National Tie Month, or Chrismahkuhzaastice

We are not so popular as to find ourselves adrift in such a heavy sea of holiday invitations that our social calendar becomes burdensome. That’s a fate I sometimes overhear sighing complaint of, though come to think, I’m not sure how I feel about people who bemoan their popularity. Not least because it’s pretty easy, this time of year especially, to simply say “Thank you SO MUCH for thinking of us — we would just love to but find ourselves otherwise obligated.”

Even if the obligation is only to one’s pajamas, or a good book.

But, as I said, I seldom have reason to go all Emily Post; enough invitations roll in that we feel festive and friendly, but not overwhelmed. So I value and appreciate them all. But maybe, if I were forced — under threat of waterboarding perhaps, or a teetotalling holiday season — to pick a favorite, this one might rise just a smidge above. Not necessarily the event — too hard to gauge, plus I think Miss Manners would frown — but the invitation itself:

(I was going to scan it in, but the print is teeny-tiny and no one would thank me for the authenticity.)

“MERRY, HAPPY CHRISMAHKUHZAASTICE!

This year’s soiree is laden with festive significance. In addition to the major holiday observances that you’ve come to expect from the Chrismahkuhzaastice extravaganza, we’ll be celebrating Poinsetta Day, the Day of the Horse, and International Shareware Day. You’ll also find us transported by revels in observance of Human Rights Week as we prepare for the nascent goodness of Gluten-free Baking Week. Yes, it’s all part of the glory of December, or what most of you thing of as ‘National Tie Month.’ So join us, won’t you?”

We will indeed. Cos who could possibly have anything other than a fabulous time at such an event?? (Thanks, A&J, for the invite!)

before the pain

Some of you may remember my public announcement of intent back in August to ride the Bridge to Bridge Challenge. Today is Friday, and unless something dramatic and unforeseen occurs between now and 10a on Sunday, I’ll be rolling on with the rest of my crew: Richard, Keith, Todd, and Gregg. We’re converging on North Carolina from points north, south, and west.

And frankly even if something dramatic and unforeseen DOES occur, it’s going to have to top Richard’s pre-ride visit to the ER with a kidney stone of a few years ago, because that didn’t keep him from saddling up the next morning. The bar for wimpitude has been set.

D&U aside, I’ve done a reasonable number of training miles with some reasonable chunk of them vertical in nature. And this morning the scale read 130.6, which means I met my other Publicly Stated Goal of carrying a few fewer pounds (6.8 of them to be exact) up that freakin’ mountain. So I’m about as ready as I can expect to be for 105 what in hell was I thinking miles with 11,000 what in hell was I thinking feet of elevation pain gain.

And the truth of it is, this crew isn’t in it for time, but for the TIME, if you know what I mean. And I fully expect it will be a large one — rain or shine.

Yeah. Since the forecast is fifty-fifty, do a little dry dance for us, wouldja please, maybe tip the scale a bit our way?

screen it

My friend B has many talents, but prime among them I’d have to count vision.  Not the 20/20 kind — she’d be the first to ask you to read her cell phone screen to see whether or not she needs to answer it — but the ability to walk into your house and see something different than what you see. Or to see beyond what you see, is maybe more accurate.

She walked this week into the room off our kitchen that passes as a pantry-cum-catchall and announced that I needed to make it into a usable space.  A sitting area, maybe.  Or a screen porch.

She tossed that out, casual-like.

So.  If you’ve ever seen a shark bite on chum, you have a good visual of my reaction.

Oh, it’s not the southern sweep of annexed outdoor space I truly crave, but I am nothing if not reasonable, if not amenable to compromise, if not willing to accept and wholeheartedly embrace a slightly pallid version of my true technicolor dream.  My first (and former) house had a screen porch, and I’ve missed it sorely.  I do love to sit and relax somewhere and be connected to the smells and sounds and texture of the outside world, but since I am the official Mosquito Magnet, our very pleasant patio just doesn’t work for me much of the year.

But jeez, I said to B, where would I put all this stuff I store here?  She glanced around and announced that I was spoiled.  Spoiled by space.

Hmm.  You think??

In all its cringe-worthy glory.

Somehow all that stuff, as stuff is wont to do, simply accumulated to fill the depth and breadth of available space.  Laws of physics?  Wanton partying and irresponsible sex going on, and the stuff simply begat more stuff?  I’m leaning toward the latter:  the Tupperware had an all-night rave, the coffee grinder got it on with the banana tree and the pizza rack was doing the nasty with the garlic roaster.  And no, I don’t even want to THINK about what the party beer tubs were doing with the coolers.

I do know, however, that they weren’t drinking the booze, because the bottles are covered with dust.  Time was we had a fair number of liquor-drinkin friends, and that was simply the stuff of weekends.  As a result, we own a full stock of all the regulation booze, and some frou-frou too.  Three, six, nine, eighteen bottles I counted.  Virtually all of which have been idle for better than a half-dozen years, though come to think I did make some killer bourbon spiced pecans two Christmases ago.

It’s not a great space for a screen porch — it’s a little narrow, and frankly on the petite side overall — but I think it’ll suffice.  There’s room for us to have breakfast out there.  And access from the front yard will cleverly provides a detour around the catastrophic level of clutter that might, just might, be my living room at a given moment, thereby providing me that place for the casual-dropping-by conversation:   “Won’t you step around to the screen porch?  I’ll meet you with an iced tea/mimosa/margarita.”

Not that I got a bee in my bonnet about it or anything, but I spent the two days following B’s pronouncement on a cleaning/purging/reorganizing bender the likes of which would make Martha herself proud.  And the first contractor came by today to take a look, and another is due shortly.

So come sit on our (screen) porch.  Just give us a couple months.  And if all y’all come at once, just know it’s gonna be pretty cozy.

porchin it

Our neighbors — fabulous beyond words — have a sign over their steps that reads “Come Sit On Our Porch.”  Somewhere along the way (and long before the practice of verbing became rampant and dangerous) they coined the phrase “to porch,” meaning to do as the sign says:  gather, visit, perhaps sip or nibble.  Over the last two decades, I’d hazard a guess that thousands of people across the generations have porched at their place.

If I don’t corral my wandering brain,  this whole post will end up being about them and their porch, but that’s not my intent.  Straight course there, sister.  Eye on the compass, now.

There’s something about a porch.  It’s neutral space.  The interior of your home may have just qualified to receive federal aid as a disaster zone, but if a casual acquaintance stops by to, say, drop something off, you can step out the door, gesture to the chairs on your porch and say, Won’t you sit a spell?  (Or whatever you say there in your part of the country.)

And because it’s neutral space, the casual acquaintance doesn’t feel that they are intruding onto your personal domain, so they say, Why, I’d love to.  They sit, you visit, and perhaps by the time they leave the acquaintance on both sides has even been deepened some past the casual.

Our house, across the street and built in an entirely different decade, is porchless.  After we moved in the MPM and I kicked around the idea of slapping a porch on the front, but we shortly learned that there’s no “slapping” involved with constructing on the grade of our yard.   No, it was a serious cement-pourin’ proposition with a starting pricetag of 25K+ — and, of course, no hope of ever realizing any of that investment on the back end.  Your kitchen remodel, your bath remodel, those dollars you can look to recoup.  A porch?  Bah.  No one ponies up for a porch.

So the drawings are around here somewhere, but the porch plan has been officially tabled.

And on a cool summer morning such as this one, when the time feels lazy and sun and the cicadas promise heat to come, that just seems a sad cryin’ shame.

the photographer’s wife

… doesn’t go camera-less. Especially when she’s an artist herself.

This is just one of some very cool photos taken by Missy (of Guadalajara Year there on my links) on a recent solo trip to Oaxaca.

They will soon be returning stateside, and I fervently hope she plans to continue blogging, because they are moving away from us, permanently this time (SO sad), and on to the next adventure in their lives, and I want to stay updated.

A new blog title might be in order, of course, so I was thinking maybe she could run a contest. With a framed photo for a prize, maybe.

I’ll be stuffing the ballot box.

smiles, and miles

Here’s a sadly bad photo of a really good time:

one of these girls isn't as sweaty as the rest. we love her anyway.

Happily, our Blue Moon rides have been occurring more than once in a blue moon this summer. Yesterday’s turnout was our largest to date, maybe, just maybe, because we actually thought ahead of time and remembered to invite more people, and it was so fun to have a sizable group of women on the road together.

There were a few who failed to succumb to beer pressure and persisted in ordering something other than a Blue Moon, and one who allowed as she didn’t care for fruit in her beer, but we’ll keep working on them. Maybe when we get the matchy-matchy jerseys they’ll feel more like joining in lockstep.

If we invite them back, that is. Can’t have dangerous maverick types wandering around stirring up trouble, you know. (Anyone else have a little Tina Fey flashback there?  Me, I can’t hear the word “maverick” any more without doing an involuntary whole-body shudder. And oh, wasn’t that just Some Speech last week?? Can you fathom that That Woman came That Close to the second-highest office in the free world? It boggles. It truly does.)

So we rode our 20, and then bright and early this morning I rode 40 and seriously had to fend off the urge to lie down on the gentle grassy sloping edge of the road upon which I rode.  Couldn’t fathom for the life of me why my legs felt most like somewhat shapely railroad ties affixed at one end to my hips and at the other to my pedals.

And finally, mile 37, following the moment I literally began to see spots in my peripheral vision — which I divined as a sign that I should perhaps stop standing on that climb and sit my ass down in the saddle until further notice — it dawned on me that on Monday, I trailered Kira to the zoo and then, later, downtown.   The zoo destination represents, oh, approximately 900 vertical feet of climbing in a few short miles.  Tare weight on the trailer = 18lbs.  Kira = 28lbs.  Going back up to my house isn’t flat, either.

And on Wednesday, I happened into a ride that ended up being me and one of those guys with less hair on his legs than I have, for a total saddle time of 2.5 hours.

And then there was Friday, above; not hard, not long, but miles nonetheless.  Hello, muscle fibers?  Day 4 of 6? Can you kick it in another 40, Parkway grade climbing?  NO?  You CAN’T?  Oh.

Yeah, and those Tour guys ride, what, 21 days out of 23,  covering 2000+ miles… sigh.  Ah well.  They are insane-crazy testosterone-driven boys in their twenties and thirties living on a razor’s edge of training.  I’m a 45-year-old mommy with a triple ring.  Who rides, in an average week, twice at most.

So can I just say, my legs?  Are so freakin tired this evening that I’m giving rightful consideration to the idea of sleeping on the couch just so I don’t have to climb the stairs even One. More. Time. tonight.

perfect party

It had all the makings for a major stressaster.  You know, where you’re so freaking stressed out that even if it all ends up going just fine, it’s still a disaster.

We were anticipating 6 or 7 families, with a total of 30-some bodies, to arrive beginning at 4:30 on Sunday for a grill-potluck.

We’d had overnight guests, so some of the mid-morning after their departure was spent picking up toys and tidying.   And since I know good and well that if the kids will be home all day any significant cleaning the morning of a party is destined to be an exercise in futility, not to mention annoyance, because anything accomplished will surely need a major touching up anyway, I didn’t bother with bathrooms or mopping. Closer to doorbell time would be soon enough.

And since I wasn’t making much food, just an appetizer and a dessert and a fruit salad, and I got most of the choppin’ and slicin’ done in the morning,  it seemed perfectly reasonable to head out for a ride a bit after noon.  Couple hours on the road and I’d still have almost two hours to clean, assemble and bake, and shower.  Piece of cake.  Put the MPM in charge of the beer tub and the outdoor seating, toss some silverware out, stack plates, line up wine glasses, major swab on the bathroom, mop, quick vacuum.  Easy pie.

Or, alternately, arrive home a tad late at 3p to a weepy child with an earache and a low tolerance for discomfort, and a dire need for attention and snuggling.

Yuh.

The dessert got in the oven and the appetizer got made, but as the minutes ticked by and I sat with Megs on my lap, I realized the bathroom that had been waiting several days for an attentive scrubbing was going to wait yet another day.   And that I should not be surprised if a guest, finding a foot or perhaps two irrevocably stuck to my kitchen floor, called out for help, only to have their would-be rescuer trip over two empty milk bottles and slam into the kitchen stepladder on the way to faceplanting in an unwashed cat-food dish. And that I myself, in biking togs and full post-sweat helmet-head, had little hope of being any cleaner or lovelier before guests arrived.

And as I waited for the stress to sweep over me, it dawned on me that there wasn’t a single person who would be coming through the front door that I cared about how they saw me or my house.  And I mean that in the very best way possible:  that every one of our guests was someone that I was completely comfortable with.  Good friends, and a rumble and muddle of little ones, and a sprinkling of teens, I could wallow in unqualified acceptance and utter lack of internally arched-eyebrow judgment.

And what a lovely, lovely feeling it was.

Interesting to think how rare that is, at least in my entertaining life.  It made me chew on the fact that although I do think I’m generally willing to have others see the “real” me, I’m a far ways from being immune to feeling that my home reflects on me, and thus how others think of me.  And I want them to think… what?  That I know how to wipe my switch plates and dust baseboards and make my bathroom shine?  That I execute such chores with some frequent periodicity?  The former is true; the latter, certainly less so, at least at this stage of life.  But really, what is it that makes us feel so bad if our house isn’t just so when company arrives?  I’m still mulling on it.

In any event, I think every person who came on Sunday enjoyed the evening as much as I did.  And I have utter faith that not one of them thought less of me for the grubbiness of my bathroom.

And just so’s you know, I cleaned it first thing today, before breakfast, because it really did need it desperately.  And because at that moment, no one needed snuggling more than it needed scrubbin’.

And then I wiped some switchplates too.  Just for the heck of it.  Hey, time to plan another party, quick.

did I mention we had live entertainment?

hmmm, a girl at the grill. is that legal?

fun for children of all ages

Blue Moon rising

Friday brought the first Blue Moon Ride of the year, and a fabulous time it was, a quick 20 miles, five strong women pushing the pace a bit through the last five and then rolling downhill for this:

I’m thinking we need to get a sponsor on board. With matchy-matchy jerseys. And maybe a masseuse. Yes, definitely. And bring on the cabana boys while we’re at it.

foolery

It’s Wednesday and thus Kate’s Carnival (or madhouse, if you prefer) over at One More Thing. Today’s topic, fittingly, is “Fools.”

I gave serious consideration to writing about George Bush the younger (I’d thought to title the post “F”), whose arrant ignorance on a wondrously broad range of topics, including leadership and decision-making, was so distressingly apparent over the last decade or thereabouts.

Or about those rendered so shortsighted by greed that they think little of destroying, forevermore, vast swaths of Appalachian landscape via mountaintop removal and all its sequelae.

But those topics seemed a little heavy for my generally amused mood this evening. So you get instead this story about one of my favorite pranks, made all the better by its serendipitous nature. It took place about ten years ago, but it still makes me grin. Probably because although I like to think I have a good sense of humor and am fairly imaginative, I lean far more comfortably into verbal play, so any prankery I actually manage to pull off gets me all giddy and gleeful.

A friend of mine, L, had headed out of town on a lengthy business trip. Knowing his flight was due back well past any sane person’s bedtime and not wanting to charge extended parking to his company, since he owns it, he parked his car at my place and asked if I’d mind dropping it in short-term parking the day he was due back.

In retrospect, this seems like a lot of hassle, since someone had to follow me out there and take me back home, but these were simpler, child-free days, he was a good friend, and I honestly didn’t think anything of it. (And in case you’re wondering, we don’t have a taxi queue at our small regional airport, so getting a cab, particularly late at night, can be a long and annoying process.)

L owned, and still does, a number of radio stations, a couple locally and some elsewhere. He is in all ways a stellar person, and he also knows how to poke fun at himself, which always elevates someone in my esteem. He’s an extremely savvy businessman, and cares deeply about the people who work for him.

Because he’s a savvy businessman, and because his business is radio, he is constantly thinking about radio. If he rides in your car, he’ll ask you why you listen to what you do, whether it’s his station or the competition (remember our timeframe: no XMRadio), or he may ask you what makes you hit the preset to move to another station. And back in those days, when we saw a good bit of one another, he gave me grief, in small but consistent measures, about listening to so much public radio. No advertising dollars in it, you know.

So when I got in and started his car, a venerable Land Rover — I think it probably even had crank windows — the radio was, of course, on. Tuned to one of his stations, if I recall, and a song I didn’t care for, so I hit the preset. Another commercial station, not his. And another; his second station. Hell’s sake; I can’t be driving and listening to this; where’s the damn NPR preset? Nowhere, is where. Commercial all down the line.

He called early the next morning, laughing and swearing at me. To this day, he loves to tell the story of getting in his car, mentally cursing me for tuning in to NPR and leaving it there — and then punching each of his presets.

I’d done every last one.

Me, I, or whoever

(Note: It’s Wednesday, Carnival Day — Kate’s blog carnival. This week’s topic was “Friends.” I got kind of caught up this morning with my response, below, to some fallout from an earlier post, but it’s technically about friends, so she linked to me anyhow. Thanks Kate! Stop back next Wednesday, and I’ll try to be on-topic again.)

I tend to believe that blogs, or at least this one, should be about cutting it close to the edge on occasion. I’m hardly setting out to offend people on a regular basis, but I don’t mind putting something out there that might not sit well with every last person who ends up reading me.

However.

When it comes down to whether or not I’m being mean-spirited, I will take a stand and say this: I may well be mean-spirited on occasion. But you, out there reading, can be pretty well certain that it will never be about someone I’ve described as a friend. And if you have interpreted something I wrote about such an individual in that way, well, I hope you will take the time to read it again and see if you can find another way to think about it, because I surely did not mean it that way.

Word on the neighborhood street would suggest that I need to clarify that my reason for indicating the occupations of my three friends in last week’s “Not I” post was to draw attention to their intelligence and education in saying that they, along with Mr. Obama and many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, MANY other well-educated and bright, smart, articulate people, make the same grammatical error.

And not — NOT — to point a belittling finger at those three girlfriends. Who maybe now SHOULD walk into a bar together, with me, and let me buy them all a round of drinks, or two, for defending me to others who thought that they were the butt of some snide pettiness on my part. (Fortunately, they themselves know me better.)

Should I have chosen to simply say “three of my very own intelligent, articulate, well-educated friends” to make the point? In retrospect, my, it certainly would’ve been prudent. However, this is my blog, and I write it because I enjoy writing. And I will allow as how my enamoration with the bar-joke line was such that it blinded me to the potential for it to be misread, for those inclined to see things in that way, as personally directed pettiness.

So. Since apparently some of y’all took that post way, WAY too seriously — nope, I don’t really feel THAT strongly about grammar — entirely overlooking what I believed was recognizable as a tongue-in-cheek tone, it’s time to say thanks for the reminder that I should watch how, exactly, I write what I mean to say. Lest it be misinterpreted.

And for those who have something to say about what I write here, I’d love to point out that there is a handy “comment” option down there at the bottom. I encourage an open forum, even an anonymous one.

edible inspiration

Yesterday an idea popped into my head.

I’m almost tempted to stop right there, because heaven knows that sometimes in this fulltime mommy gig, just the notion of having a new, novel idea feels post-worthy. Ta-DAHHHHH!

But oh, okay. I’ll share.

I was looking over the week’s menu plan and making my grocery list, an early-week routine I try to be faithful about because it is truly a time- and sanity-saver. I’m not rigid about it in a Wednesday-is-meatloaf kind of way, but I attempt to come up with four or five meals, which with leftovers and such (read: delivery pizza) I figure will get us through the weekend, and then I have everything on hand, one trip only and no frantic it’s-four-o’clock-what-in-HELL-am-I-going-to-make-for-dinner? With, let’s see, a package of corn tortillas, three leeks and four eggs on hand?

I’d landed on stuffed shells for that night, not something I make often but we were sorely in need of something new in the rotation. Since it’s not something I make often, I had none of the ingredients on hand, not even the shells.

And as I wrote them on my list, I found myself putting little (2)s next to each one, because the vision had come whole and entire into my head: invite a friend to bring along a 9×13 dish and we’d do a little assembling and a little chatting and the kids could play, and voila! A lovely rainy-day afternoon complete with dinner in the oven. For both of us.

So I called B, friend of savior status from the whole earache/barfy day not long past, and she said Sure! So I went to the store and she picked up our kindergartners and came on by.

Not to give myself major arm strain from reaching around to pat on my own back or anything, but this was like a stroke of genius. No question, it should, and will, become a regular tradition. Not a big weekend make-ahead marathon, but just one evening’s meal, prepped with good company.

She even swapped me out some home-smoked salmon in repayment, which I thought was a far better deal, not to mention much tastier, than a check I’d feel a little petty about cashing, if I remembered to.

I’m not going to list the recipe for the stuffed shells, because they were edible but not incredible. But take away the concept instead, adding a wine pairing if desired.

worth the wait

You took your time getting here, sir. 58 hours, not that we were counting or anything. Your momma is one amazing woman, and daddy ain’t no slouch. We’re glad you’re here, blessed little boy.

Everybody, meet Sam. If all children could be born of, and into, such love, the world might well be a better place.

thrown together

Here at Casa Fraught, as I’ve mentioned before, on Saturdays the MPM takes charge of dinner. Generally I remove myself entirely from the process, since it’s not just the prep I want a break from, but the whole mental Whatterwehavinferdinner? exercise too.

Yesterday, however, I offered up some input. It was late morning and I was leaned up against the kitchen island, rather enjoying watching him do the Search-For-Inspiration tango between the fridge and the pantry, when I had my own little flash.

“People. Let’s have PEOPLE for dinner.”

The introvert looked at me with a bit of alarm, cannibalism and unanticipated company both presenting immediate and tangible downsides to his mind.

I bribed him by telling him I’d give him the recipe I’d planned to make Sunday. I’d stocked all the ingredients, meaning no trip to the store. And then I whispered the kicker: “Crockpot.”

He caved.

I rang the favorite neighbors; not in. I left a message. He dialed J&S, dear friends we haven’t had over in far too long. Message again.

So much for my Saturday-last-minute enthusiasm. I considered welching on the recipe, but I’m generally a stand-up kinda girl, so I handed it over and in short order he had it cranked up on High.

A few hours passed and the neighbors called wanting to know what they could bring. Then J&S called; they’d made plans to join other friends at a restaurant but I lobbied them to bring the other friends. Those friends called to confirm the time and suddenly we were 8 at the table. I love it when things come together.

The MPM’s crockpot meal, though laudable indeed, was upstaged by the dear friend, who whipped this up between labor contractions and her sweat-flinging workout at the gym:

Easy Lentil-Chickpea Delish

olive oil
onion, chopped
heaping tablespoon curry powder
1.5 quarts broth
large bunch Swiss chard, coarsely chopped
2 carrots, in coins
1 sweet potato, peeled and chunked
1 stalk celery, chopped
2 c red lentils (dry)
2 c cooked garbanzo beans (or 1 can)

In a good-sized pot, saute onions in oil until translucent. Add curry powder and saute 1 min more. Add chard and broth and bring to a boil. Add everything else and simmer until the carrots are tender.

Serve, salting to taste. A dollop of sour cream or yogurt will cut the heat and add creaminess.

Eat and enjoy. Labor pains optional.

(Hurry, Sam! We’re waiting!!)

Protected: my casual weekend

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score big points with the bride

I went riding today with a couple friends, one of whom is the fittest fifty-some guy you’ll ever meet; the other a cute, single woman newer to my biking circle, equally — can I say frighteningly — fit. Before we got rolling I was describing an absent riding buddy to Cute Single, allowing as how he might be one of the hottest human beings on two wheels, not to mention the funniest and nicest, “but married, of course, to the world’s most adorable woman” when Fifty-Some piped up. “No, he’s not.”

I looked at him, a little in shock, because Fifty-Some almost never says anything in public; it’s not in his quiet, shy nature. And this was sort of a girly conversation to boot, after all. And then he said, “I am.”

And you know what? He’s been married to her for 35 years.

(Can we have it in unison? One, two, three: “Awwwwww!”)

I can’t wait to tell her.

It was an awesome, amazing ride, 45 miles of virtually vehicle-free rolling terrain, perfect weather, solid pace, not too much dawdling but not too much exhaustion either. And great company, yes indeed.