Friday, November 26, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Black Friday!  It’s 7:30 am, and we’ve been up since 2, having just now gotten home, completely finished with our Christmas shopping, and boy it was cold camping in our tent outside of Best Buy this year.  Just kidding!  In truth, I haven’t been out shopping on the day after Thanksgiving since they started calling it Black Friday.  Used to be that the day after Thanksgiving was a fun day to shop, only because it was the official (or maybe it was unofficial) first day of the Christmas season.  Which was what made it exciting and fun.  We weren’t really hunting for bargains, just for the perfect gift.  It was lovely and had that sense of excitement because no one ever shopped for Christmas earlier than that.  Well, I suppose some people did—there have always been those strangely organized people who do all their shopping early—but most of us looked forward to those 4 or 5 weeks before Dec. 25 to immerse ourselves in the enjoyable hustle and bustle of shopping and snacking special Christmas-only treats and buying the tree.  Which, by the way, was not color-coordinated, but instead full of big lights and ornaments we loved, in every color imaginable.  Remember?  Some were lovely hideous handmade ones; some were old ones handed down from Grandma and Grandpa Eimers or McCormick, in my case; and a few were brand new ones we bought in a set at the drugstore.  Boy, there was nothing like it.  In fact, I still do it that way, pretty much.  And I still like a red and green Christmas, although I have gotten to really like some light dusty blue in there, too, in the last few years, for some reason.  Which is certainly a departure from tradition.  I mean, better to not totally live in the past.


Steph & Jim
Our Thanksgiving was quite nice this year.  In the morning, in what has become our Thanksgiving morning tradition, our kids/ grandkids Steph, Bobby and Stevie came over to hang out and then go walk at their old school near our house, while Jimmy got a chance to run like a wild boy.  You can hear his paws thundering as he flies past, and he’s so excited he’s often airborne as he chases the birds.  It’s a sight to see.  I, however, chose to be a martyr and stay home to slave in the kitchen this year, rather than doing any exercise on a holiday, for heaven’s sake.
Stevie
When they came back, Steve made eggs on the stovetop at the exact moment I was trying to put the bird (as Martha Stewart loves to call it) in the oven and then we ate breakfast way too late to be hungry for our 2pm dinner time.  First snag!


Steve & Bobby
And why was I slaving in the kitchen when I never ever make the Thanksgiving dinner?  (We always always always go somewhere else for Thanksgiving: my parents’ house, Steve’s brother’s house in Tucson, my brother’s house in Phoenix, to a restaurant with the family.)  But this year the stars aligned in a unique way and it was just Steve and me to be thankful at our own table.  Which meant it was my turn to do it all.  First time!  I was very excited to do it, but also a little anxious.  I kind of enjoy cooking, but hardly ever do it.  But I’d have to say it was a success!  The turkey turned out brown and beautiful.  But it was done an HOUR early, which I've never heard of happening and which threw everything off as you can imagine. (I mean, it was only supposed to cook for 3 hours total, so an hour early is pretty early, don’t you think?  I did.)  Anyway, I was prepared for it to take much longer than expected—that had certainly long been the tradition in my family growing up, when that damn button would never pop up.  But no, in the Chandler/Eimers oven, the button popped up and the temp read 190 (!) after only 2 hours.

But here I have to admit something.  I mis-identified my bird parts and thought the calf, if you will, was the thigh.  I didn’t really know birds had both a calf and a thigh.  So even though the directions very clearly said to put the thermometer in the thigh, I thought the leg was the leg.  Steve very kindly and off-handedly mentioned that he thought just maybe the thigh was the part underneath the drumstick.  So it did have to cook a bit longer--but not much.
Thank heaven for Steve, who exerts no pressure and would have been perfectly content to eat either early or late, without care.  He made potatoes and gravy and I made cornbread, roasted nuts, and avocado/black bean salad.  (I was going to make the pumpkin pie, too—which I have made before, many times--but in the grocery store on Wednesday it was so overwhelming trying to find the darn Eagle Brand condensed milk, and then I saw all those finished pies sitting there ready to eat looking just perfect, and realized they were the best idea I’d ever had.  So I bought two!  Cherry for me and pumpkin for Steve.)  The potatoes were supposed to be mashed, but we now know that we do not own a potato masher.  I suggested Steve just use a big fork, but he came up with an even better and definitely simpler option: boiled potatoes.  No mashing needed!  Or more importantly, no masher.
 

I had also planned, as an elegant before-dinner treat, to serve baked brie in puff pastry.  I was quite excited about it, having heard a very simple recipe on Martha Stewart Sirius radio last week and was all ready to go.  However, we had a little glitch in the system and that plan had to be aborted because (1) there was no time since the bird was done early, (2) we weren't really hungry since we’d just eaten breakfast an hour and half earlier, and (3) Steve put wet potatoes on top of the puff pastry that was thawing on the counter.  When I questioned, with horror, why my puff pastry was wet, he said, "What is that?  I put the potatoes on it.  I thought it was a towel."  There was no talking for quite some time after that in our kitchen.  And an unspoken agreement to skip the brie.  But in the end it all turned out just great, and the food was delicious and even beautiful to look at.  Very neat!

So the day turned out to be sort of lazily chaotic and very nice all around.  We finished the evening reading for a long while, then watching an episode of The #1 Ladies Detective Agency.  W never got to the dessert, but after Steve went to bed I had a piece of cherry pie all by myself, while finishing my book. Just right.

And now it’s Black Friday, and it’s time for another first.  We’re in “need” of a new flat screen big TV, so what better day to do it?  Wish us luck and pray we don't get trampled.

Bring on Christmas!

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Town

[Readers Beware:  Spoiler Alert!]

Steve and I went to see another movie.  The Town, with Ben Affleck.  I highly recommend it.  It’s a juicy one!  Ben Affleck is good.  The whole cast is good.  It’s got good writing, there’s fantastic tension, there are great characters, there’s a car chase that’s great not because of all the crashes, and it really grabs you and gets you involved.  My guess is it’ll be considered a good movie.  But those aren't the things I remember most about it.

I like to think I’m a principled gal.  I mean, I take stands on things.  Maybe not big issues, but still.  Like not shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch due to their (imo) sleazy ads that suggest inappropriate behavior to impressionable teens.  (Not a popular decision in my house, where suddenly everyone seems to want things from there—even Steve lists their men’s cologne as his all-time favorite).  Or never looking at the cars as I drive by an accident, on the theory that I wouldn’t want someone staring at me, or worse, my mom or dad, if they were in a bad way.  So before this movie started, we were treated to an ad—on the giant movie screen, mind you--for Calvin Klein men’s underwear.  It shows lots of hunky men, clad only in snug-fitting underwear, looking down, saying things like, “Do you wanna see my (bleep)?” (actual words bleeped in the ad) and “It’s all about the (bleeping) Calvins.”  And, “Hey, eyes up here.  You wanna see more?”  All accompanied by a provocative snap of the waistband.  I’m not making this up.  It was obscene and totally sleazy, all in the guise of being cool as ice.  How can this be okay?  It makes me crazy.  Crazy, I tell you.  So just before the movie started, I leaned over to Steve and whispered, “Now we have to boycott Calvin Klein.”  So I like to think I’m a principled gal who stands behind her beliefs. 

But after seeing this movie, I’m not feeling so smug about me and my ironclad principles.  Now that’s a good movie!

The lights go out, and the movie begins.  It’s a really moody movie about residents of a blue collar neighborhood outside of Boston where bank robberies and armored car heists are a way of life, where life is hard in the projects but it's even harder to get out, and generations have been following in the family footsteps, and those steps lead smack dab into the middle of a life of crime

Ben Affleck (“Doug”) and his buddies live in that neighborhood.  They’re bank robbers.  The movie opens with a spectacular bank heist, and we have front row seats.  Their plan comes off like clockwork, obviously prepared down to the smallest detail.  They wear masks, which means no one can identify them, which in turn means no one has to get killed.  (Heck, I support that.)  Just a simple robbery.  This is their standard M.O.  But this time around, there’s a hitch.  One of the thieves, who we later discover is a loose cannon who’s already done nine years in prison, loses control and attacks one of the bank employees.  One of his partners in crime stops him, but not before he also drags Claire, the lovely young bank manager, out with them to use as a hostage if necessary.  Luckily for Claire, it doesn’t become necessary, and they release her without her ever seeing their faces.  The masks, remember?

All is not fine for long, however.  Their certainty that Claire knows nothing becomes a bit shaky when they discover she lives just a few blocks from them, and they realize she may actually run into them from time to time.  Doug, being the natural leader, volunteers to discreetly check her out to determine whether she knows more than they (and she) think she does.  He follows her to the Laundromat, chats her up, and is relieved to see that no alarms are going off in her head as her clothes tumble.  But by time the last item is folded, the die has been cast:  not only does Doug realize the toll their little bank escapade has taken on her personally, but he is smitten.  He invites her out for a drink, she accepts and, well, you can guess the rest.  Doug and Claire become an item and fall in love, and all the while she has no idea who he really is.  

The story is intriguing; I was totally engrossed.  But here’s the fun part.  We’ve got bank robbers who violently rob a bank.  We’ve got an innocent working girl who falls for a nice guy—who just happens to be one of those bank robbers. We’re shown both sides of the law:  the law enforcement side, and the bank robbers side.  And which side did I land on in this moral dilemma?  On the side of the bank robbers.  The criminals.  The law-breakers.  I found myself wondering, What would I do if I fell for a criminal?  A bank robber.  A law-breaker.  I’d like to say, based on the principles I’ve always been so clear about, that I’d tell him I couldn’t become involved, that I can’t have that kind of choice happening in my life.  That maybe I’d even turn him in.  I mean, after all, he’s broken the law.  And that’s wrong, I’m pretty definite about that.  You don’t break the law.  And if you do, you take responsibility and accept the repercussions.  I always believed it’s a pretty clear line for me.  (Hey, I’ve had a speeding ticket or two in my time, and I’ve never tried to talk anyone out of it; I did it, I get the ticket.  Simple stuff.)

But here I was, rooting for the bank robber without hesitation.  Rooting against that darn wily FBI guy.  I did not want Doug to get caught.  I didn’t want Claire to turn him in when she inevitably found out.  I didn’t even want Claire to dump him when she found out.  Yeah, I would have liked it if he returned the money he stole, but regardless, I did not want Doug going to jail.  Not Doug!  Because, hey, he was a victim of his upbringing.  Of his neighborhood, even.  (“The bank robbery capital of America,” the movie posters declare.)  This is a good guy!  He committed a few robberies, I know, but within those parameters, he’s kept to his own moral code:  you don’t kill, you don’t harm anyone, and you stand up for your friends no matter what.  Within that framework, Doug is an honorable guy.  This stuff is supposed to be black and white, but it just wasn’t.  I love that. 

Doug even tried to make good; he left the neighborhood and became a professional hockey player.  But that didn’t pan out as he’d planned, and so he came back to his roots.  And those roots were of the criminal variety.  He even tried to get out a second time, after he fell in love with Claire.  But one of his partners in crime, his lifelong friend whose family took him in as one of their own when he was left alone as a child, for heaven’s sake, made it clear that to do that would be to betray everything they’d been through together.  Holy smokes, the lines are blurring all over the place.

It’s easy for someone like me to have strong principles that I stand on.  Things like not shopping at a cool store.  Wow.  Impressive, I know.  But I’ve had a pretty easy life.  I didn't grow up in the projects; I grew up in a middle class family, with nice parents and a nice brother and sister, and lived in neighborhoods that were just fine, and went to schools that never even considered having cops stationed at any of the doors.  I never had these kinds of dilemmas to deal with.  Or even think about, really.

But here comes Doug, who is a really good guy, at heart.  I mean, Claire fell for him easily, and no one in the theatre wondered why.  Certainly not me!  But he’s done a bad thing.  Many bad things.  So now I’m just wondering about all this.  What do you do when a good person does a bad thing?  I mean, is prison for everyone who breaks the law?  Or is it just for “bad” people?  I’m a very conservative gal, personally and politically.  I do believe it’s fair to consider someone’s circumstances when doling out a sentence.  But I’ve always thought that’s just something to use in mitigation of the sentence, not in determining whether they’re found guilty or not.  And I’m pretty sure I still believe that.  But boy, how interesting it is to have your principles put to the test in a “real-life” (well, a movie-life) situation.  Do they stand up?  I think so.  But suddenly I’m not 100% certain.  On paper, the appropriate result is so clear to me.  In theatre, the line has somehow blurred.  And I love that. 

Now I know this isn’t groundbreaking stuff.  I’ve seen it in other movies and I’ve enjoyed being manipulated lots of times.  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid comes to mind.  And a zillion others, I’m sure.  But it was more personal this time around.  Is it because it was so serious?  Because it involved a girl--an actual victim of their crime--and her innocent personal relationship with a crook?  The fact that she became involved before she knew who he really was?  Yes, yes, and yes.  Or maybe that's what a really great movie does.  Or maybe it was just the mood I was in that day.  Whatever the explanation, it made for a fabulous afternoon.

At the end, we hear Doug’s voiceover talking to Claire, telling her he’s going to be paying for what he did for a long, long time.  And then we see him all alone, somewhere far, far away, pensively staring out into a harsh but beautiful landscape.  I mentioned to Steve that that didn’t seem like very harsh payment to me, but Steve pointed out his prison was “in here,” pointing to his head.  I know, I know.  I get it.  But is that enough?  Shouldn’t he be in prison?  I kind of think so.  But I'm not sure.  What do you do with a good guy who does some bad things?  It’s a hard question.

After the movie, as the credits were rolling, I leaned over to Steve and asked another hard question.  “What do you do if you fall in love with a criminal?” I whispered.  His answer?  “Love him.”  Boy did I pick the right guy.  Now keep your fingers crossed he doesn't go rob a bank.

And that’s just my humble (and always correct) opinion.



Thursday, September 09, 2010

To Hell in a Grocery Basket


Somebody give me a chill pill, I just got home from Fry’s!

Have you ever shopped at Fry’s?  Am I crazy, or is shopping at this store a total nightmare?  A uniquely rotten experience?  (Clue:  I'm pretty sure I'm not crazy.)

The very first time I shopped there, over 9 years ago, is etched in my memory forever.  As I waited in line to check out, voices were raised, and a loud, ugly argument occurred.  An angry couple that couldn’t agree on what to have for dinner?  No.  A shopper confronting another shopper who had cut in line?   Nope.  It was the checker in my line, arguing and yelling at the customer.  I don’t remember the specifics of the argument (I’ve tried hard to erase the whole distasteful incident from my mind, mostly unsuccessfully), but it was definitely loud, nasty and involved lots of name-calling.  Mostly on the side of Your Friendly Fry’s Employee.  Sadly, as I shopped there regularly, I realized that that was typical shopping day at Fry’s. 

Over the years, things got a little better—there are almost no loud arguments any more (by the employees, at least)--but the employees remained surly and rude (“Having a good day today?”  “Oh, yes, it’s going great,” I respond with a smile.  Only to be met with a glare by the checker; she was talking to the bagger.).  And they remained true to their unspoken promise to always open two fewer lines than are needed.

They pretend like they have improved that last little issue.  Because they now give us a choice:  We can wait around forever in the one line that’s open in order to have a surly or maybe just disinterested checker ring us up, along with a bagger who’s paying no attention to what he’s doing.  Or, for our convenience, we can just do all the work ourselves.  Because they’ve so nicely installed about nine or ten self-checkout lines.  Are they kidding?  Now I have to do all the work that an employee is paid to do?  And I don’t even get a discount?  The real puzzler is that I seem to be the only one who minds. People are like sheep! my mother used to say.  And there are all the sheep in Fry’s, waiting in line to do the work they’re paying someone else to do.  Sheep, I tell you. 

But I suspect this has all been part of Fry’s Master Plan.  The long con, if you will. (And in case you’re not versed in the world of the con, there are two kinds of cons: the short con and the long con.  The short con is where you take someone’s money quickly, like a fraud that uses sleight of hand—a shell game, for example.  The long con involves a plan and lots of people.  Think The Sting. I learned all about this stuff when Steve and I started watching this British TV show called Hustle, about a group of con artists playing the long con.  I recommend it!  The TV show, not playing the con.)  Anyway, back to Fry’s.  I’m thinking they decided to make the checkout experience so unpleasant that customers would do anything, just anything, to avoid it.  They started it years ago, with the yelling fights.  Then, just shy of losing all customers due to their fear of shopping there, Fry’s toned it down by just having routinely unfriendly and rude employees.  Next, they taught all their baggers a fun little system that involves any number of short cons: making each bag as heavy as possible (I once weighed my bag when I got home: 17 pounds); or putting just one thing in each bag so that you may find yourself unloading 15 bags into your car; or cramming the warm chicken in next to all the frozen items; or that tired old con, putting the strawberries underneath the gallon of milk.  They’ve beaten us down so far that all we want to do is get out of the store without having any contact with any employee from the time we enter to the time we push out little basket out through the door.   

Lately, they’ve stepped up their game and this time they’ve gotten nasty.  Well, nastier.

Because this time they’re playing on their certainty that no one is going to complain about an employee doing a poor job when that employee is…slow? retarded? special? mentally disabled? mentally challenged? What is the correct term these days?  Let’s say mentally challenged.  (I realize that even acknowledging that such a state actually exists is, these days, offensive in itself).  At any rate, my Fry’s now apparently has a program where they employ the mentally challenged.  Right on, I say.  I’ve seen McDonald’s do it for decades with great success, in my experience.  But Fry’s has a little different take.  Instead of using their skills to their best advantage, Fry’s has decided to use them as…baggers!

Oh no, say it ain’t so!  Haven’t I just suggested how very complex the art of bagging is?  It was bad enough as it was, with the villainous baggers and their calculated mis-baggings.  But now, ever since they’ve started using the mentally challenged for this complicated feat?  Well, virtually every time I come out of Fry’s, I have to re-distribute all the groceries before I load them into the car to make them carryable, to balance them out, to get rid of the unnecessary bags, muttering to myself like a crazy person all the while.  One time I had to go back in the store when the bag with the eggs, which was perched precariously on top of the cart, came crashing down around me.  This involved waiting at the service counter while those ahead of me bought lottery tickets, bought their tickets to the Van Halen or Ted Nugent concert, bought their cigarettes, complained about bad service, and the various other thousands of things one can only do at the “customer service” desk.

I admit I've fallen prey to their plot.  I have succumbed to the self-serve checkout line once or twice.  But I’ve concluded that I’m just not smart enough to handle this job.  The little lady’s voice is constantly telling me I’ve done something wrong.  Many things wrong: “Please place items on pad.  Please remove items from pad.  Please remove item and re-scan.  Please insert your Fry’s card.  Please enter code before placing items on pad.  Please call assistant.  Please call assistant!”   So by the end of the nightmare, not only have I weighed my own vegetables, hunted down various produce codes, and done my own bagging—but I’ve had to get the help of the “assistant” (shhhh, she’s really a checker!), anyway.  That would be one assistant.  For all ten checkout lines.  And I’m not the only mentally challenged customer there; it appears that virtually everyone needs her assistance.  So then I wait 5 minutes or so for Your Friendly Fry’s Assistant to come rescue me, once she’s rescued every other self-checker.  And I had to wait in line to do it all.  And all for the same price I would have paid in a real checkout line, with that wonderful surly gal to wait on me.  Oh, how I long for her sneer right about now, I think as I’m waiting for that darn assistant.

So I may think Fry's is evil, but really maybe they're the smarties, after all.  Because I think they’re winning on all fronts:  I still shop there.  More and more sheep are using the self-checkout.  Prices are not getting any lower.  And they can hire fewer and fewer employees.  Voila, we’re conned!  Baaaaa.

But, hey, that's just my humble (but always correct) opinion.

Saturday, September 04, 2010

Of Mice and Me

Steve and I went to see the movie Dinner for Schmucks a few weeks ago. And it changed my life. I swear.

Steve didn’t want to go. I had to convince him. I normally wouldn’t want to go to one of those guys-being-guys movies, either. But I think somewhere in my subconscious, ESP (as we used to call it)-laden mind, I knew that this movie would be important for me. And I do kind of like Steve Carell. Who doesn’t? (Well, Steve doesn’t, but everyone else does.) The reviews suggested it was kind of touching (not that I ever agree with reviews—especially reviews of those kinds of movies) and my sister Nancy said I’d like it, too. Nancy knows me pretty well—we’re sort of like twins in that way, even though we’re 3 years apart—so that was a pretty convincing review for me.

So anyway, we went and I was prepared for it to be just okay. Which, by the way, is the best attitude to have going in to a movie. Have you ever noticed that? If you have great expectations, look out. They’re usually just too hard to live up to. But if you go in expecting a turkey (although why am I in the theatre if I think it’s going to be a turkey?), it’s like magic. You almost cannot be disappointed. It turns out to be a turkey? No disappointment, it’s what you expected. It’s just okay? There you go, now you’re already happy; it’s exceeded your expectations already! And if it’s good? Well, see how good that theory is?

So I didn’t expect much. But from the moment the movie started, I was thrilled. I mean, thrilled. Yes, the story was pretty cruel—in order to fit in with his superiors at the office, a guy with dreams of advancement agrees to play their cruel game: each guy must bring a loser to a dinner party they all attend. Whoever brings the biggest loser is, well, the winner. Of course, the losers (i.e., schmucks), don’t know that’s why they’re there. Making the whole thing even more cruel than it sounded in the first place.

So that wasn’t so nice. And the biggest loser of all—no surprise here—is Steve Carell. And he makes a lovely loser! He’s got all the requirements: funny teeth, glasses, interested in unusual things, klutzy, naïve, eager to please and, like I said, interested in unusual things. But he’s so much more than just your typical movie-loser: he’s vulnerable and sweet and manages to maintain a bit of self-confidence and self-worth, even while all around him are laughing at him behind, or even in front of, his back. I found myself really liking this odd guy. You might even want to hang around with him. I did.

So this particular loser has an unusual hobby for a grown man: he makes dioramas. (Do you know what those are? They’re like little miniature scenes, I now know.) And not just any dioramas; his dioramas use mice, that are so carefully crafted that they are, believe it or not, the cutest, sweetest things you’ve ever seen. (Don’t be distracted by the fact that he actually uses real dead mice that he’s taken to the taxidermist to be stuffed … I mean, I think we’ve established that he’s an odd duck.) He gives them hair, he dyes the hair, he makes their glasses, he dresses them in adorable little outfits. There’s a mouse Mona Lisa, a mouse Benjamin Franklin flying a kite, and even the Wright brothers mice flying their plane. He also makes scenarios re-enacting moments from his own life. There he is with his little mouse wife on the Ferris wheel, on the swings, having a picnic in the park.

These dioramas start the movie. This is all you see for the first 10 or 15 minutes. Just hands crafting the glasses, putting on the outfits, and placing the little “people” in their scenes. And there’s where it really got good for me. See, one time, my sister’s husband Bill told her he thought I was (in a complimentary way, I’m just certain) eccentric. And when I saw those little mouse scenarios, with all their little mouse details? Mice on swings! Mice in the park! Mice wearing little pink checked dresses! Well, I was transfixed. Transfixed. Yes, the rest of the movie came along but really, I think I would have preferred to just spend the entire hour and a half watching those hands making those mice and their mouse world. It was like it was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. And all I could think the whole time I watched was that I had to do this myself.

I’ve been searching for a hobby for years. I’ve taken a knitting class, taken piano lessons, made Christmas ornaments, tried scrapbooking, and who knows what else. But nothing stuck. I live in Arizona, what am I going to knit? And Christmas comes only once a year, and by the time I’d finish an ornament it was well into spring. So the search continued. I always feel such envy when I read people’s bios that mention some fascinating minutiae they’re an expert on, or hear people talk about what they did on their long weekend. “I spent the whole weekend painting hollow eggs like flags from countries around the world. Then I’ll shellac them and give them as gifts. Next I’m going to paint eggs with all the Scottish tartans.” Man, why can’t I want to do that? Steve always tells me he sees me as someone with lots of interests, rather than wasting myself on one specific one. (Steve is the best!) But I want a real hobby that I love to do. I love to read, but that’s not the same thing. Reading is so enjoyable, but it’s not like you have a creation after a book. Unless you wrote it, of course.

So there, sitting in a movie probably geared toward teenage boys, I found my hobby! I decided then and there to make dioramas of my own. Just thinking of it makes me excited (not something that ever happened with the piano, knitting, or even Christmas ornaments). I even thought of all kinds of scenarios I could create: My “Ideal Life Scene” (a lovely concept I learned during my very brief stint in the Spiritual Psychology program at the University of Santa Monica). Christmas morning (oh my gosh, we even have a toy train I gave to Steve a number of years ago that’s dying to be used. I can picture the little mouse engineer already!). My brother’s silver Airstream Trailer vacation home in Patagonia, AZ (although how could I make that any cuter than it already is? See here for proof.). Every house I’ve ever lived in. Man, I’ve got a million ideas!

And then I had another cool idea. Where is the most logical place to put doll-like creatures? In a dollhouse!

I actually have a tiny bit of experience in the dollhouse buying world. My sister Nancy decided a few years ago she’d like to have a dollhouse like the one she had when we were kids. Not a big fancy wooden one, but one of those metal ones from the fifties. They were made by Marx, and they had the furniture, rugs, pictures, beds, cribs, and even bushes painted on them already. It doesn’t sound too nice, but it really was very neat. They were so beautiful! Full of color, inside and out. That way, you didn’t have to get furniture if you didn’t want to. (Now I’m thinking about this. Were they supposed to be for those of us with limited funds? Who couldn’t afford furniture? Who would be thrilled to just look at pictures of furniture? Wow. But I don’t think so; I think they were part of that fifties “modern efficient life,” where we no longer needed to do everything by hand.) Anyway, Nancy shopped for her house on eBay, and I helped her search, from across the country on my computer. We had a blast. She ended up with a house we think might be exactly the one she had as a kid. Neato, for sure.

So I went on eBay, too, and found a dollhouse of my own. Mine isn’t a metal one, though, because I don’t want to copy Nancy exactly (after all, we are not twins, as I said) and I want to do all that decorating stuff. Painting and wallpapering and filling it with—mice. Not real ones, though, I swear! My dollhouse is a little wooden cottage, and I have to build it myself from a kit. Which is where it could get a little dicey. My brain is good with details, but my track record with hand detailing is not as stellar. I was the kid who always had glue blobs on everything in art class. And I suspect time has not diminished that lack of talent. But no matter. My house might well have blobs of glue. I think I can call it "character.”

I couldn’t wait to get started. And I didn’t want to have to wait until the dollhouse arrived in the mail to get going, so I decided I could get started on the people. (Okay, they’re really mice.) Nancy suggested I go to the pet store and get some stuffed toy mice they have for cats to play with. Perfect! I found some that are just right, with little arms to hold purses and other necessities in life, and big enough to dress and accessorize without needing a microscope. (And in keeping with all things miniature, if you want to see some amazing sculptures that you do need a microscope to even see, go here.) I even bought some really little mice, sans arms, for the children, should they want to multiply. I suspect they will.

And for my very first couple, my own little Adam and Eve if you will, I was inspired by our good friends Fred and Lynette. Steve and I were supposed to be in the skiing town of Telluride a few weeks ago for their secret wedding. Steve was even supposed to perform the ceremony. He got ordained online, we got him a priest’s stole, he found a few beautiful poems and readings, we had a song or two ready to sing; we were all set. But then, as you may know, I broke my ankle, and we decided at the last minute that flying around the country and then maneuvering myself all over a small, rustic town—and mountain!—would not be a wise thing for my foot. Not with my crutches and not even with Rollerboy. So we canceled. And felt awful!
The Happy Couple

So last weekend we had a private little dinner for the two of them to make up for it, and I decided to make a wedding couple for them. A mouse bride and groom! But get this: it turns out the mecca of all things crafty, Michael’s ("where creativity happens," they tell me), does NOT do doll/dollhouse stuff. Apparently that kind of creativity happens elsewhere. No houses, no clothes, no nuthin.’ So I had to make everything. Which I was not expecting, but which turned out to be a blast, so thank you, Michael, whoever you are. I used a crocheted doily I had around the house for a wedding gown, made a top hat out of felt, and even used some tips I’d seen from the movie to dress my little friends. So I’ve actually finished my first mice people!


We had the dinner in our suite at the Arizona Inn in Tucson. (Wow, if you ever want a nice play to stay in that town and be treated like royalty, that’s it! No further looking needed. But be sure to bring a fat wallet.) We sat the mice right next to the (real) wedding cake. And they made the best bride and groom ever—after Fred and Lynette, of course. Well, and after Steve and me, too. At least I think so. I think Fred and Lynette were pleased, too. Perhaps they thought it a bit eccentric? Well, they wouldn’t have been the first!

Another Happy Couple

Thursday, August 19, 2010

So Long, RollerBoy

OK, so you know this about me from my last post: I don’t like crutches. Well, luckily for me, I have had some freedom from my crutches. No not because I can walk. (Not that much freedom!) But thanks to my friend Deb and my podiatrist, I learned that I could rent this very bizarre and amusing (and wonderful!) little alternative mode of transport that I’ve been using, along with the crutches, for lo these last 5 weeks. I affectionately (and let me tell you, I do have a lot of love for this thing) call it RollerBoy, but it’s actually called RollerAid. It’s a knee-walker! (Isn’t that something to do with Navajos and WWII? you say. No, sillies, not code talker, but knee walker.)

This is a little contraption that gets you from place to place without using the dreaded crutches. I also call it my trike, and it’s light years beyond crutches. It’s kind of a cross between a kid’s scooter and a tricycle. Foot-powered! It’s like a large tricycle from when you were, maybe, 5 or 6. Not the teeny tiny one you had at 3 or 4. Remember the giant one? We had a big brown one that we used to ride pell mell up and down the block, rocking from side to side, daring it to fall over. And when we weren’t riding it, there was still fun to be had; we would turn it upside down and stand it on its handlebars and seat, then turn the pedals and pretend like we were making ice cream to sell. Anyone else do that? OK, I’m getting off track here. The point I was making is that RollerBoy is like that trike, complete with handlebars and a basket. Mine is shiny red and even has hand brakes! Where the seat would be, there’s a very soft, very padded cushion. So you stand next to the thing, put the knee of your bad leg on the pad, and push yourself along with your good leg. (Now, please forgive me for being judgmental about legs, but I think it’s safe in this situation to designate good and bad leg. I’m counting on you to figure which is which. Although, come to think of it, my “bad” leg is so much slimmer now that I haven’t used it, that I really like it better. So maybe this isn’t so clear after all.) Anyway, that’s the knee-walker in a nutshell.

It can’t replace the crutches completely, of course. Remember the stairs? Well, RollerBoy doesn’t do stairs. Or, really, any surface too bumpy or uneven. Or too slanted… I almost fell off one day when I was soaring down a slanted sidewalk. Thank heavens for those hand brakes.

Anyway, it’s a lifesaver! If the RollerAid people ever want me to be in a commercial or do a testimonial, I’m their gal. Because, guess what? Not only does it make it so much easier to get around (I’ve actually had to slow myself down a few times to match the pace of my fellow bi-peds), but it solves that major downer of the crutches: I can carry things! And not only in my hands, but in the handy little basket. So hallelujah, I can carry my Diet Dr. Pepper (uh, if my naturopath is reading this, I meant to say my bottle of water), I can load and unload the dishwasher (well, maybe it’s not all good), I can do kitchen stuff, I can carry my book from room to room. The psychological lift this little trike has given me is tremendous.

But I’m in a new stage now. As of this week, I’ve made it past the NWB stage (for all you two-legged walkers, that’s Non-Weight Bearing). I can walk! Not fancy-free, mind you; I still have the giant boot and will for a while more, but I can walk with one crutch, on the boot. Woohoo!

All good news! Except that it means it’s time to say sayonara to my new friend. So long to RollerBoy. And I’m actually finding myself reluctant to return the little guy. No joke. You just can’t imagine how easy (and a little fun, too) it is to get on that thing and zip from my desk to the bathroom or zip from one end of the kitchen to the other to get something. There’s this odd sense of freedom when you ride this little trike. Maybe it’s what kids feel the first time they ride a bike. Going so much faster than usual, gliding along like you’re on ice, the (very tiny) breeze in your face. It really feels like that!

I considered keeping it for another week, “just in case.” Ridiculous, I know. Just in case of what? Nothing, other than the bizarre emotional attachment I’ve developed to it. It’s become my security blanket, what I turn to when the crutches are just getting me down. It was such a glimmer of light when I was so overwhelmed at the thought of not walking for over a month. But if I want to keep learning lessons from this little opportunity that life has given me, in particular showing strength while facing adversity, it’s time. Time to say good bye to RollerBoy.

Once again, I take a deep breath, make the call, and bravely tell Sheila—my RollerAid representative—that her little trike is coming home to roost.

Maybe I’ll take it out for a spin around the block tonight for one last wild ride.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Thoughts on a Broken Ankle

I stepped in a hole a few weeks ago while walking our dog, Jimmy. Not very glamorous, I admit. (In my defense, the hole was totally covered by grass. It’s not like I just walked right in. But I admit I’ve noticed that hole many times before while with Jim on our daily walk. Apparently, this last time--I didn’t.) But I did not fall down! There is that. Anyway, it’s my first broken bone, and boy, it came with so much stuff. Stuff like pain, effort, humility, irritation, self-pity, hassle, self-sufficiency, resilience, and even test of character, I’d say.

First off, the crutches. How do people use these things? Or at least use them without lots of complaining? I’d never really thought about it much. I mean, I’d sort of felt sorry for people when I’d see them on crutches. But really, how often do you see anyone on crutches anymore? When I think of crutches, I immediately picture being back in high school. First there was my big brother Bill. He dislocated his knee in high school, and had what I recall as a full leg cast and was on crutches for a month.

I remember the call from the school. The message we got from the nurse was that he’d injured his knee in wrestling class and was in the emergency room and we should come right away. We were horrified, of course, but puzzled, too. Bill in wrestling class? Bill was a performer—he was in Concert Choir, and he always had the lead in the school musicals. He was Lancelot in Camelot, and Finian in Finian’s Rainbow. (In fact, he went on to perform professionally for many years. And now he makes his living as a voice talent.) So the wrestling angle made us almost as anxious as the knee. When we finally caught up with him at the hospital, we were relieved to learn that the school nurse had apparently been playing some cruel version of the game of telephone, that something had gotten lost in translation; Bill had actually twisted his knee while on stage practicing a dance move for the upcoming musical. Ah, the world was back to normal.

That whole time he was on crutches, I don’t remember him complaining, ever. But then, really, what was there to complain about? It just made him even more popular in school than he already was! And it seems back when I was in high school, kids were on crutches all the time. I picture them whizzing down the hallways sans difficulty. The school did give them a pass to get out of class early, as I recall, to make it to their next class on time, but that was the only concession. (I’ve never been able to figure that one out. Why not just be late to the next class instead?) Our high school had no elevator (in fact, requiring an elevator pass was one of the classic tricks pulled on naive freshman), but did have lots of stairs. I picture those kids zipping up and down those stairs, with crutches and books both, somehow, feet daringly raised high in the air before landing safely on the next step. It was fun! Or so it looked to me. But I can't recall seeing anyone on crutches since.

And now that I, finally in my 50’s, have crutches of my very own, I can see why. Holy smokes, it is hard. Exhausting. After the first day, I thought I wouldn’t make it another day, let alone the 4+ weeks the doctor ordered. And I’m no 98 lb weakling, darn it! I go to the gym every day and I take James T. Chandler (named after Capt. Kirk) on his 2 mile walk every day. And I’m fairly coordinated, if I may be so bold--Bill wasn’t the only performer in the family. So I could maneuver the crutches okay. But you have to lift your entire weight in the air to go anywhere, be it a foot away or a block. And be you 98 lbs. or 300. (I fall in between there somewhere.) And then there’s the need to use them for virtually every move you make. You want to read the paper? Uh oh, it’s on the table that’s 4 feet away. You want, say, a caffeine-free Diet Dr. Pepper while you watch TV? Uh oh, you can’t carry anything. Anything. I mean, your hands are kind of already in use. The first time I went to the doctor about my foot, I had to bring the x-rays from Urgent Care, which turned out to be on sheets about 2’ x 2’. I had no hands available! I had to carry them in my teeth.

This brings me to the next never-talked about aspect of the whole thing. The indignity. If you have a big ego, and do not care for being humbled, well all I can say is, step carefully. Because crutches ain’t for you, my friend. Because the indignity didn’t stop at parading myself in public carrying giant x-rays in my teeth. Our house has stairs. And not just an upstairs and a downstairs; we have a split level. Which, in our house, means the only thing on ground level is the front door. So there was no, Oh, I’ll just stay downstairs and sleep on the couch, so I won’t have to use the stairs much. Nope. In our house, if you’re going out, if you’re coming in, if you’re answering the door—stairs are involved. I have developed the charming, old-fashioned habit of trusting absolutely everyone who comes to the door these days, answering each knock with a breezy, “Come in!” (Please don't tell my mom.) Keep your fingers crossed all comers are friendly for the next 3-4 weeks.

For the first week or more, the idea of taking my life in my hands trying to go up and down while balancing precariously on the crutches and hopping was immediately rejected. So I scooted. Anyone who’s injured a foot or leg is probably familiar with this mode of getting up and down. You just sit on your behind and scoot yourself, like that crabwalk you learn in exercise class, up or down, depending on which way you want to go. Sounds fine, but let me tell you, any shred of dignity that you may have had left is completely gone once you find yourself hauling yourself up and down the stairs, finally reaching your destination, spent. And in our house, it involves avoiding this little tiny nail that I’ve now discovered sticks up at the landing, where the linoleum (yes, we still have linoleum) meets the carpet. Somehow I’ve managed to get a hole in only one pair of pants so far. Oh, and what about the days when I’m wearing a skirt? Please don't even try to picture the ridiculousness of that.

Our house also involves scooting just to get in the door. Our front step, for some unknown reason (has our house settled a foot? Which suggests we have much bigger concerns than walking on crutches, surely) is high. Very high. So to get in the front door, it’s just not possible to hop. Too high to hop! So guess what? I have to sit down on the floor of the entry, swing myself around, then crawl up to a standing position. All in plain view of the neighbors. All of whom I imagine as Gladys Kravitz, hiding behind their curtains laughing hilariously, calling to Abner, “Come quick and see the crazy lady across the street!”

After about two weeks of that, I decided I’d had it. (Apparently, I am one of those who don’t like to be humbled.) I actually had gotten used to the crutches enough by then so they felt like a part of me (well, sort of). And that day when I stood at the top of the stairs, I could feel that “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more” moment coming on. I decided then and there that the scooting was over. Yes, even at the risk of life and limb. I took a breath and just went for it, trying out a number of options, and hurrah, I did it! I didn't kill myself! (This is particularly lucky for Steve, because he was sound asleep at the time and would have woken up to find me sprawled there at the bottom of the stairs.) So I found a system that works for me. Yes, both up and down! I’m now going up and down the stairs on my crutches, no behind involved! Who would have thought that would be a fabulous thing to be able to say? I’ve mastered the demon that was the stairs in my house, and I’m off the scooting for good.

And the front step? I’ve come up with a solution for that one, too. MacGyver to the rescue! I simply put a kitchen chair outside the door. (Or rather, I had Steve put a kitchen chair outside the door.) When I get to the front step, I just put my knee on the chair, then push off that knee and step into the house with the other leg. Voila, I’m in! Again, no butt involved. Freedom! At last.

So I’ve learned some things about myself. I don’t like to look foolish. When faced with adversity, I cry--a bunch--then get on with it. (I’ve chosen not to share the less than admirable details of that particular story line here.) I’m annoyed by not being able to do things myself. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” someone or other said. I think it was someone who had broken some appendage. Truly. There are more things I've learned about myself and life, too, from this unexpected “opportunity,” as my friend Deb and I learned to say during our tenure at Nordstrom.

Stay tuned.