Sunday Scribblings #97 Fridge Space

I’m not exactly complaining, you understand. If the ladies at work were to read this, they would have my head and for good reason. I know that my Sweet Baboo is just about the most perfect man on the face of the earth. They tell me — often, and with passion, that by comparison, I live with — well, someone who is very nearly perfect.

But — he leaves 3 or 4 spoonfuls of whatever is left over from a meal in each heavy duty plastic container in the fridge. When I pull one out to put it into a smaller container (I’m all about downsizing and simplifying, let me tell you) he will say, “oh, don’t bother honey, I’m going to eat that in a couple of minutes.” But then he doesn’t. Well, sometimes he does.

Or he will put a pork chop on an open plate without a cover in the fridge. Just as I’m about to put it into a container with a cover so it won’t dry out, “oh, don’t bother honey…….”.

Or I will pull out a container that has something unrecognizable in it, and just before I can throw it away, “oh, don’t bother honey……”

All kinds of wasted space in the fridge. All made by this wonderful man. That I wouldn’t trade for all the unwasted space in the world.

And this is the same man who stacks the hamburger patties and chicken breasts and frozen veggies in nice, neat little stacks, oldest on top always, in the freezer. Jeesh.

Not that I’m complaining. Really. Why would I complain?

If you have an opinion on fridge space check out Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings #96 - Foul

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CLICK HERE FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS #98 SLEEP

I MESSED UP ROYALLY WITH MR LINKY THIS WEEK!!

 

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clipped from wbztv.com Boy’s Library Rape Sparks New Sex Offender Debate BOSTON (WBZ) ― The rape this week of a 6-year-old boy in a public library has reignited debate over a state law allowing sexually dangerous predators to be locked up indefinitely after completing their prison terms. The suspect in the boy’s assault was a convicted child rapist who was released about a year ago by a judge over the objections of prosecutors and three psychologists who said he was dangerous and would likely strike again.

This is a story about a real and truly foul and depraved piece of scum. What’s worse, the little boy’s mom was not very far away and yet this piece of garbage with no conscience had no problem destroying this little boy. Had I been the mother, there would have been very little left for the police to take into custody. If you would like to finish reading the article (which I wasn’t able to do) click here. I hope you have a strong stomach. There was a picture included with the article, but I would not include it with this post. After all, this post is not exclusively about him but it is about he and all of the others like him in the world.

When are the judges and lawyers of this sick world going to realize that once a person is a pedophile, there IS NO WAY TO REFORM THEM!!!! Say it again, more loudly this time. THERE IS NO WAY TO REFORM THEM!!! They will say whatever needs to be said so that they can get out and offend again. Sadly, the people in power are so far out of touch that they cannot put themselves into the victim’s shoes to see what their lives are really like. They are indifferent and pompous. By not locking these atrocious bastards up, they are in their own way as dangerous as these pedophiles.

It’s nothing less than common sense to seek out a cure for a person who is sick. I have the perfect cure for this type of maggot’s affliction. I don’t know why it hasn’t been thought of before.

Strip the maggot. Sit him on the floor of a vacant building. Nail the offending appendage to the floor with a ten penny spike. Make that two. Pour gasoline all through the building. Hand him a rusty spoon. Walk away. Drop a lit match into the gasoline just as you exit the building. Let him make the decision. Problem solved one way or the other. Screw his civil rights.

Sunday Scribblings #95 — Miscellaneous

A couple of months ago, I was knitting and just kind of letting my mind run. It found all of these memories of living with my grandparents lurking in the corners that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. It’s strange how one memory can piggyback another. After 3 or 4 memories had passed and it seemed that more were coming, I started writing them down before I lost them again. The prompt from Sunday Scribblings this week seemed to be the perfect backdrop for these miscellaneous memories. Please pardon any sentimental sighing that you might hear.

…There was a very old three section freezer in the woodshed which was attached to the back of the house. . The center section was the one where Nanny froze her apples that she would use during the winter to make apple betty. I also remember my sister eating the apples frozen. UGH!

…Nanny would make red jello in clear glass footed dishes as a treat for us when we got home. There were four of them. If she put the dishes too close to the square freezer section in her fridge, the tops of the jello would ice over.

…My sister liked to eat oleo and sugar sandwiches. Also crushed ice, because she had tonsillitis often as a child. I remember Nanny putting 2 or 3 ice cubes into a washcloth and then pounding it with a hammer on the floor of the pantry.

…After watching cartoons all morning, our Saturday lunch was always pancakes spread with oleo and sprinkled with brown sugar, then rolled up into a tube shape and eaten.

…Grandpa had a ham hanging in the woodshed. He had a special saw that he woulduse to cut off a steak or two for supper. At least I think hope it was a special saw.

…Nanny had a little egg poacher saucepan. I was pretty sure she was the only person in the world with this kind of saucepan.

…Grandpa had a small milk can (about a foot tall) that he would take to the farm (owned by our uncle) and fill with raw milk. He would also bring home eggs in a special basket that was used just for that purpose.

…Nanny brushing her teach with baking soda — there was a spot on the corner of the sink counter in the pantry where she would sprinkle it, then tap her brush bristles into it.

…Sunday night shower — standing on the toilet seat cover after and being powdered with a poofy powder puff, then having our fingernails cut with Nanny’s little cuticle scissors.

…Nanny’s red dish drainer. Also, her vacuum cleaner that she kept in a cupboard in the kitchen.

…The smell of Grandpa’s pipe and how it made his clothing smell.

…Grandpa’s cud of chewing gum that he would chew for a bit almost every night, thenput it back on the chair rail of the wainscoting beside his chair in the living room. Yeah, I know — kind of gross to think about.

…My sister and I taking turns sitting in Nanny’s blue speckled enamel colander and spinning in it on the linoleum in the kitchen.

…There was a small hot water heater to heat water for the kitchen and pantry. If you wanted to take a shower, you had to light the heater behind the stove that was attached to a big silver painted hot water tank in the kitchen. When the water was warm half way up the tank, it was warm enough to take a shower.

…Nanny and Grandpa had a small morning stove in the kitchen, next to the gas stove. It had two grates on top that could be lifted off in order to put wood inside. Grandpa put a big piece of wood in first, then some crumpled up newspaper, then some thin strips of cedar, then lit it.

There are more, but I’ve nattered on long enough about the good old days of the 50’s and 60’s. But such good memories!!! And of course, there are a lot more that I could list, but I’ve held you hostage on this subject long enough for one day. Thanks for sticking with me through to the end of this little blurb.

After re-reading this, most of these memories seem to center around food. Anybody know what that might mean? I’d be interested in hearing any ideas.

If you would like read more about any and all things miscellaneous, click here for Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings #94 Fellow Traveler

Sometimes the Sunday Scribblings prompt brings a story to mind immediately. Others, like this prompt, take a bit of mulling over. This is what I mulled while knitting.

I do not know the name of or what I should call my Fellow Traveler. My FT has been with me since the day I was born and will be with me until I die. I think everyone, to one extent or another, has a similar FT in their lives.

You see, I am not a fan of organized religion. It’s a wonderful thing for other people and I would never condemn their worshiping in what they believe. I admire their confident faith in their God/Allah/Jehovah. But it’s not for me. Tried several, found all to be wanting for one reason or another, finally decided to go in another direction. Not that I am an atheist, however. That word just grates on my nerves. Agnostic would be a better term. And I am a nice Agnostic.

I think of myself as a spiritual person. I believe in something, but I’m not sure what it is. I try always to do the correct thing, not just the easy. I try to be a good person, pass on good feelings to other people, be dependable and reliable. I believe that my FT is the reason that I am as good a person as I am. I also believe that being the best person I can be and making the best decisions that I can make is something that comes from within me, with probably more than a little suggestion from my FT, who is always nudging me in the right direction.

Thank you, Fellow Traveler.

If you would like read more about Fellow Travelers, click here for Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings #87 - Walk

It’s amusing how one word can free associate into a memory.

I have lived in Connecticut since 1980, roughly half my life. I’ve come to think of it as home, but I also think of my life before 1980 as “back home”. The truth is, I really miss back home — especially the Adirondack Mountains. Growing up, they were just always there and I didn’t think much of them. You could always see them if you looked “up south” as my grandfather used to say.

I always had a hard time explaining to Sweet Baboo why I loved it parts of it so much up there, when there were also a lot of parts that I hated. The weather in the winter was abysmal (-35° was not an unusual temperature in January), the area was not near any kind of cultural or educational complexes, the nearest interstate highway was about 45 miles away, family issues.

All of that aside, one of my favorite places was Lake Meacham, smack dab in the middle of the Adirondack Park. My grandparents spent their summers there — the lake area was being developed back in the ’60’s and Grandpa worked there clearing land and building campsites and picnic tables to go with them. It was a place that had no bad memories for me. My worst memory of the lake was that 9 times out of 10 when I visited my grandparents, it rained. For the entire week I was there. For several years. No kidding.

Ten years ago, my graduating high school class had a class reunion. Sweet Baboo and I decided that we would bring our camping gear and stay at Lake Meacham, since he had heard so much about it from me. I warned him that it would rain. And it did.

We attended the reunion, then headed back up south to our campsite after we had picked up some coffee to go. At least that night, it wasn’t raining. It was actually clearing!

Arriving at the lake, I told SB that we should go for a walk. We walked slowly down the road, sipping our coffee and talking softly to each other. We veered onto a path that would take us down to the lake. A flashlight badly in need of a charged battery lit our way. Sort of. We held onto each other so as not to fall, because there is no place darker than an Adirondack lake when there is no moon. Moments later, we came out of the trees and onto the little sand beach that surrounds the lake. Looking up, SB saw the Milky Way clearly for the first time. No moon, no clouds and the star canopy reached down to the horizon. You could practically hear the stars twinkling. I believe the words “wow” and “incredible” were used extensively that night. And now, because he and I took that little walk, he understands part of what it is that I miss from the ‘Dacks.

 

 

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Sunday Scribblings #86 — Misspent (aka Frittered) Youth

I do prefer the word frittered to misspent. I sometimes stutter and the word misspent just won’t roll off my tongue.

So. Did I fritter away my youth? I really think so. I have to own up to a few good chunks of frittering. Making the right decisions was not something I did easily.

The facts:

1. My friends were a partying bunch. Underage drinking but no drugs, thankfully. I suppose I could have tried being friends with kids farther up the food chain, but it was easier to just coast along with the friends that I had. I would consider that frittering.
2. I took very careful aim and shot myself in the foot repeatedly in school. Activities that would have been good for my self esteem were largely ignored by me, usually for some boy or other. Not just frittering — brainless frittering.
3. I settled for a high school diploma and did not pursue higher education. Major frittering accomplished for sure.
4. I married the first guy who asked me in order to escape my home situation. Bad choice topped off by even more bad choices, because I stayed with him for 20 years. A glittering frittering achievement. (Oooo, poetry!!)

Can you hear the violins? Oh, the drama!!

You can only work with what you have and in my defense, I had a lot of strikes against me. Home was not the sanctuary that it should be, and school was difficult to say the least. I was your garden variety of female teenage hormones tied up with zero self esteem and no role models to look up to.

Do you believe that the end justifies the means? Of course I made bad decisions. Most teenagers do and I do regret a few. I wanted friends around me to make me feel safe so I drifted when it was certainly possible that I could have worked harder and improved my life. I was lucky that I didn’t make any decisions that could have done me bodily harm. (Someday I will post a couple of stories of very near misses that I was lucky enough to dodge.) I had a couple of friends in high school that weren’t that lucky.

And I DO like who I am now. The journey to get here wasn’t so great but without all that
wreckage following me around, I don’t know what kind of person I would be. Looking back now and whining over what might have been but for better choices would clearly be frittering my time away. I prefer to look at it, reflect upon it all briefly, then put it all away and have a nice hot, cup of coffee. Mmmm.

If you would like read more about misspent/frittered youth, click here for Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday Scribblings #85 “I Carry”

I am an avowed bagaholic and I am not ashamed. I carry bags within bags within bags. You should see my biceps.

For work every day, I carry a leather handbag containing my wallet, a small bag of pharmaceuticals (all legal), 3 pens, a pocket sized Moleskine, my car keys, my for emergencies only cell phone, the odd pack of gum or mints, and the price tag of the bag from TJ Maxx.

I also brown bag my lunch, but in an effort to save a tree, I carry a lunchbag large enough to contain a Lean Cuisine, yogurt, an apple, a banana, and a Power Bar, plus the TJ Maxx price tag.

I also go absolutely everywhere with my latest knitting project because you never know when there may be a few minutes to kill, so that’s a third bag containing my yarn and pointy sticks, plus just about every notion a knitter could need, and of course, the price tag of the bag from Hallmark.

All 3 of these bags go into a humungous tote bag that a friend of mine picked up for me years ago. Plus a book or two. Everything fits quite nicely, although it probably weighs 20 lbs.

I almost forgot — there are the days that I stop at the gym on the way home from work, so that’s yet another bag full of workout clothing and sneakers, plus the TJ Maxx price tag.

It’s difficult if not downright impossible to make a longterm commitment on something that you hope will be an enduring part of your life. I’ve purchased many bags that I thought were exactly what I wanted, but once I got them home and had a chance to see how everything fit, I realized that it wasn’t what I needed at all. So I keep my price tags, even after I have finally made that final, final decision on the exact bag that I need. Because you just never know when what you thought you wanted was not what you needed at all.

Decisions in life and relationships are alot like that, don’t you think? If only we could just save the price tags and exchange them like I am able to do with my bags.

For more essays on “I Carry” at Sunday Scribblings, click here!!

Sunday Scribblings #84 Left & Right

Awhile back I had made some vague references to our cat with the promise that someday I would post more about her. This Sunday Scribblings prompt was perfect for this post.

2 left, 2 right, 2 left, 2 right, 2 left, 2 right…….

No, I have not finally dropped my basket. This is how our cat Sadie Mae walks. The term for her gait is pacing. She moves her left front and back feet forward as one, then her right front and back feet forward as one. Thud, thud, thud…… literally, that’s what it sounds like when she walks. It’s not the most graceful way of moving, but it gets her where she wants to go. We call it “kerflunking”.

She has problems figuring out where her food is (she sniffs around for a few seconds before she finally locates where the bowl is — ditto with her water) and if you hold a treat out for her to eat, she usually has to dig her claws into your hand in order to find it.

Also — when she walks, her tail does not move. If you watch a cat, their tail is usually moving all over the place — balancing, sensing, and letting its owner know what it’s mood is. Sadie’s is usually in the shape of a sort of question mark hook that always curls to the right. I think it’s a very apt look for a cat like her.

Have you ever seen a cat lay down? Most cats just kind of stretch and ooze onto the floor. It’s a very graceful movement. Not our Sadie. Sadie doesn’t have a graceful movement. When she decides that she wants to lay down, she falls over on her side, usually with an accompanying “ooof”. We call it flumping.

Watching her run is a treat. It’s the hardest thing to explain. She either walks or runs full tilt. Because she doesn’t have a lot of control over her back legs, she’s not aware of how much strength she actually has, and when she pushes off to run, her back end tends to start coming around. Her back end will swing from left to right to left to right with each push. Very bizarre. Sweet Baboo calls it “jack rabbitting”.

The reason for all of this strange behavior is that Sadie’s mother contracted distemper when she was pregnant. All of the other kittens in the litter were fine, but Sadie was afflicted with Cerebellar Hypoplasia. Because of her mother’s distemper, Sadie’s cerebellum was damaged (the part of the brain that controls balance and coordination) and since there is no cure for this disorder, Sadie will always have coordination, balance, and spatial problems. It’s fine with her tho — she doesn’t think that there is anything wrong with her!!

When we adopted Sadie, the lady at PetPals told us about her disability. We had just lost another tuxedo and wanted another one. We just fell in love with her on the spot and I think that we’ve taken good care of her. Other than her disorder, her life is otherwise happy. We’re lucky that she has the mild case that she has. Other cats have tremors and even less control than Sadie does. She manages to hunt and catch birds/mice/snakes (UGH!!) just like other cats and also bring home “meals” for us. We’re lucky to live in an area where there are no dogs and few other cats, plus we live at the end of a dead end street so traffic goes very slowly. Yes, it is indeed good to be Sadie. She’s more fun to watch than cable TV plus she’s given us all of these neat words to add to our vocabulary!!!

Sunday Scribblings #80 Money

I am finally at a point now where money is not the most important thing in my life. I am so very, very grateful for this. As we all know, up to a certain age, things are so very, very important to a person. I always envied people that were perfectly happy with what they had, no matter how much or how little, because I always seemed to want more and more. Now that I am in a stable and loving relationship, I do not feel the need for additional things so much anymore.

My sister and I brought each other up in a family situation where we were excluded from the main nucleus, which included our mother, step father and the wonderful half sister. (Sounds all very Cinderella-ish, doesn’t it?) Sister and I lived all of our teenage years on the fringe of that “family”, not having any material extras except what we could provide for ourselves through babysitting jobs. This kind of atmosphere does not encourage healthy emotional growth. Self esteem and self confidence were two things in which we were sadly lacking. I tried to make up for this lacking by buying “things”, hoping to fill that void.

We could have probably done very well, even without the material extras, if we could have been included in the approval and love that they lavished on the step sister. But — being not terribly instinctive people, they thought that if they allowed “their child” to do anything and everything that she wanted to do, and if they bought anything and everything that “their child” wanted, that they were being good parents. “Their child” didn’t have parents, she had 2 walking talking wallets with money falling out of them.

Sister and I both have had failed marriages. We had no role model to look to for guidance. We were so desperate for love and attention, we made very bad choices. Even so, we remained close and buoyed each other up, offering consolation and advice to each other when needed. Since we lived so many states apart, our phone bills were probably pretty high, but we needed each other because that’s all we had ever had. Finally, we both grew emotionally to a point where we knew we had to end our marriages in order to have any kind of peace in our lives. We did all of this ourselves, without help from other quarters. We learned enough together to make excellent choices in men the second time around.

The half sister married and had children. Half sister has no problem asking for money/material things from her parents, so mother of course spends an inordinate amount of money on those grandchildren. Hmmm, I wonder if she knows that she has 3 other grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren?

So — who had it better? The child given money and attention without question, who never had to fight or work for anything? What kind of message was sent to her? That her life will be rainbows and pots of gold? Or the other two sisters, who paid their own ways through life, both monetarily and emotionally, knowing that even though it was the harder path, it was the right way?

After re-reading this post, it almost seems like I am trying to manipulate you into feeling sorry for the two sisters. This is very much not the case. The two sisters are happier now than they have been in years, and have left as much of that other life behind as is possible. If you must feel distressed, direct it toward the step sister — she hasn’t grown up at all, thanks to her parent’s “money”.

Sunday Scribblings #80 - First Job, Worst Job, Dream Job

I don’t think there’s a rule that a person can’t write the Sunday Scribblings out of order. This one, which I did not respond to when it was first posted, piqued my interest.

I’ve had 6 jobs in my life, 2 of which I decided were not for me before the first week was out. In case you ever wondered, it gets easier to quit a second or third job if you can just get yourself through the first one. These are words that my sister and I live by.

FIRST JOB

My very first job was in 1972, working in a mail and printing room for a snowmobile distributor. I was fresh out of high school (actually, I started before I graduated) and as empty of self esteem and self confidence as it is for a 17 year old to be and still be able to function. I was hired as “temporary”, and as I looked back on it years later, that translated to “not being to enroll you in the insurance plan, but maybe next year we will be able to.” After finally getting my health insurance coverage (but only after invoking my father in law’s name, a sergeant in the State Police) I was eventually moved out of that position and into one in the shipping department. The powers that be then decided that my position was more in line with accounting than with shipping, so I was moved on over to that department, where my job came to an end just before my daughter was born in July of 1979. Not a pleasant ending, I was more or less blackmailed by them that if I didn’t report them to the authorities because they were firing a pregnant woman who had worked there 7 years, they would pay for my health insurance through the birth of Darling Daughter. This probably also would qualify as a worst job, but I really had one that was worse.

WORST JOB

After moving to CT, I started working for a textile company. The owner, at that time, was one mean SOB that really got off on playing head games. Lots of back handed compliments, changing the line in the sand constantly, you get the idea. I was still running on empty for self esteem and self confidence, so I put up with all of the crap. (Also, another fact that figures very strongly into my story, my then husband was what I like to call a job jumper. A grass is always greener type, he had no problem going to work happy one morning and then coming home that night and telling me he had quit. Having to be the responsible one, I stayed where I was because we needed health insurance and somebody had to be somewhat stable in that relationship.) And I was pretty good at stuff my feelings back then and I was forever telling myself that it wasn’t all that bad. Believe it or not, I spent the next 22 years of my life there!! The mean SOB softened a bit after a few years, then became a half way decent person the last few years. He sold the company just a couple years before I left and that’s when the ship pulled out of port. I really don’t want to turn this post into a pity party so the details will remain undisclosed. It’s enough to say that it got really ugly with the new owner.

DREAM JOB(S)

After leaving “Worst Job”, I had to get some perspective, so I decided that to keep my brain from turning to mush, I would clean out my closets and sell a few things on ebay. I have to say that I had a great experience with only a couple of people that screwed me over (I was selling alot of quilting and cross stitching related items so I think that those kinds of people are just a bit kinder and gentler.) My dream job would be to be able to make a nice living selling on ebay, but I also think that if I were to do that, it wouldn’t be as much fun.

So it’s funny how things work out. I have been in my current position (with just a few minor adjustments, mostly on my part) for just about 5 years now, and it wouldn’t be far from the truth to say that I am working my dream job. I just didn’t recognize it for what it was. At first, I was sure that it would end up with the 2 that I had quit previously after deciding that I was not comfortable in either of them. But I hung in there and there were major changes made for the first couple of years that turned the practice around 180° and made it the fabulous place that it is to work in today. It’s a job that I will be more than happy to continue with until it’s time for Sweet Baboo and I to start thinking about retirement.

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