot I noticed - maybe it's a warming ritual they are used to in Wisconsin). 

This punk found the game mostly a distraction from his DS anyhow.  Except for the gift shop.  There's nothing this boy likes more than a good gift shop.

The other punk is a delicate soul who does not like loud noises or too much chaos.   She started looking a little nervous when she saw the thousands of people tailgating in the parking lots with loud music and football tossing.  When we walked toward the stadium surrounded by hollering, hooting, cursing, high-fiving fans, her grip on my hand tightened.  When we ended up in the middle of the tightly-packed hoard of people inching their way forward to get through security, the little hand in mine started to sweat profusely.  By the time we had threaded and muscled our way through the crowds to our seats, I'm pretty sure the girl had a serious case of the vapors.

 
At that point, the kid was just hoping for a little peace and quiet.  But to no avail.  The game began with blaring music, booming noise and fire.

And, we were surrounded by more of the mob of hollering, hooting, high-fiving, and now wild and  slavering fans.  Like this guy.

Just a little FYI, readers, a primal scream can not be heard over the sound of 73,000 cheering football fans.

I'm pretty sure I was rooting for the Cardinals.  No really, I was.  Mostly.  The thing is that I've also been a Green Bay fan for years and we were surrounded by real Green Bay fans for whom I have a definite empathy.  You know -- the kind of people who stand out in the Wisconsin cold for hours  wearing cheese.  

People who haven't taken their Bart Starr t-shirts off since  1970. 

People who have green, metallic hair surgically affixed to their scalps (I think it's a reasonable assumption).

Still, the Cards are our home team and I was rooting for them.  And they gave us a lot to cheer about right from the beginning, dominating the first quarter.   Here's a touchdown.

The fans were cheering.  The fans were hugging, dancing and yes, more high-fiving.
But the Packers were not about to give up with out a fight.   I will spare you the play-by-play but it seemed to me to go something like this:  Cardinals touchdown, Green-Bay touchdown, Cardinals touchdown, Green Bay touchdown, Cardinals touchdown, Green Bay touchdown, Cardinals touchdown, etc.   With an occasional fumble in there somewhere.   It was wild; it was heart-stopping; it was so, SO LOUD.  If I had any hearing left, I think my ears would still be ringing.

Setting up: 

And another touchdown:

Final score:  51-45. Cardinals came out on top in overtime.  My heart resumed beating.  It remains to be seen whether my children will resume their general indifference towards football, but I know that it is a game that none of us -- whether for the scoring, the gift shop or the  mass pandemonium -- will ever forget.

So, readers, what is the best game you've ever been to?

Do This . . . Not That

I'd just like to applaud the inimitable Misty Cato who answered correctly that the line "Did you ever dance with the Devil in the pale moon light?" was from the Batman movies.  Misty, for prizes you win my undying respect and admiration and . . .

. . .well, that's pretty much it.  But really, that's worth more than any monetary prize, don't you think?     Ok, don't answer that.

Anyhow, on to today's topic -- photography.  I am always thrilled to read the comments that you kind readers leave about my photography because photography is my love, my passion, the thing that keeps me warm on cold winter nights.

But, like all relationships, with time photography can fall into routine.  We stop bringing each other little gifts; we never go out anymore.  We find ourselves just going through the motions -- shooting the same things from the same angles and processing them in the same old way. 

So, I try to keep the fire burning by experimenting with new things -- new lenses,  new techniques, and so on.  Lately, I've been playing with mirrors which according to the self-help books, can rev up any relationship. 

But, mirrors are always trickier than I think they should be.  It's a focus thing. Take the following example.  We were dining out at the Cheesecake Factory [where I will never be able to eat again thanks to the fact that I am on a new "healthy lifestyle" (aka diet) into which I cannot seem to cram their pasta in garlic cream sauce.] 

I thought this would be a cool way to get the whole family in the photo.  Obviously, however, this is not the way to photograph your family in a mirror -- unless you happen to have a very blurry family.

I will spare you the technical diagnosis for what went wrong here.  I'll just blame the garlic cream sauce which was waiting for me and stopped me from taking my usual 871 photos to make sure I got just the right one. 

Another example.  My sister-in-law's kitty spent virtually all of our Canada visit hiding under the bed. Hiding from the punks and Chihuahua puppy who  wanted to "play" with her, hoping we would all just go away so she could go back to drinking from the sink in peace.  I tried to get a photo of this cute habit, but she'd jump down every time I got nearby and I never did get the mirror shot in focus.

 

Can I get some privacy here?

But finally, FINALLY, success:

 

It's mostly in focus, it captures our personalities and -- due to the curvature of the mirror-- it even tapers at the bottom, hiding my love handles from all the garlic cream sauce and cheesecake I'd just polished off moments before (and saving me having to edit out those love handles in Phototshop).   It reminded me of why I fell in love with photography in the first place -- that magical moment when you get exactly the shot you want and a little bit more.

So, readers, what are you doing to keep your lives/loves interesting these days?

Certifiable

Did you ever dance with the devil in the pale moon light?*

How about dance with a bunch of lunatics in the sunny desert?  If not, then you haven't been hanging out with my family.  You may remember a while back I blogged about my weird family and our own personal sport, Keep Away/Monkey in the Middle/TACKLE/Soccer Ball Kicking Frisbee Catch.  Feel free to go re-read that post if you need some reassurance that your family is perfectly normal compared to other people (i.e., us).  Here's a little reminder of what the "sport" looks like -- be sure to watch for it in the 2012 summer Olympics.

[Those are the grandparents, by the way, who have been tackled in that particular photo.  Grandparents, people.]

Anyhow, since the hubby and I and the 2 punks were planning to spend Christmas in Canada visiting Gary's side of the family and eating ourselves into a food coma, my side of the family kindly decided to visit us before Christmas here at our humble abode.  I was delighted, knowing that we would be so busy with the types of things normal families would do -- like Christmas shopping and baking -- that there would be very little chance to work in a game of Keep Away/Monkey in the Middle/TACKLE/Soccer Ball Kicking Frisbee Catch or probably any weird, made-up sports at all.

Why, oh why  do I always underestimate my family's creativity in this arena? 

It's true that we didn't play any made-up sports exactly, but the fam did make up other forms of entertainment.  First, there was the rock collecting in the desert.  This seemed harmless enough at first and arguably within the realm of what normal people might do.   What I'm still unclear on is how it later morphed into the process of writing secret messages on the rocks that would then be re-placed in the dessert for future generations to find. 

Just in case you think that I am making this up, I do of course have the proof.

 

 

Okay, you may be saying, that's certainly unusual behavior, but does not necessarily cross the line into outright weirdness.

Let me then present Exhibit 2, wherein the family (a) dances in the desert, (b) in broad daylight, (c) in full view of neighboring houses, (d) with no music.

Do not try this at home. 

It's kind of like a flash mob, only without the mob (or the flashiness).  It does catch on and spread like wildfire.  Here is my sister who will almost certainly kill me next time she gets within 1000 miles of me for posting this photo.  Ha, ha, Dianne, you live on the East Coast and can't get me!!  This is pay-back for all those times you called me Pawn when we were little!

My nephew gets drawn in.  Di, be sure and send this to all his friends!  Teenagers love this type of creative self-expression and non-uniformity!

 

 

The grandparents remain warily on the sidelines, probably fearing that another round of tackling might break out at any moment.

Well, truthfully, all that Christmas shopping and baking was getting boring anyway.  So, please excuse me while I put down the camera and dance.

____________________________

* bonus points if you can name the movie that line was from.

It's Really the Triple O

In the interest of full disclosure, there's really one more reason we go to Canada for the holidays.  I mean, between family and the Tim Horton donuts it's pretty great and all, but there's another purely Canadian feature that puts us over the top.  

No, it's not hockey, although my husband (who is Canadian), would fly (or crawl if necessary) to Canada himself just to buy the newspapers for the hockey coverage.  He is frequently bemoaning the fact that American newspapers do not mention who the latest draft was to some Junior Hockey League team or another, or who made the Canadian Olympic Hockey team or something like that.  [I really do TRY to listen to this stuff when you say it, dear, my American brain just can't process that particular category of information.]

It's not "the great outdoors" although it is really greatly outdoorsy in the Vancouver vicinity. 

I don't think we have a single tree that tall in all of Arizona.

The real heart of the matter is the Triple O sauce.   In case you are not in the know, it's what the special sauce on a burger was meant to be in a perfect world.  It's what Adam & Eve would have had on their burgers in the Garden of Eden if only God had invented the secret recipe sooner.  It is all that is delicious and right and beautiful about a hamburger. 

So, if we can manage it as we did this time, our first meal when arriving in Canada is at the White Spot restaurant for the Legendary burger, which contains the magical Triple O sauce.  Here was the beacon calling us in from the wilderness:

We salivated over the new possibilities:

Then we got all nostalgic and weepy reliving those perfect milk-shake experiences from childhood.  Who ever said you can't go home again?  They haven't been to the White Spot recently for the Butterscotch Milkshake.

 

We built new childhood memories of the perfect milkshake: 

In the end, we rejected the newfangled burger options and just went with the traditional Legendary Platter. 

You can't actually see the sauce in that photo, but trust me friends, it's in there.  Oh boy, is it in there.  

Just look at the intensity and satisfaction on the faces of these happy consumers (except for the boy in the orange shirt who ordered chicken tenders.  Poor, poor misguided child.  We hope he'll come to see reason with time).

 

I can't say for sure what percentage of the 5 pounds that I appear to have gained in Canada is directly attributable to Triple O sauce, but I do know that during our short trip, we visited the White Spot for Legendary burgers on three separate occasions with and without other family members to facilitate our addiction.  Look at the sheer, unabashed joy on the faces of these happy consumers:

Another milkshake lover:

The glow of the whole Legendary experience is having its effect even on these wayward chicken eaters.

But, sigh, all good things must come to an end.  I must now log roughly 1435 miles on the treadmill to work off those Legendary burgers, the Tim Horton's donuts and all the other delicious food we consumed.  I must now exercise iron-fisted discipline to banish all thoughts of Triple O sauce from my mind for the foreseeable future.  I am strong.  I am invincible.  I can do this.  I . . . I . .

. . . I wonder if White Spot would ship to Arizona?

Why We Go

Despite all the challenges with traveling for the holidays, even hitting Dawn travel challenge level Red, it's still worth it.  Here's a few of the reasons why:

Cousins who love cars and hide & seek as much as you do. 

Little cousins who want you to play with their new baby dolls. (Oh my. I would have smuggled this one home in my carry-on if they hadn't banned carry-on luggage on our flight home):

Even more cousins: 

Aunts and uncles and grandmas who love to do puzzles, play games and go on hikes even when it's cold outside. 

Grandpas who will let you rummage through their box of treasures and tell you stories about their own grandpa.

 

Grandmas who haven't gotten the memo that says that grandmas have to be all grown up and dowdy, so they still play goggle football with you in the hotel pool.

And finally, spending Christmas surrounded by those you love most.  All of the hassles of travel amount to nothing when compared with that.

Will Fly for Family

We often fly to exotic, far-off lands (i.e., Canada) to visit family for the holidays.  International travel is challenging at the best of times, but during the Christmas holidays when you are traveling with hoards of other people and suitcases full of gifts to get through customs, the obstacles increase.  On the Dawn challenge rating scale, it goes up from approximately yellow to orange (green being reserved for business flights with no luggage to innocuous places like Albuquerque in mid-May). 

When you are traveling during the holidays and it just so happens that your destination city is coincidentally also hosting the winter Olympics imminently, things get ever more interesting (not to mention expensive).  Navigating your children past approximately 5,000 souvenier stores chock full of Olympic mascot stuffed animals and tchotchkes alone takes takes super-human powers of diplomacy and distraction.

Finally, when you are traveling internationally during the holidays to an Olympics-hosting city and there is also an attempted terrorist attack on another international flight and all the computers go down in the airport you will be traveling from, THAT my friends is when we hit Dawn challenge level RED. 

Red means that you are instructed to  arrive at the airport 5 hours before your flight even though though the airline check-in desk doesn't open until 3 hours before your flight.

Red means that you are informed on the news the night before you fly home that NO carry on luggage is allowed so all of your gifts and fragile items must be jammed into the checked luggage which is already perilously close to the 50 pound limit. [Instructions later revised to say one "small" purse may be carried on.  Later revised to say a small purse or laptop, but no laptop bag.  Later hinted that maybe but not definitively, a small purse might be considered to be approximately the size of an 8x10 sheet of paper.  Later hinted that maybe but not definitively, a laptop bag might be allowed, etc.]

Red means that you arrive at your gate,  bedraggled after having been intimately patted down toe-to-head and having had your 8x10 sized purse checked, and rechecked and "analyzed" to find that (of course) your flight is delayed.

 

There is only one thing to do when the challenge level hits red.  Immediately proceed to the Tim Horton's in the airport. [For you non-Canadians, it's a donut place.]

Commence self-medicating.  I recommend the old fashioned honey dipped.  Donuts have the uncanny ability to make even the reddest of challenge levels look manageable.   They fit in your "small" 8x10 sized purse, they do not need to be jammed into your carry on luggage and you do not have to wait in line for 5 hours to buy them.

To quote Homer Simpson:  "Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?"

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***In my next post I'll explain why our trip to Canada was worth braving the holiday travel.  In the meantime, feel free to share any travel horror stories you may have experienced, or times where donuts have saved the day.  : )