Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Summer 2011 Goals Recap

   Since this weekend we officially welcomed Fall 2011, I decided to grab a few minutes to review the goals and best intentions I set forth for myself at the onset of Summer 2011 and see how well things went.  

   Even before walking through the list and analyzing things, though, I feel like it was a pretty good season, all things considered.  Filled with lots of hard work and invigoration, tempered with romance, friendship, and a renewed spiritual appetite.  Yep.  I groove this summer.

   Okay.
   Item #1, Sun Protection:  Yes, I was in the sun a lot this summer, and in fact it was kind of hard for any breathing, moving person to avoid the hot sun in Oklahoma considering our freaky heat wave, but I was a good girl and wore SPF 15, 30, 45, and sometimes even 50.  Every day.  Even though it gave me weird skin.  And even hats and sunglasses.  Not a single dad-gum pink or red sunburn, and that says a lot for someone who falls asleep reading outside.  Regularly.  Success.  10/10 points
   Item #2, Carpe Diem:  Every week was different from the others.  Every day within those weeks was different from its peers.  I have to look back on my calendar, our extensive photo files, or this blog to really absorb all that happened between the end of May and right now, so I know that the summer was filled with variety.  And I am deliciously free of that horrible feeling of frustration that a person gets when the flow has not been went with, so Diems were most likely definitely Carpeied.  10/10 points

Here is our gorgeous youngest nephew visiting the farm in late June.
This was exactly his first taste in his whole life of watermelon.
Look at his clear blue eyes, gazing at nothing while he studies this new flavor.
His smooth pink skin, absorbing every vitamin from that sweet, crispy, mushy fruit.
Please note that Nephew, too, grooves sun protection.
Or at least his awesome mom does.
The glorious, mysterious tasting moment could not have been planned, 
and I am so grateful to have been there when it happened.
Carpe Diem.

   Item #3, Contact with My Chickens, Sans Pressure or Bitterness:  I could have done much better here.  I am deeply happy and grateful for every minute we shared in the flesh, over the phone, and electronically (texting with your teens is an unexpected pleasure).  I was able to reign in my plaguing questions and maternal expectations, leaving room (I think) for easier conversation and affectionate moments.  That much I can definitely celebrate.  And I have a stack of crafty mementos and a long list of memories from this summer with each of the girls that can fuel Handsome and me for a long time with out them.  I can only hope they feel as good or better.
   Where I could have done better (much better) was with gifts and spontaneity.  I know, I know, that sounds shallow on one hand, but it’s not.  Something quiet and persistent is reminding me that it’s just part of the teenager’s language, especially when we’re not under the same roof for those daily shows of love to pervade the atmosphere.
   I need to learn how to overcome my fear of buying the wrong styles or sizes, etc, and just try.  If the gifts are wrong, then at least I have tried.  More importantly, at least they know I have tried.  If anyone has experience in this weird arena, it is one area of life where I am happy to listen to suggestions.
   Perhaps the best news here is that my bitterness is beginning to fade.  A renewed spiritual appetite is bringing to the surface lots of forgotten lessons, old wisdom, and timeless strength.  I feel hope.  5//10 points

   Item #4, Family Not Taken for Granted:  I am broken hearted and ashamed to admit that I allowed the summer stay too busy and too farm-centered to go visiting far-flung family as much as I would have liked.  There were a few “reasons,” of course. but in the hot light of honesty they boil down to excuses.  And compared to the intense love I feel for those I didn’t see enough, the reasons and excuses are pitiful.  I hope to make up for this in the coming cooler months.  Cozy up our hearts with treasured family members.  Cozy up theirs with appreciation for their love and patience.   1/10 points.

My results for Item #3 and Item #4 have me singing 
that Harry Chapin song, Cat’s in the Cradle.

   Item #5, Entertain Lushly Without Gaining Weight:  Umm, more or less…  I stayed the course.  I did not make any progress, which is weird considering how much time I spend on the elliptical machine and doing Pilates videos, but the farm was full full full of friends and loved ones nearly every week and weekend throughout the summer.  This means lots and lots and lots of amazing recipes and then indulgent leftovers for lunch several times a week.  Plus I kind of temporarily got myself hooked on heavy cream in my coffee instead of milk, so to end summer on a strong and healthy note is more than a small success.  9/10 points


From left to right, a fraction of one party’s spread:
Melissa’s Coconut-Lime Cake 
(under the plastic dome in this shot, which is a pity because it is BEAUTIFUL)
Tabbouleh Salad (addictive) and Tina’s Mexican Casserole (WOW).

   Item #6, Tenth Wedding Anniversary:  It was amazing.  Just lovely, both in terms of worldly adventure and emotional, intimate celebration.  Handsome and I have weathered a lot of storms in our time as a couple, some of our own making and others definitely not, and I expect there will be many more in the future.  That’s life.  But this milestone anniversary was one for the record books, and I was ready for our trip early.  EARLY.  I had the house clean, my bags packed, my phone calls made, and my hair washed and combed BEFORE time to go.  I was even wearing deodorant.  He nearly fainted from the shock.  10/10 points



You are so welcome, groom of mine, 
for beckoning that Mariachi band over to our seaside table
and then urging you with my eyebrows to tip him 
generously for their anniversary serenade,
knowing you had no small bills in your wallet.
And knowing how much you loathe Mariachi bands.
I love you so.


   Item #7, Writing Regularly:  If you are a writer of anything and you too feel the physical need to write, then you can identify with the cleansing sensation you enjoy when you abide that craving.  You can also appreciate the clogginess that comes from NOT writing.  I am happy to report that this summer I spent more time churning out words than I have in years.  The funny thing is that by writing I felt motvated to do everything else in life better and more passionately.  My mind was more alert; I had better ideas (some would call them GENIUS), and I could focus and spend time more joyfully,  having already satisfied that weird itch.  10/10 points

   Item #8, Farm Contributions:  This one is tricky to evaluate, but I am going to go with ” marginal success” because of one very particular afternoon in July when Handsome got down-to-brass-tacks-confetti-worthy A-N-G-R-Y at me for lifting a truck bed full of horse grain into the feed bins.  It is NOT a difficult job; it sounds a lot harder than it actually is.  But let’s just say that I could have done that one job and no other work all summer long and he STILL would have been chagrined.  9/10 points


For the record, Chunk-Hi and I are the only farm residents 
who fully appreciate the random joy of confetti.
It’s always a party, but it’s a quiet party.
Just the two of us, crusted in paper bits and enjoying life.

   Item #9, Not Cheating at Book Club:  Despite the fact that last-page glimpsing is a healthy life practice, I did not cheat and pre-read the end of any of our books.  Not even once.  I read them all in the normal front-to-back fashion, with the excepotion of The Shack, which I didn’t finish at all.  
   The day of that particular Book Club discussion dinner, I was trying to skim and cram in the remaining pages as the ladies were arriving, setting out their beautiful sweets and savories and colorful bottled drinks.  But the material proved to be too rocky for me then.  Oh well.  Book Club is fantastic, and I am so glad to have these women and this practice in my life right now!  More on that soon!  8/10 points



   Item #10, Self Loathing:  UGH.  It’s been a learning curve.  My life is amazing.  Truly.  Even the hardest parts are brimming with learning opportunities, mercy, and happy surprises.  I do not deserve all of these blessings, but I am working on making the most of it all and trying not to mess everything up.  Wish me some luck.  10/10 points

   So, overall, I am 82% to goal for Summer 2011.  
Funny, because my heart feels a lot better 
than just eighty-two percent full.  
xoxoxoxoxo

The Neglected Chef Foibles: Part Two

  Caleb picked at his stitches, trying to chase away the itchiness by scratching only the outer edges of raw, swollen flesh.  That never works for more than three seconds.  The palm of his hand was puffy and a bit tight, almost hard right at the wound.  Ugly black nylon stitches jutted angrily out of his hand like stiff whiskers of a scurvy pirate. 

   What a dull turn this story had taken.  He swallowed another antibiotic pill with the remains of his glass of warm, flat Sprite, shoveled some Dorito crumbs into his mouth, and settled back into the couch for some channel surfing.

   Last week his Mom had attended a Pampered Chef party.  She was only gone for a few hours, but that was long enough to leave the family at home dependent on pizza delivery for dinner.  Afterwards he had overheard her describing to Dad all of the elaborate sales tactics used by the demonstrator.  Together they had ridiculed the way people try to frighten each other into making unnecessary purchases.  If you don’t order this, something terrible will surely happen.  If you don’t order that, you will be wasting your time using traditional cooking methods.  If you don’t host a party, you may as well resign yourself to financial destruction, etc, etc.
   In particular, Mom had commented on the strong push being heaved behind a can opener that was supposed to leave smooth edges on your cans and lids.  The importance of such a product had completely eluded his shopper-savvy mother, despite the dramatic finger-swiping demonstrations at the party. 
   “It’s not like they’re walking on red hot coals or a pile of broken glass!”  Caleb’s parents had chortled together like playground bullies.
   “Sheep,” they were fond of muttering in such conversations, adult eyes rolling in cool condescension.
   Sitting on the couch now, watching Nickelodeon reruns and feasting on remnants of pantry junk food instead of skateboarding with his friends, Caleb reflected on the cruel sense of humor being displayed by the universe. 
   Exactly one day after the Pampered Chef party, his Mom had spent an entire afternoon in the kitchen making Hello Dolly cookie bars.  A gathering of culinary friends always put her in the mood to whip up something yummy and old fashioned.  For this recipe she needed lots of special ingredients, including a can of sweetened, condensed milk, which she had opened with her old, hand crank steel can opener. 
   This would become a fated decision.
   She surely would have disposed of the can and its now free hanging, rough edged lid in the trash can.  Nothing unusual about this, of course, but it’s funny how the otherwise mundane details of a fated event become overly sharp and focused in retrospect.
   Like always, at the end of the evening Caleb’s job was to take the kitchen trash to the blue bin outside.  He often needed prodding, and this night was no exception.  Mom was finishing up the day’s dishes, hands submerged almost up to her elbows in sudsy water, when she called him into the kitchen.
   He dragged himself stubbornly away from the computer and limped like Frankenstein’s monster into the kitchen.
   Before tending to the garbage, he peeled away one more warm, gooey Hello Dolly from the glass pan.  (Also not a Pampered Chef product, it bears mentioning.)  Still washing dishes, Mom playfully scolded him for this theft and demanded a kiss on her cheek as payment.  He leaned in and sort of kissed her limply, sort of groaned at the silliness, and swallowed the sweet treat whole.
   Then he turned his attention to the trash can.
   It glowed with strange color, almost pulsing, an eery light of doom and warning.
   He did his best to shake off the bad feeling, silently wondering if it’s true that he watches too many scary movies.
   Caleb took three steps to the lidded silver trash can and felt doom course cold and fast through his veins.  He removed the lid, gathered up the edges of the plastic liner, and heaved it out of the can.  Everything seemed to be normal so he just let the stinky burden of garbage spin in the air, thereby twisting the bag shut and earnign him one more scolding from Mom.
   “That stinks!  Stop playing with that and get it outside!”  Despite the barking words, she smiled.
    Rolling his eyes just as he had learned from his parents, the teenaged boy slumped his way out of the kitchen and into the night.  He made his way towards the blue trash bin where his plastic delivery was destined to land.  Upon lifting it to drop it, something swiped his opposite hand sharp and swift.
   “OUUWWWCH!!!  What the…?!”  He dropped the vanilla-scented trash bag, and the contents spilled out chaotically onto the brick pathway.  He strained in the dark to see what had happened.  The palm of his hand felt an incredible stinging pain immediately, and in the moonlight he could see that a long, curved line of blood was beginning to seep through his white flesh.
   He howled and screamed for his Mom, who was already running outside, drying her hands on a cotton tea towel.  “Caleb, oh my God, what happened?”
   “Something cut me!  I’m bleeding!”
   “Let me see, are you alright?”  She grabbed his forearm and inspected his hand with a mix of a mother’s love and a physician’s expertise.  “What cut you?  You’re bleeding!”
    More eye rolling.
   She was about to lead her son, already three inches taller than her at the age of fourteen, back into the house for first aid attention and possibly a hand transplant right there in the dining room.  But something caught her eye and froze her in her steps.
   A gleaming disk of steel had been kicked free from the garbage pile and now shimmered in the silver light and spun its way to a resting spot on the brick path before them.  Cicadas and owls stopped their night songs to listen to the metallic noise.
   It was the lid from her sweetened condensed milk.  All color drained from her face as the string of relevant events flashed in her mind like a taunting slideshow of maternal failure.  I didn’t buy the smooth edge can opener.  I made fun of the woman for trying to entice me.  I baked that dessert with pride, not love.  I scold my son too much.  My thighs are touching.  Now Caleb will need stitches and maybe a hand transplant because of me.  Am I out of Scentsy?  He’s gonna need a tetanus shot for sure.

   “Mom!  This really hurts!”  Her son’s panicky voice snapped her out of the downward spiraling reverie, and she  sprinted to action.
   The rest of the night had been spent at the emergency room, evaluating and cleaning the wound, getting a tetanus shot, and enduring stitches from a nurse who clearly did not want to be at work.  Caleb was prescribed antibiotics and sent home with instructions to keep his hand clean, leave the stitches alone, and return in a week for further evaluation.  
   So far a transplant was not in order.  But as he fumbled through getting himself ready for bed that night, Caleb had overheard his mother placing a telephone order for a Pampered Chef smooth edge can opener.

   She had never been a woman to make the same mistake twice.

   I wonder what’s on HBO today.

   

In Praise of Gimmicks

   I am an admitted sucker for neatly packaged, pre-organized, easily translatable remnants of knowledge that some people might call gimmicks.  Especially if they rhyme.  Not that full bodies of information or complete works of literature are lost on me; I just have a subterranean appetite for smaller doses of wisdom that can be absorbed and digested in a flash.  
   Same goes for quotes, especially when they are credited to people who have already earned my admiration. Like Albert Einstein.  I do try to make note people who have been quoted and seem worth a revisit then try to measure their full spectrum of opinion or experience against sturdier belief systems already in place.
   Why such a sucker?  Because life gets busy, baby, and my mind gets distracted.  And I cannot afford to waste even a little bit of my limited brain power by NOT learning something or motivating myself to do something.  I also get bored easily in my relative isolation, so shaking things up with fresh perspectives and newer incarnations of the same good stuff just does my soul a favor.
   My love affair with gimmicks started young.  I would never have learned where is east and where is west without once being taught that you EAT with your EAST hand (assuming you are right handed, I suppose).  And the notes on a treble clef?  The spaces are, from the bottom, F–A–C–E and, for the lines, Every Good Boy Does Fine.  (Or Fart, depending on whether my piano teacher was within earshot.)
  For a more recent example, cardio.  There will always be running and elliptical machines and jump ropes and trampolines, but I saw on Pinterest the neatest little poster outlining a 20-minute cardio routine I just had to try.  My fancy was tickled.  Anything can be endured for twenty minutes, right?  And this workout could be done in a hotel room sans equipment, sans judgmental audience, and sans push ups, which are from the devil.

    For the record, I did actually try this both yesterday and today.  Well, I completed almost two thirds of this both times, repeating the cycle not quite thrice.  It is more difficult in the flesh than it is on the computer screen, but that’s a good thing, right?  It got my heart pumping wildly in a very short period of time, and I didn’t have to leave the security and privacy of my hotel room.  I jumped immediately into the shower and called it a day.
   Another excellent find is always anything that will boil down my thoughts and get me to focus.  Are you like me, prone to melancholy over old hurts or losses, unsolvable problems, or possible future catastrophes?  That stuff is paralyzing, man.  And wasteful of our abundance in the present moment.  Shake it off and admit what you’re doing to yourself.
   
I personally found this on Pinterest then looked and looked for the original source,
but the best I could find was that it was on an unidentified Tumblr slideshow.  
Kudos and sincere thanks to the original writer!  You got my attention.

   With regard to actual literature, the sources of inspiration are endless.  I have my online reading lists and my friends’ lists; my sister’s friend Julia who is also now my friend, who works as a literary publicist and feeds me titles like they were solid gold sunflower kernels; and my fellow book clubbers.  (Our Oklahoma book club has grown from four to eighteen women, all filled with excellent ideas about what to devour next)  Feeding off of the recommendations of trustworthy, vastly interesting women has become a beloved source of inspiration for me.  Yes, some of this is a bit gimmicky, but who cares?  Not me.
  
   This week at the zoo I saw a series of small, wooden signs bearing the same quote over and over again, and the message has been echoing in my heart in a very genuine, movement-begging way.  Here it is paraphrased, because I failed to snap a photo and I cannot find it on the internet:
“No one makes a greater mistake
than he who does nothing only because
he thinks he can do very little.”
-Unknown
   I believe the context there was animal conservancy, but of course we can choose to apply it at will to any situation where action is needed.  Even though the delivery was gimmicky (about two dozen matching wooden signs strewn along a landscaped pathway), the effect is real.
   I guess all I’m saying today is that if you are drawn to appetizers of knowledge now and then, don’t feel guilty about it; let it fuel you!  And let it prompt a healthy intellectual menu.  Use the thinky calories and nutrients you scrape up from all over this beautiful world to improve your life and deepen and enrich your experiences.  As long as gimmicky snippets are only part of your nourishment, not the whole of what you ingest, I bet you’re okay.   You have nothing to regret in surfing and collecting and reading and observing.

What gimmicky wisdom have you enjoyed lately?
Where do you look for quick inspiration?
   
  

The Neglected Chef Foibles: Part One

Easy Read Slant Sided Measuring Bowls
   If not for her chiropractor appointment today, she might be outside gardening.  The day is perfect for it.  The sun is bright but not hot.  The breeze is gentle.  Last night’s rain has already loosened the weeds and eliminated the need to irrigate.  I could get straight to grooming the tomato plants and harvesting some basil.

   But no.  She had been to a Pampered Chef party earlier in the month and unwittingly altered her immediate future.  She enjoyed the socializing of course but resisted sales pitch after sales pitch, inwardly congratulating herself for her sustained frugality.

   Among other things, she declined purchasing the easy read measuring cups.  She just had to insist that her regular glass measuring bowls, the traditional upright Pyrex kind with red measurement lines on the side, were all she needed for measuring liquids.

  Today she regrets that pridefulness.  

  Last Wednesday was her sister’s birthday, and per tradition she had determined to bake a short cake and deliver it with fresh strawberries.  Premeasured dry ingredients sat in an orderly row across her smooth, clean countertop.    A cake pan was buttered and dusted with flour, awaiting the lumpy, delicious batter.  The oven dial had been twisted to preheat to 350 degrees.  Her apron was tied neatly around her ample middle.  John Phillip Sousa was playing in the living room.

   She had positioned her very old and well used two-cup Pyrex glass measuring bowl on the kitchen counter to pour in buttermilk.  She took one step back and leaned forward to get a close up view of the fluid level (the buttermilk should be measured precisely, after all).  The red lines had faded over the years, and the glass was a bit clouded by time and heavy use, so she had to step back further still and lean in even more closely to focus on the 1 ½ cup mark.  This put her in an unnatural position with her rump more in the air than it usually is, and without warning she felt something catch in her lower back.
   A knifing sensation on either side of her spine, a shooting numbness up her back, and then sudden and extreme immobility brought the cake baking to a complete halt.  Buttermilk exploded all over the kitchen while she crumpled gracelessly and face first to the floor.

   As she surprised herself with cursing and writhed in pain on the kitchen floor now slick with buttermilk, the oven beeped its cheerful arrival at the needed baking temperature of 350 degrees.  It would sit, preheated but empty, oblivious to the drama, for the rest of the evening until her husband would exhaustedly stumble in for a midnight snack and notice the lone red light signaling readiness.  He would twist the dial back to “off.”  Mission aborted.  Oven unfulfilled.

   It had been a humiliating phone call to make, reporting that she had fallen and may have broken her back while measuring buttermilk.  But her dutiful husband had of course rushed home from work and taken her immediately to the emergency room.  There, she had to reexperience the accident nine or ten more times to different nurses and physicians with clipboards.  More than one younger, slightly more elastic woman had to restrain smiles of either pity or unfeeling laughter, it was hard to tell.

   Her back was not broken, but she was seriously injured.  Her jaw bone and right shoulder were bruised, too.

   If only she had shelled out the money at that Pampered Chef party for the slanted-sides measuring bowls!  The extra expense seemed too large at the time, wasteful even considering her arsenal of Pyrex sitting at home.  But now, seeing the hundreds of dollars being paid to the chiropractor’s office for back adjustments, to the pharmacy for muscle creams, and to fast food restaurants for take out dinner because she is in too much pain to cook for her husband, a trip back in time to buy those Pampered Chef mixing bowls would fix everything and save a small fortune.

   But to the injury tending she returns, and her garden sits, unattended, becoming slowly reclaimed by the wild.  The tomatoes will rot on the vine, she thinks.
   Across the street her neighbor is drinking iced tea on her own front porch, enjoying a perfectly manicured lawn and a thoroughly weeded flower bed.  I bet she ordered the easy read measuring cups.

Dive Right In

Not too awful much to say right this minute.
Just a little encouragement to enjoy your life.
Whatever your task, whatever your burden, 
whatever meal you find on your table,
even if it is just good, sweet hay,
and even you find it on your head, not the table…
Enjoy it to the best of your ability.
Life is good, and is passes by too quickly 
when we wish away the difficult days or the mundane moments.
Soak it up.  Get messy.  Be happy.  Count your blessings.
Pass it on.