Sign Me Up for the Geek Cruise

There's a perfectly good explanation as to why I'm on the mailing list of Fermilab National Accelerator's publication, "Symmetry - Dimensions of Particle Physics". No, it's not because I've built a homemade Tevatron accelerator in my basement or that's I've joined in the quest for the elusive Higgs boson particle. It's because I'm a lifelong avowed science geek.

My grades in school were proof positive that I didn't hold any special talent in science. I failed physics outright. Being a visual person, I could not fathom particles or concepts that I couldn't see. Biology was another matter altogether. I loved it and although I still wasn't an "A" student, my enthusiasm made up for a multitude of poor study habits.

Mrs. Carter, my high school biology teacher, was so impressed with my enthusiasm that she created the position of Lab Assistant for me. In my excitement I failed to realize that it simply meant she would have someone to set up the lab experiments and grade papers. It didn't matter. She was happy. I was happy. The only ones that were unhappy were the frogs.



My love for all things science got me through some tough times. I love my children but raising kids is not mentally stimulating, no matter what you're told. After a couple years of the three P's (pee, poop & puke) even physics began to look attractive.

The Farmer traveled on business a lot when the kids were small and adult companionship was sparse. It was during this period that I made my acquaintance with some lifelong friends; Jacques Cousteau, Jane Goodall and my personal favorite, Carl Sagan. I learned more from the series "Cosmos" than I learned in many of my college classes. And talk about sex symbols. You gotta love a brilliant, humorous man in a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves. Just the phrase, "Billions and billions," can get me in the mood for romance.

These scientists brought science to the people and proved that learning could also be entertaining. They fed my need for knowledge and my desire for adventure. Many years after those child rearing days I looked into a mirror in my beachside casita on a island with no roads and said to myself, "Thanks for getting me through that rough patch Carl. I'm having my own adventures now. Can you see?" I bet he can. I bet he's happy for me.

I've never given up the lost cause of possibly understanding physics and that's the reason I toured Fermilab and signed up for their mailing list. (Don't tell them, they might drop me if they knew the truth) I read through each issue religiously. Nevertheless, I still don't know a muon from a gluon. I just like hanging out with cosmologists.

The current edition of Symmetry included a surprise. There's a story about something called Geek cruises. You've read about Blues cruises, or cruises where you can hob knob with soap opera stars, but a Geek cruise was news to me.

Six scientists, along with two editors from Scientific American put together a cruise that included 25 lectures covering everything from astrophysics to evolution and archaeology. Sign me up for the Geek Cruise. I want to test my theory that these guys know how to party!

It's that time again.

Yes, it's that time again. It's time to sweep out the kitchen.

I want to thank everyone for visiting! Without you, I'd be talking to myself.

I've got little odds and ends to deal with and the first order of business is to give away that Martha Stewart book, "The Martha Rules". Watch me pull a rabbit name out of a hat. I don't need a number generator like Pioneer Woman who had over 10,000 comments in her drawing for a Zune. I prefer the old school method. And the winner is..........



Allie!!! Congratulations. Be sure to e-mail me with your address and I'll get it in the mail.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Allie, she publishes AllieHoops, a great little blog. For only five bucks, less than the cost of a Grande' Caramel Macchiato, Allie will produce a font from your own handwriting. It's SO COOL. Allie, I'm working like a slave on my worksheet and I'll be ordering my font soon.

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WalMart is up to their evil nonsense again. Yesterday I stopped to buy some toothpaste and this is what they have determined is appropriate merchandise to place on the end cap of the checkout lane.



Evil. It's also possessed because the package hopped off the shelf and into my cart. The cashier scanned it and placed it in the bag before I realized what had happened. I didn't discover the evil Strawberry Milkshake Limited Edition Oreos until I got home. What could I do? The cost of gas to take them back to the store was prohibitive. So I opened them and did a taste test.



If you love a strawberry milkshake, you're gonna love these cookies. They do seem to be a little bit sweeter than the regular oreo so you'll probably not be able to eat as many. I don't drink milk so I didn't do a dunk test, that's up to you.

The Farmer's Son weighed in on these cookies. Two thumbs up!

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I think Blogger is making things up about us. They have me listed as being in the accounting industry. HA HA HA HA HA. Never in a thousand years would anyone ask me to even add a column of four numbers. I don't even remember being asked what my industry was when I signed up. So for all my readers, I am NOT in accounting! I am into building a stinking publishing empire!!

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I've got some surprises coming up in the next week or so, stay tuned.

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At the risk of attracting even more odd searches I'm going to list a few of the search terms people used to land at my blog. I'm going to insert odd letters in order to thwart their efforts.

- Someone in Malta searched using the term "wild, hot wom*n at home". Not here buddy, move along.

- There must be a new reality TV show involving finding a farmer a wife, because there's lots of searches for that.

- Also, a lot of people are searching for "dirty grannies". I could be wrong, but I thought those two words were mutually exclusive. EWWWWW!

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Paula, who serves as my Grammar Nazi, has tagged me for something called Seven Little Known Things About Yourself. Trust me, there are things about me you don't want to know.

Anyway, I think I did this once before but I don't think anyone remembers, even me! Give me a day or two to come up with some real doozies. Again, trust me, there are doozies in my past.

That's it for this edition of Sweeping Out the Kitchen. Be sure to come back tomorrow. Remember, I don't want to be talking to myself.

Starbuck Babes

My errands took me into town the other day and my last stop of the day was on the other side of the river. Most of the shopping has moved out to the "lifestyle mall" west of the old downtown, which means I rarely cross the river. Our downtown area is now home to restaurants and bars instead of retail storefronts.

On my way back out of town I passed a shopping center which is home to a very cool shop called, "Sage Creek". They were originally located closer to the country but now they're in a huge new space. I've wanted to check it out but I've never found myself in the area. This was my opportunity.

It was almost a missed opportunity. The entrances to the parking lots are very confusing. I passed one entrance and mistakenly thought I could catch the next one. Wrong. It took me into a totally different lot just west of their shop. No matter. I could walk up and over the small rise and walk the length of the building to their spot.

I parked my 10 year Pontiac (the one that tangled with a cornfield and lost) and proceeded to cross the landscaped divider to the next lot. OH NO......what's that? The first business at the end of the building is a Starbuck's. I don't drink Starbucks so this normally wouldn't be a problem except that this Starbuck's is just around the corner from the new megalicious, slick new lifestyle gym. What a megalicious lifestyle gym you ask? It's where all the hard bodies hang out and work out.

This is where people are jogging and running and swimming and sweating and elipsing and tanning and sauna-ing and hot tubbing and SPINNING!! Yes spinning like their lives depend on it. Spinning like they're riding bikes escaping from the demons of hell. Hard bodies spinning for an hour and blithely throwing a towel over their shoulders and driving their Mercedes to the Starbuck's for a Grande Caramel Macchiatto. They can afford the calories, they've just spun them all off in anticipation.

The Mercedes and the Beamers are lined up with a Ferrari thrown in for good measure. Did I mention my cornfield damaged Grand Am? The Starbuck Babes are hanging out in the sunshine, sipping their macchiato's and people watching. That means in less than 10 seconds they're going to be people watching in my direction.

Not unlike my ten-year old Pontiac, I've got some miles and some damage. I haven't tangled with a cornfield, but I've done some time with Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis, a broken ankle (twice in one year) and neuropathy, which have in combination put on pounds and prevented me from spinning. And now adding insult to injury I must walk the gauntlet of beautiful Starbuck babes.

This sort of thing rarely bothers me but for some reason on this day I'm feeling like I'm back in high school, walking my nerdy self past the cheerleaders. It was deja vu all over again. I steeled myself and marched as fast as my peripheral neuropathy would allow. Once inside "Sage Creek" I was safe. Safe in the land of beautiful home accessories. Certainly the owner wouldn't judge me, after all she wanted my business.

I looked around and made some mental notes to come back and bring some cash. There were plenty of ways to spend money in that store. Twenty minutes had passed and it was time to head home and face the daily drudge of what's-for-dinner. Surely the Starbuck Babes had left for their bikini waxes.

But no! How long can you possibly nurse a macchiato? About 20 minutes it seems. I'm really not feeling up to walking the gauntlet again, wondering whether the seam in the rear of my black slacks has split open, and whether I'm wearing black undies or white.

This was ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. A grown woman who did five years of therapy to take care of this kind of nonsense. I reached deep inside, looking for those good thoughts.....looking for my inner Towanda.

"Towanda, Towanda," I cry. "Don't fail me now!"

I shut my eyes for just a second to compose myself. I hear an inner voice speaking. It's Towanda! I'm channeling Towanda!

I thrust my shoulders back, hoping to hell my underwire bra doesn't snap. I take a deep cleansing breath and charge forward. As I pass in front of the Babes I turn my head ever so slightly. My lips part and I speak, "Good afternoon ladies. Have you heard about the scientific study that shows that strenuous exercise followed by Caramel Macchiato's leads to early onset menopause?"

Yep, I'm pretty sure I saw at least one of them busting a sweat.

Let's Cook Something!

It seems to me that I've been talking for weeks without taking a break so that we can cook together or crochet together or something!

So today I'm going to quit talking and start cooking! We're going to make one of my favorite pasta sauces, Pink Vodka Sauce. If you don't want to use alcohol, that's fine, it's really good without the Vodka also.

PINK VODKA SAUCE

1 jar pasta sauce (good quality, slightly chunky)
1 TBSP. butter
1 tsp. minced garlic
1/4 cup Vodka
1 TBSP. each fresh minced basil & Italian parsley (also called flat-leafed parsley)
1 1/4 cup whipping cream
1 - 16 oz. package pasta, cooked and drained

Melt the butter in a large pot. Saute the garlic, basil and parsley for a few minutes, until the herbs wilt and release their oils. Add the vodka and heat it begins to give off steam. Pour in the pasta sauce and mix well. Heat for a few minutes and add the whipping cream. Cook on low heat until the sauce thickens. Serve over hot pasta. May be made ahead and slowly heated.

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Let's start by getting all our ingredients together. This is one of the few times in my life that I'm organized. I like to measure the food out so that I can just move along without having to stop. We're going to need the following: Vodka, whipping cream, bottled pasta sauce, minced garlic, fresh Italian parsley & basil, butter and pasta of your choice. I'm using Rigatoni because it holds the sauce well.



Let's get started. Mince the garlic and the herbs.



Melt the butter, add the garlic and herbs, saute lightly.



Add the vodka and heat until it begins to steam.





Add the pasta sauce and mix well. Allow to heat through.

There will be pasta sauce left in the jar. Here's a helpful tip. Pour the whipping cream into the pasta jar, replace cap and shake vigorously.



This will loosen the remaining sauce. Pour this mixture into the pan and slowly heat to a simmer.



You've added quite a bit of additional liquid to the pasta sauce, so you're going to need to simmer this down until it thickens up a little. I grate some fresh provolone cheese to sprinkle on top.



Serve on top of hot pasta.

I served this with garlic toast and a bocconcini salad, which is fresh mozzarella balls tossed with olive oil, garlic, cherry tomatoes, minced parsley and basil.



Enjoy!

NOTE: If you look down, just under this post you'll see another post that include a You Tube video. Don't miss it. It's very exciting stuff.

Mini-Field Trip

I'm proud to invite you along on a Farmer's Wife Mini Field Trip.

This video was shot with my Fuji camera and the quality is so poor that I view this as ammunition for my attempts at getting my first video camera. If that happens we can go on some real fields trips to interesting places like the wind farm in Paw Paw or to Wild Bill Hickcock's birthplace in Troy Grove, Illinois.

On our first mini-field trip we're going to go watch the corn grow. Bundle up because it's very cold here in northern Illinois and the wind is whipping across the fields in terrible gusts.

Don't forget to turn off the music before you start the video. It contains a riveting sound track.



Hope you enjoyed watching the corn grow. Like I said, next time we'll pack a picnic lunch and sit up at the cemetery and look out over the fields. In August we can go back and wait to hear the corn squeak. Yep, it squeaks!!

NOTE: Vee has asked whether I'm kidding about the corn squeak. No..I'm not. People I know to be truthful have said the corn squeaks. I've never heard it myself, but then again I've never spent a large block of time watching and listening. I'm sure there's a PhD somewhere who's done his doctoral thesis on the scientific basis for corn squeaks, I just haven't located it on the web. If you look on my sidebar you'll see a link to the Iowa Corn Cam. It seems to be down this morning, but keep checking back. There are lots of people in the city who watch the corn grow. Some offices turn the corn cam on first thing in morning and everyone checks out the progress of the growth. We'll return to the field when the corn is a little taller and I'll tell you how watching the corn grow got my stepfather through his cancer treatments.

Crazy for the Dollar Store

It's time for a confession. I'm crazy for the dollar store. We've got a couple of really great versions around here. My favorite is next to the big box electronics store. I can go in and spend three bucks on retail therapy and feel much better.

The dollar store brings back fond memories of Woolworth's in the 1950's. I was in the fourth grade and had received some money for my birthday. Rather than spend it on ice cream from the ice cream truck, I tucked it away for my next visit to the five-and-dime.

I remember than store as if it was yesterday. There were two entrances with a U-shaped display window between them. The wooden plank floors had such a comforting sound as real shoe leather strode along the aisles. I was fascinated with the cosmetics and the hair products. My mom warned me that I was too young for a bottle of the Evening in Paris cologne in the cobalt blue bottle, but I dreamed about that Evening in Paris. Unfortunately for me, town was too far away for me to walk on my own My mom always accompanied us on our shopping excursions so it was impossible to make my Parisian dream come true.

About a month after my birthday we went to town and after all our errands were completed my mom pulled the station wagon into the diagonal spot in front of Woolworth's. The anticipation was unbearable. We weren't on a timetable, which meant I could spend an hour examining the merchandise, aisle by aisle, looking for just the perfect treasure. It's been a very long time and I don't remember how much money was involved, but it wasn't alot. Perhaps $10 in today's money but in the world of the five-and-dime it carried major buying power. If I shopped wisely there would be enough left over for a chocolate soda at the lunch counter.

Part of the pleasure of shopping for me is the tactile aspect, which is why internet shopping has never appealed to me. I need to touch, examine, turn an item over in my hand and see if it passes the quality test. That day I walked through the store, determined not to miss a thing. I briefly considered a new baby doll (Barbie hadn't been born yet) but I wanted something a bit more grown up.

It was at this point I found myself standing in front of the jewelry counter. I knew I'd found my home. You don't exactly think of a five-and-dime store as the place to find nice jewelry, but there in front of me was a tray of sterling silver rings, each one set with a birthstone. The hunt was over. I quickly found a ring in a heart-shaped design with a small blue stone in the center. I forked over my birthday cash and the ring was mine. Forever.

Isn't it odd that all these years later I still remember every detail of that store and that shopping trip? My daughter is the new owner of that little ring. The stone has lost it's sparkle but the memory has not.

I learned another lesson that fall, I learned the lesson of patience. Not long after I purchased the ring a train derailed nearby and all the contents of the box cars spilled out onto the countryside, including an entire boxcar of Evening in Paris cologne! The manufacturer claimed the entire shipment as a loss and people swooped down and claimed the cobalt bottles for themselves. One of those people was the father of my best friend Connie. Suddenly we had enough Evening in Paris to last us a lifetime!



NOTE: My recent trip to the dollar store netted me a great find. They were selling Martha Stewart's book, "Martha's Rules" for only $1. I bought myself a copy and grabbed another one as a giveaway for my readers. This was written after Martha was released from prison and contains a lot of very good information for anyone who is considering starting their own business or has their own business. All you need to do is to leave a comment and let me know you're interested. I will draw a name on Friday. Don't forget that my subscriptions are FREE. Such a deal. HA.

In Service to God and Country

Families were uprooted and expelled from Scotland by the English king. My great-great-great grandfather, Robert Nesbitt and his family arrived by ship into Charleston harbor, somewhere around 1767. They lived in South Carolina until Robert and his brother John were conscripted to serve in the Revolutionary War. They served to ensure the birth of a new nation, where they could live and worship freely.

After the war, the brothers were given military land grants in what is now Dickson County, Tennessee. They traveled there to claim their land, along with two younger brothers. The four brothers, Robert, John, Jeremiah and Nathan, settled the land, and family members still live within a 5 mile radius of the original homesteads location.

There are no photos from this period, but great grandfather James Lewis Nesbitt served in the Confederate Army, Company B, 14th Tennessee Regiment of the General Archie Brigade. Rural life at this time was tenuous at best, and the women and children left behind had to keep the farm going. This was subsistance farming and if they were not successful they would not survive. Letters home reflected the men's concerns about the childrens health, and whether or not the wife had been able to obtain salt. Salt was vital to preserved the meat when a hog was butchered in the fall. This meat was essential for the family to exist through the winter.

George Washington Newton, my paternal grandfather, served in World War I. It was quite an adventure for a simple country farmer to travel to Vancouver, Washington for training. The photos from this period in time were actually postcards, as soldiers would not have access to a camera. The back of this postcard, which shows the soldiers setting up camp, reads, "This is a beautiful place. Say, I suppose you are almost ready to plow corn. So long, George."



George's brother, Tinnoman Newton, also served in World War I. He trained at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, which is still one of the largest training facilities. He also sent a postcard.



My father, Franklin Ray Newton, enlisted in the U.S. Navy 6 months after the attack at Pearl Harbor. He had just graduated from high school. His service included tours on destroyers and the U.S.S. Midway. He was aboard his ship in the Sea of Japan the day the treaty was signed with the Japanese government, ending the war. This photograph hung in his bedroom as long as I can remember, up until his death 20 years ago. The U.S.S. Midway is now a floating museum, docked in San Diego.



After discharge my father married my mother and started a family. He was working and they were saving money to buy their first home when he was called back into the Navy to serve in the Korean war. One thing I will say about his generation is that they were not whiners. Not a word was every said about having their plans disrupted to serve his country again. He served, was discharged a second time and they got on with their lives.

His brother, Jackie Newton enlisted in the U.S. Army after Pearl Harbor and served in the European theater. He was a German prisoner of war for over two years, returning to his beloved Florida panhandle where he farmed peanuts, cotton and sugar cane. He still lives within 3 miles of the family homestead.

Cousin Charles Sheldon served two tours in Vietnam. He was a career man, older than the troops he commanded. He died of a heart attack while serving in Vietnam. His half brother Mack Nolen was an enlisted man in the U.S. Navy for 25 years, serving also in Vietnam. My husband Paul (the Farmer) was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1966, serving at Fort Knox, Kentucky during the Vietnam war.

To all these men I say, "I remember".

Get Thee to the Science Channel

If you're a science geek, get thee to the television and turn on the Science Channel.

Within 40 minutes the Mars mission Phoenix will land on Mars. The Science Channel is carrying live coverage.

I can't adequately tell you the memories this brings back of men landing on the moon and the tension ridden mission where it was not clear whether the astronauts would make it back alive. Hooray for engineers and duct tape.

Tune in and watch live.

If your kids are interested in space travel, consider sending them to Space Camp. Both our children attended the camp in Huntsville, Alabama and it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience with kids from all over the world!

Go Phoenix, go Phoenix, go Phoenix................

ED. NOTE: The Phoenix has landed. Follow the Phoenix Project link to photos sent back from the surface of Mars.

Wedding Party

Last night the Farmer and I attended a wedding reception. A cousin's son was getting married and the party was to be held in a Chicago suburb.

Both the Farmer and I were raised within spitting distance of the Chicago city limits. This was a place highly charged with ethnic energies and traditions. In the 30 years we've been married we have attended at least a hundred weddings. In fact, on our first date we partied at a Mexican co-workers wedding which was held in a parish gymnasium. Think West Side Story and you'll get an accurate picture of the situation.

Years ago ethnic traditions were strong, but as the years march on and the children marry and everything is tossed into the great melting pot.

Weddings in Chicago are generally large, joyous occasions and run the gamut from Beef Wellington affairs to pass-the-platter homestyle events. Traditionally you're served Baked Mostaciolli, Polish sausage, sauerkraut, baked chicken, mashed potatoes, roast beef and gravy. That seems to cover all the ethnic bases.

Imagine my surprise when we were guests at a Polish wedding where we were the only people who spoke English. We managed to communicate on a basic "hand-waving" level. It was a small reception held at the bride's home and I found myself sitting in the basement bar with a group of very animated Poles. The only English speaking person explained to me that the gentlemen was upset because he'd discovered his daughter was dating a Ukranian. Hmmmm, I didn't quite understand his concern but evidently this group of Poles and a bone to pick with the Ukranians. Who knew?

I love the ethnic mix but as I mentioned, over the years the traditions are lost as we are further and further distanced from our immigrant ancestors. The more recent immigrants (Thai and Vietnamese) hold strong to their ways. Their children seemed to fall away and become Americanized very quickly.

I'm sorry I can't offer you photographs from the party but my camera and memory card decided to have their own clash. I will tell you that the party did not disappoint me in the area of people watching. What a joyous thing it is to watch people having fun and celebrating.

The groom's mother has cheated death many times over the past year. She attended in a wheelchair and gathered up enough strength to dance with her son. The bridesmaids were assigned to the special hell of wearing strapless dresses that required "hiking up" all evening. Luckily there were no wardrobe malfunctions!

The Other Mother and her two sisters found their matriarchs corner and spent the evening hashing over old times. There is a special sadness in watching this sight because we know that almost everyone they knew and cared for in their lives are gone. In your late 80's you discover yourself adrift in a world that seems foreign to you. Everything has changed, their friends and spouses are dead and the world moves around them as if they're standing still.

The police showed up at the wedding. Literally. Both the bride and groom are police officers and both departments showed up in full force. I can tell you for a fact that policemen have a great time when they let their hair down.

When the kids were little we always brought the table favors and wedding cake home. The first thing in the morning they'd run downstairs to see their loot. These days the kids are up and waiting for us, concerned that mom and dad have stayed out so late. My daughter spotted the items in my hand and shouted, "What did you bring me?"

"Handcuffs and a police badge" I answered.

"What the???"

"Yep, chocolate handcuffs and a chocolate police badge!"

They were gobbled down before I could get a photo, sorry. I will try and find the packaging though because they were so cute I thought the company should have some face time on the internet. Check back later because my daughter is sleeping in the family room and has rolled over on the plastic bag that has the label on it.

ED. NOTE: The name of the chocolatier is The Chocolate Vault. Check out their website. They've got chocolate in any shape you can imagine.

I was wondering, what are wedding like in your neck of the woods? Big affairs, small affairs?

Lady, There's a Mosquito in Your Carry On

It has been many years since I left Texas. I remember well looking into the rearview mirror as we crossed the state line into Oklahoma. It was 1974, and my first husband and I were returning home to Illinois after his four year stint in the Air Force.

I probably missed out on a lot that Texas had to offer. I was pretty busy being homesick and poor. We did make friends with a wonderful family who owned a small Mexican restaurant called the Taco Hut. They were life savers, often feeding us when we were broke and always giving us a place to just hang out and capture some family time.

We drove down to Padre Island and camped on the beach with equipment rented from the base. Our first Thanksgiving away from home as spent in the mess hall, eating turkey under horrible fluorescent lighting. It gave everything a blue/green cast, including me.

I did pass through San Antonio on a road trip shortly after my divorce. I looked up old friends and generally had a good time, but my stay was short and the weather was bad.

Eleven or twelve years ago I logged on to the internet for the first time and landed on a gardening website forum that became my new home for the next 8 years. A couple years into the forum, friendships started blooming like mad and a bunch of us planned a get together to be held in, of all places, San Antonio. At the time I reflected on the oddity that I never appreciated Illinois until I left and I never appreciated Texas until I left. I was longing for the hill country, the Alamo and the Daughters of the Texas Revolution.

The Farmer and I discussed the cost of airfare and determined that it fit into our budget. Thanks honey!

The long weekend was everything I'd hoped for and more. It was a pajama party of old friends that I was meeting for the first time. That sounds odd, doesn't it? I've met such fantastic people online and later in person. We ate all the Tex-Mex our bellies could hold and stayed up all night telling ghost stories. I gave them a heads up on all the local dives and warned them against Tejano music. ACCCCKKKKK. Think Mariachi's with an oompah beat. We walked through the hushed spaces of the Alamo and sat at the bar in the Menger Hotel, where Teddy Roosevelt recruited his Rough Riders. I bet you didn't know they were just a bunch of drunken Texans straight off the Chisholm Trail, itching for fight.

We rented a white convertible and drove up Gruene (pronounced Green) and shopped till we dropped. It was in Gruene that I was faced with a terrible dilemma. Since the airfare, hotel bill and my share of a white convertible were stretching my budget to it's limit I had to decide on one of two souvenirs. There was a beautiful rabbit that would be a fabulous addition to my bunny collection. But there was also a terrific mosquito, hand crafted from black iron. The decision was hard. The rabbit was so beautiful but the mosquito was unusual. I'd never find anything like it back home. I forked over my hard cash and took possession of my very own mosquito.

Now I had a big problem on my hands. How would a get a 2 foot long mosquito home to Illinois? The shop owner offered to ship it for me but that would cost more than I paid for the thing. It wouldn't fit in my luggage, but my carry on resembled a small duffel bag and would be a perfect nesting place for a 'skeeter.

The night before our flight I carefully laid a pair of jeans in the bottom of the bag. The mosquito fit perfectly, laying upside down, surrounded with dirty laundry to keep him comfortably cradled for the ride home. Done! Ready to go.

We arrived at the airport when it dawns on me....you're going to need to get this through security! Oh well, I raised teenagers, how hard could this be? The lines moves forward. I place my bag on the belt and walk through the security gate. I think I'm prepared for what comes next.

The eyes of the person running the x-ray machine get as large as saucers. Everything stops. She asks her co-worker, "What's that?"

"It's a mosquito," I offer. "He's upside down."

"Huh?" she asks, "A mosquito?" (in Spanish, no less).

"Si, el mosquito."



Her line grinds to a stop and passengers are directed elsewhere. Supervisors are called. Walkie-talkies are buzzing and I'm looked at with a great deal of suspicion.

"What's THAT???" the supervisor hollers as he stares at the screen.

"I told her, it's a mosquito. Upside down. An upside down mosquito."

I'm told to remove the entire contents of the bag onto the belt and stand back. I do as I'm told because now there's uniformed police on hand. Dutifully I unload a bagful of stinky socks and underwear onto the conveyor belt and slowly retreat to my position next to the police sergeant.

The security supervisors edge closer and closer to the bag, finally peering into the dark, stinky depths.

"I'll be damned!!!" one of them shouts. "It's a damned mosquito and he's upside down!"

I thought I said that at least four times.

The mosquito is carefully lifted out of the bag. Everyone takes turns holding it, removing it's wings, asking how much I paid for it and where they could buy one.

"Gruene. Get up to Gruene quick before they're all gone!"

Thankfully it was a domestic flight because I don't think I could have survived explaining an upside down mosquito to a customs agent.

Don't Ask Me

It's interesting to watch as our children navigate the mine field of becoming an adult. They're not kids, they're not full-blown adults yet so I guess I'll categorize them as fledglings. Our daughter has been living away at college for four years, and our son lived for a couple years in his own condo. He's moved back home to complete nursing school. Their friends are all on similar tracks; a few are married but most are still living the single life.

My son's best friend is divorced with one little boy. He's a great dad, and I'm continually impressed with this generation of young men. They cook and they change diapers too! Where were they back when I was looking for someone with those talents? I guess I can take some credit because it was our generation of moms who created these domestic wonders.

Unfortunately my son's friend has had a recent streak of bad dating experiences. The last young woman very quickly revealed herself to be quite disturbed, and everyone (including her parents) has encouraged her to get some help. Unfortunately it has caused lots of drama in this young man's life. It's certainly drama that a young father doesn't need.

I was in the basement working on our never-ending basement remodel when I heard my son take a phone call upstairs. I could only hear snippets, but it was obvious the discussion was centered on yet another drama involving this girl.

I made the decision a long time ago to offer advice only when asked, and that has worked well for everyone involved. Shortly after hanging up the phone my son walks downstairs and asks, "Mom, are there any normal women out there?"

"Hmmm. How old?" I asked.

What the heck did age have to do with it, and why did I ask that question? I don't know.

"Well, you know, women...." he answered.

Pretend you're reading a movie script. I'm going to set the scene for you.

Disastrous-looking, half-finished basement. Main character, 60-year old woman, overweight, graying hair pulled up in a Pebbles Flintstone ponytail on top of her head. She's splattered head-to-toe with white primer paint. She's barefoot, braless and her iPod dock is blasting Metallica's rendition of "Whiskey in the Jar."

The director calls ACTION!

"Son, I'm probably not the one to ask."

Let's All Pray

You need to pay attention to odd bits of paper that you might find lying around because it can be some of the most interesting reading you'll ever find. There's a guy who wrote an entire book called Milk, Eggs, Vodka, based solely on grocery lists he found abandoned in carts and lying on the floor.

Just this past week I came across two items of interest. The first is a discolored bit of index card that I found inside an old book. It reads, "Do not get wet for 1 week. Come in on X-mas eve to change dressing." This was written on 1/4 of a 3 x 5 index card, so even back then someone was saving a tree. (Although there are no points for using the term X-mas instead of Christmas. It's just plain lazy.)

The second is quite a bit more interesting and timely.



This scrap was lying on the ground outside the food store. Like I said, always pick these things up. Oh, and report your finding back to me.

It reads:

Pray for Muslim World - 5/23/2008 - 9a-12p - BEC - 4th floor, Wilson Suite.

I'm not quite sure what BEC refers to, and I don't know where the Wilson Suite is, but I don't think we need to actually be in the Wilson Suite in order to pray, do we? They also don't mention what they'll be praying for.

I think we should all go ahead and pray for the Muslim World between 9 a.m.-12 p.m on Friday, May 23rd. Perhaps we should pray that these people are praying for something good.

Yeah, let's all go ahead and do that.

Road Trip - Indiana Jones and the Illinois Farmer

You cannot know how much I am anticipating the release of Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull.

Our friend's son worked on the movie. In fact he's worked on several projects with Spielberg and Harrison Ford.

NOTE: Don't forget to turn off the music if you're going to watch the trailer.



The Farmer and I envision ourselves as Illinois Jones and his sidekick Marion. In our quest we have flown all over the Yucatan and Central America in Cessna Caravans, some with instrumentation duct taped to the dashboard! We've ridden an ancient schoolbus on the old Pan American highway. We taken boats, all kinds of boats, including traveling at night off the coast of Belize in a tiny motorboat without any running lights. That was scary!

We've visited almost all the major Mayan temple sites in North America. There are a few more to tick off our list, but the Farmer has proclaimed that he's discovered once you've climbed one Mayan temple, you've climbed them all.

Not exactly. The Mayan temple complex at Tikal in Guatemala can only be described in my book as one of the Wonders of the World. There are no words to describe the scale or the beauty.

Tikal was the site of our most "Indiana" adventure. The flight from Belize was an adventure in itself. The plane flew very low, we never understood why. It got a little frightening as mountains loomed at the border with Guatemala. If we'd looked through the windshield we would have noticed the mountain pass that the pilot was aiming to pass through.

Upon landing we walked to the small terminal and were immediately surrounded by military types with bandoliers, machine guns and German Shepherds on short leashes. It's inconceivable to me that anyone would attempt to smuggle drugs into Guatemala, but you never know.

The complex at Tikal is huge and if we'd spent a week it still wouldn't have been enough time to take it all in. The Visitor's Center was a sad commentary on a endemic problem in Central America. I was a fairly new and modern looking building but as we approached it became apparent that nothing had ever been done since the day it was built. Omigosh! This was absolutely the dirtiest bathroom I've ever encountered anywhere. The outhouse at tiny Bomba Village was freshly painted and sparkling clean. I'd take that over this place any day.

Here's a scene from Bomba Village, home of the sparkling clean outhouse.



Things were better once we were on the trail back to Temple Four, which is unexcavated and the only temple you're allowed to climb. Along the way we were entertained by Cotamundi's, which are their version of the raccoon. Ceiba trees towered over us and since we were in a rainforest....it rained constantly. My camera was double bagged and we slipped along the trail. The Farmer charged ahead. Honestly, he was like a LITTLE KID. He was grinning and I swear he was pretending to be Indie, hoping for some bad guy to jump out of the jungle.

Soon we found ourselves at the base of Temple Four. Our guide pointed out the entrance tucked in the deep jungle vegetation. Fortunately you cannot see what you're in for, because if you could see the set up, you'd probably back off. There were no steps, since the temple is covered with dirt and jungle the trip to the top is on ladders. Lots of ladders, more like narrow steps but wet and slimy in the constant gentle rain. Up and up we went. Once you start there's no going back. One way up. One way down. Quite the adventure in itself.

At the top you're rewarded with perhaps the most breathtaking view you'll ever see.



You're high above the canopy. Stop and think about how high that is. Very high. The main twin temples rise in distance, shrowded by the mist rising off the jungle. It is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Some European back-packers assured us that there was something more beautiful. To see this at sunrise. I believed them but HELL NO, I wouldn't climb those ladder/steps in the dark. No way.

You can get an idea of the scale from this photo. The wooden lintels at the top of the temple are 1,600 years old!



It was the adventure of a lifetime and we felt so lucky to have been able to have that experience. We've worked hard to make some dreams come true. Even if we are just pretending to be Indie and Marion.

Indie is my kind of guy, ruggedly handsome, resourceful, a smart aleck, intelligent, an ARCHAEOLOGIST! But since I can't have Indie, I'll stick with my Illinois Jones, the Farmer.

BTW, I want Karen Allen to play me in the movie version of Illinois Jones and his sidekick Marion. Karen is from Carrollton, a small town in Illinois.

Simply Perfect

Not many things leave me speechless. The photo says it all. (My son and a friend's baby)

Hey Neighbor, About That Yard Butt

Have you seen the yard butts? They’re wood cutouts painted to look like a woman (or man) bending over pulling weeds or working in the garden.

They’re prevalent around here, usually in areas with older residents. You’ll see them alongside “Our Lady of the Bathtubs”, pink flamingos and garden gnomes. I don’t have any objection to them, I just choose not to use them as ornamentation in my garden.

Imagine my surprise recently at a neighborhood cocktail party. I’ll admit that I'd already had a martini and was feeling a light buzz when my neighbor approached me and engaged in conversation.

“I really don’t mind those yard butt decorations,” she offered.

“They’re OK,” I answered.

I was hedging here because I’m not always sure where people are going with this kind of thing. Perhaps she’d just installed an entire army of yard butts. I didn’t want to offend her taste so I was non-committal.

“Well, I was wondering,” she continued, “why do you keep moving it around?”

“Moving what around?” I asked.

“Your yard butt. It’s just that every time I drive down that road you’ve moved it to another spot.”

“What?”

The martini was kicking in big time and I was in a fog. Yard butts? I haven’t got any stinking yard butts on my property.
In a momentary lapse back into lucidity I realize……

THE OTHER MOTHER!!!!

She’s been seeing The Other Mother bent over in our yard, doing her gardening!

I’ll lay claim to the fact that I have the country’s first LIVING YARD BUTT!!!

I’d like to see Martha top that one.

The Farmer Had a Cookbook

The Farmer and I met eight months after he graduated from college. He had briefly moved in with his parents while he looked for a job in his field. After being hired by an insurance company he rented his first bachelor pad.

Shortly after we started dating he told me that he went to visit his parents every Sunday. I thought that was so wonderful, until I realized that it was simply to snag at least one home cooked meal every week. OK, I can understand that. But then he revealed that he dragged all his dirty laundry home for mom to wash! OH NO. This would not fly with me. I gave him a stern lecture about being an adult and that dragging your laundry home to mommy wasn't exhibiting a high level of personal responsibility. Even back then I was all about personal responsibility.

It's amazing that he continued to date me but he must have realized that I was right.

A short while later he invited me to his pad for the first time. I had been to parties in some pretty horrible bachelor pads. There was one in particular that I'm pretty sure had to be leveled when the guys moved out. But the farmer's apartment wasn't that bad. It could have used a little detailing but it wasn't horrible.

He promised to cook me dinner and I was curious as to what might be on the menu. Looking around the kitchen I noticed this:



Yes! There was a copy of Betty Crocker's Cook Book on the counter. Could it be that I found a guy that could actually cook?

It was probably placed there to impress unsuspecting young ladies. The dinner he prepared was not from a recipe, that's for sure. He dug through his freezer and cabinets, grabbing what he had on hand. His ingredients were chicken breasts, pizza sauce and some mozzarella cheese. He called his concoction "Pizza Chicken" and although it wasn't gourmet fare, it was edible and filling. Good thing because there wasn't any dessert!

My guess is that his mother gave him her old copy of he cookbook as a gift for his new apartment. It was obviously used and now it's literally falling apart.



It resides on our bookshelf and I refer to it often.



I don't believe the Farmer ever actually opened the book. I could be wrong.



Today's young menl seem to know how to cook. Is that because their mothers trained them well? My nephews are accomplished cooks and I'm so jealous. It would have been wonderful to have had help during my working years when I was constantly faced with the "what's for dinner?" problem.

Do your husbands or sons cook? Please tell me I'm not alone with not one, but two non-cooking males in the house.

ED. NOTE: Omigosh, I forgot to include the Farmer's famous recipe for Hot Dog
Soup. It goes hand-in-hand with my hot dog bun snippet of the day.

THE FARMER'S FAMOUS HOT DOG SOUP

1 package hot dogs
8 cups of water

Bring the water to a boil in a large pan over high heat. Add the hot dogs and continued to boil for at least 15 minutes.

Remove the hot dogs and throw them away. Serve the soup!

HONESTLY...he used to tell people this was his best recipe. What a joker he is.

Mom's Busted

The majority of students have left the college town where my daughter resides. She's in a group of master's candidates who meet each morning at the library in preparation to complete the final requirements for the degree.

She left early on Thursday morning which gave me the run of the apartment. That was fine with me because I like to clean by myself and she was sick and barely able to make it to her study group. I donned my battle gear, preparing to organize and do some basic cleaning.

I spotted my daughter's IPOD nestled in a hot pink contraption that's meant to be worn on the arm. Can you tell I haven't clocked much time in a fitness club? That fact is underscored by the fact that I can barely fit the device over my chubby upper arms. It's just a stinking hot pink musical blood pressure cuff at this point.



I was sure my work would go faster if I listened to some tunes. I turn the IPOD on and click Music > Artists > ..... at this point it occurred to me that I might not even recognize any of the artists on her playlist. One of the first groups I spotted was Crystal Method. I love music, all kinds of music (except rap) and I've learned over the years to never judge a book by it's cover or a band by it's name.

Further down her list I find:

Robert Palmer - Addicted to Love (Sigh. R.I.P. Robert)
Steve Winwood - Higher Power (Oh yeah)
Rick Springfield - Jesse's Girl (Woo Hoo)

No Metallica however. I like Metallica, especially their rendition of "Whiskey in the Jar". (This fact will play out in another story later this week)

And look.....Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. That's my girl!

Since I believe myself to be someone who is willing to broaden their horizons or at least inform myself of cultural influences I choose Crystal Method. Not to worry, there are no nasty lyrics, in fact there are no lyrics at all. Drug references aside, it's electronic dance music which I'm pretty sure is popular with spinning classes. (Think health club, not wool).

I'm impressed. It has a beat and you can scrub toilets to it!

My work progressed nicely. I created this little vignette without putting any holes in the wall.



This mess gets organized and tucked into closets.



I keep moving down her playlist and more work gets accomplished. And then, disaster strikes.

Robert Palmer pulses through the ear buds. The beat starts, Robert sings, "The lights are on, but you're not home...." (Turn off the playlist if you don't want to rock out!)

Suddenly I can't control myself. I drop the broom and start dancing, not the back and forth toe tap of the pencil thin and over made-up models from the music video, but real dancing. Hips are shaking, hands are up in the air. HA! I'm having fun and feeling really happy that my daughter doesn't have any kind of nanny-cam.

Just as I'm feeling all smug, I get that creepy feeling that someone is watching. YIKES!! There's someone in the second story window of the house next door. And yes, he's seen the whole sordid affair! I pull back away from his view so fast that if I'd moved another inch I would have busted a hole in the wall.

When my daughter returns I question her.

"Who lives next door?" I ask.

"Oh, a really nice couple. He's an engineer at the company I'm hoping where I'm hoping to get hired."

Oh, swell.

"Anyone else?" I query, knowing it was a younger man at the window.

"Oh, their son who is in college."

Now panic strikes in full force. I'm not a big one for projecting what might happen but in this case my imagination runs wild. What if they cross paths on their way to their cars in the morning? My mind conjures up the possible conversation.

"Hi, my name is Mark."

"Hi Mark, how are you?"

"Good. Say, do you have a roommate or something?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"I thought I saw an older woman in your apartment last week."

"Oh, that was my mom. She was here to help me clean the apartment."

"Your MOM?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Holy cow, your mom was BUSTIN' SOME MOVES!!"

Yeah....bustin' and busted, all in the same breath!

NOTE: Crystal Method group members have tried to distance themselves from the drug reference but come on! One member discussed how difficult it was to tell his parents he was in a band named The Crystal Method. Good, I'm glad to hear that he cared about what his family might think. Another member talks of breaking the news of the band's name to his mom while they were on a nature walk. He was surprised that his mom didn't freak out. That was probably due to the fact that she KNEW her son.

Wallpaper Archaeology Update

Thanks to everyone who voted in my poll about what to do about the cowboy wallpaper.



The results are in:



As I suggested to my daughter when she was freaking out, the smell was simply due to the fact that the apartment had been closed up for a period of time. Now that windows have been opened and people are constantly going in and out there's no odor at all.

She's decided to keep the wallpaper. It will add a kitschy/funky feeling to her Kimora Lee Simmons inspired closet room. She's found a cheetah patterned rug somewhere, she's just saving her pennies, and I'm searching all my thrifting sources for a crystal chandelier.

I've got some great stories from my organizing and cleaning adventure. Check back tomorrow!

Erma - The Original Mommy Blogger

Not many young women today remember Erma Bombeck. She died almost 20 years ago, but back in the day she was a voice in the wilderness for a generation of women.

There always seems to be this myth of "supermom" that refuses to die no matter how much reality pounds on it. The supermom image in the late '70s and '80's got really scary as women were made to believe that they could and should aspire to a high powered career and motherhood and household perfection and perfect marriage. It was a recipe for disaster.

I'm sure that some will jump in and say, "I did it!", but my question would be "Why would you want to?" During those years I saw my fair share of nervous breakdowns, including my own. (We'll talk alot about that in the future).

Erma was a member of my mother's generation and she was the voice in the wilderness, the one who felt secure enough and safe enough to say, "This is all a crock. My kids aren't perfect. My house is mess. My relationships are flawed, and that's the reality of life." All this was done with humor and it struck a chord with women everywhere who were struggling to keep up with unrealistic expectations.

Humor was the vehicle that made it all work. Humor took the edge off and I never found her to be unkind or hurtful. There's a fine line we walk when writing about our family and our friends. It's out there for everyone to see and read. Our writings must be mentally edited to avoid hurting people or damaging relationships. I cringed at reading a blog once where a woman dragged her family over the coals daily, dishing on her "aspy-crazy" (Asburger's symdrome) kids and manic-depressive husband. Did she need an outlet and a support group? Absolutely. But not a blog.

Can you imagine what would fly off keyboards if we were all assured it would be anonymous? PHEW! But the challenge lies in saying those same things through a lens of understanding and kindness. That's a very difficult exercise. When successful it opens a dialogue in which we can all examine the challenges that face us. Our experiences are shared. Our solutions should be shared. We should not be alone in what Sark calls "Transformation Soup."

Easy Break Coconuts

I walked into the food store the other day and there was a big display of something called "E-Z Break Coconuts". Seriously, this is the stupidest thing I ever heard of. They've taken coconuts and scored a line around the center using some type of power tool making it easier to break open.

Don't they know that a intact coconut is the best thing since Prozac?

When your family has gotten on your last nerve you can drive to the local food store and pick up a coconut or two, depending on your level of stress and anger. Now the fun can begin.

The first thing you do is squeeze the coconut in the vice bolted to your husband's work bench and proceed to attack it with a power drill. Yeah, right in those three coconut eye sockets. Drill, drill, drill. Make lots of noise. Scream if you want because you're neighbors will instantly know EXACTLY what you're up to. At this point you can drain all the coconut milk into that Tom Collins glass that you've prepared with two shots of gin, a wedge of lime and a basil leaf for garnish. It's a concoction I call, "Pit Bull on Crack".

With all the coconut milk drained we get to the main event.........beating the hell out of the coconut with a hammer.

With the E-Z Break coconut the experience just isn't the same. One hit and the party's over.

NOTE: I'm not really here. This is only the cyber-me posting. I'm vacuuming and cleaning refrigerator's at my daughter's new apartment. You know...mom stuff. Leave me a comment anyway, I'll need the cheering up when I get back online. Hooray for Blogger's new scheduling post feature. Sorry that you have to listen to the same music for three days. Turn it off 'cause I don't know how to!

A Tale of Two Bathrooms

BATHROOM NUMBER 1 -

Yesterday morning I was starving but there would be nothing but black coffee on the menu for me. My doctor had scheduled a blood draw and I wasn't allowed to eat after 10 p.m. the night before. I arrived at the office on time and the nurse drew the blood. No problem, that doesn't bother me in the least. And then she says, "The doctor wants a sample. She needs to send it out to the lab."

A sample. The one that looks like apple juice.

HUH? What??? No way!!!

Darn it. I'm spitting bullets at this point but the nurse wasn't taking no for an answer. I can endure alot of things but perching myself on a toilet and attempting to hit a blind target is the ultimate indignity. Men have no problem with this. Heck no. They do target practice with Cheerios from the time they're two years old.

I found myself in my doctor's beautifully decorated bathroom. I'm talking nice artwork, automatic air fresheners, blue toilet water and everything. None of that matters at the moment because I'm facing the dreaded task. Unfortunately I had used the bathroom just before leaving home and at this point I'm not even sure I can produce the "apple juice".

Much jostling and muttering under my breath ensued. Success!! Unfortunately the toilet was one of those handicap accessible models, which means I'm a distance off the floor. It's almost impossible to reach over to put the cup on the floor so I reach behind me and put it on the back of the toilet, which is, unbeknownst to me, slanted. Yes.... the entire contents spilled on the floor!

My kids are young adults and I thought I'd seen the last of cleaning up the three P's (pee, poop & puke). But no.

Five minutes and many paper towels later I managed to get the mess cleaned up. But in the process of giving the sample I'vd used the last bit of toilet paper on the roll. Holy cow, not only am I cleaning up one of the three P's, I'm replacing the toilet paper. Don't I get enough of this at home?

I looked around the room and said to myself, "This place is so pretty I should probably fold the ends over."

Yeah, great idea. Pretend you're in a five-star hotel and you're the maid.



Seriously, what's wrong with me? (But this is why t.p. always goes OVER the roll, not under).

I inform the nurse that there's been an accident and I can't possibly produce another drop. After conferring with the doctor and getting permission the nurse hands me a biohazard kit.



I leave the office, comforted in the fact that I can work on apple juice in the privacy of my own home, where I'll probably have to replace the toilet paper also.

The next task on my list for the day was to get an oil change.

Can you guess what's coming next?

BATHROOM NUMBER 2 -

I pull the car just inside the bay doors, refusing to drive up onto the tracks. No way. This guy is gonna have to do it himself. I'm not risking driving The Farmer's car into the grease pit. And believe me, it's a distinct possibility.

Moments later as I'm sitting in the marginally clean waiting room disaster strikes. I GOTTA GO! Bad. Really, really bad. Five minutes earlier I couldn't produce a molecule and now Niagara Falls is threatening to be unleashed. The bathroom is just behind the counter. Oh no. It's the grease monkey's combination closet/bathroom, and it's full of their uniform shirts on hangers. I do spot a vacuum just inside the door. That's a hopeful sign. They seem to be clean grease monkeys. Maybe it's not so bad.

I close the door and struggle to lock it behind me. When I turn around what do I see? THE SEAT IS UP! How cozy, just like home. Martha would be so proud of me. I fashioned a delightful and pristine seat cover out of paper towels, and followed up with a vigorous hand washing under scalding hot water. My hands were impeccably clean. And that's a good thing because................

I immediately drove myself to Krispy Kreme.



Five minutes later I was feeling much better.

The Farmer in the Dell

Yesterday afternoon I burst into song, belting out the old favorite, "The Farmer in the Dell." That song is very annoying and it's a good thing that no one was home at the time.

I mentioned that the farmer would be leaving for Mexico. His flight leaves very early this morning and in preparation he stayed out at the farm which is closer to the airport. There's a small farmhouse on the property that we lovingly call "The White House". In bad weather or occasions such as this it serves as his home for the night.

In addition to the Illinois farm and the distribution facility in South Carolina, there are two farms in Mexico. The farmer is General Manager and CFO for all of these operations and he's visiting the Mexican farms to work on some projects. He claims it's all business but he took his bathing suit! What do you think?

Before I go any further with this story we're going to switch gears for a moment and play a little game. Have you ever played the online search game where you're presented with a picture of a room filled with stuff and a list of things you need to find? OK, here we go. We'll call it "The Farmer Might Get Stuck in the Dell" game.

Here's my very messy office filled with all kinds of interesting things. You're looking for the following items:

computer monitors
cookbooks
broken lamp
Daytimer
vintage postal scale
keyboard
coffee mug
cordless phone



Have you found them?

Here are some of the items revealed.



And a few more.....



You've almost found all of them.



Oh, and I forgot. There's one more item on the list.

A PASSPORT!!

Did you find it?



The farmer can't get into Mexico without a passport. And no, it wasn't sitting on top of the desk to alert me to the fact that he'd forgotten it. Yesterday, after he left for work, I went about my chores but something kept nagging at me. I walked into the office and checked the folder where we keep our passports. His had recently come up for renewal and I wanted to make sure he'd taken the current one.

NO! He hadn't taken either. I made a quick phone call and he met me halfway (20 miles). It cost him a pork cutlet sandwich and a weak promise to bring me back a Mexican condominium. We'll see. I think my quick thinking is worth at least that much.

NOTE: The other day I mentioned the Iowa Corn Cam. There's a link on my sidebar but here's another one. Iowa Corn Cam. Enjoy watching the corn grow! And don't forget to sign up for your free subscription to "At Home".

The Problem with Grandchildren

I have a problem with grandchildren. The problem is I don't have any! My kids are not cooperating in this regard. What they don't understand is that when that happens I'll quit pinching their cheeks and pinch the grandchildren's cheeks. It can be quite embarassing when you're standing their with your new girlfriend and your mom launches forward aiming for that right cheek.

The fact that neither one of them is married or even close doesn't deter me from my preparations. I don't eat McDonald's, but anyone that does has been instructed to order a Happy Meal and save the toy for my collection. They are further ordered to alternate between girl & boy Happy Meal. My miniature McDonald's Madame Alexander doll is upstairs. I couldn't find it for the photo shoot.



I save my children's clothing from a line I produced and sold in the 1980's. What are the chances that they'll name their children with the same names?



Here's a nice little collection of stuffed toys. They're hid in a safe place, far from the Chihuahuas.



Here's a Cub Scout uniform all ready to go. I'd just have to remove the badges.



The other day a newspaper was mailed to our home. I've never seen this thing before but the headline on the front page reads, "Welcoming a grandchild of a different race." Then there's a small headline underneath, "Tips for helping the transition." And there's more, "Positive language is important."

Well, yeah. If my kids come through the front door with a grandchild of a different race, positive language will not be a problem. I'll say,