Tips to being a good holiday guest (and keeping your Hostess sane)

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Tips for being a great guest:

1. Don't be late for dinner, or any other organized event. If your hostess says dinner at four, be there no later than four If it is a family thing, come early and offer to help or pour wine or put other guest coats away. Don't expect to be waited on.

2. Don't bring something that has to be cooked or assembled at the host's home. You will be in the way. I don't care if it your 'special' dish; this gathering is not about you. Save it for your own gig.

3. Don't expect to be waited on. This deserves repeating. You are not there to be one more job for the hostess. Unless otherwise instructed, offer to help.

4. Do not change the seating arrangement unless you consult the hostess. This applies double for small spaces. Not the host, the hostess. Chances are she has arranged this for best flow, best conversation, whatever... If not, she can tell you. I can tell you that I do not want to spend two days cooking a beautiful meal to see anyone but my husband sitting at the head of the table...(duh!).

5. If you remove anything from the refrigerator, ask first. That just may be the secret ingredient to some dish the hostess needs. If you remove it, someone may have to go to Alaska to replace it.

6. For God's sake, clean up after yourself and help clean up after the meal. You have heard that as far back as your childhood. Why am I repeating myself?

Let's see, have I covered everything? Well, I have covered things I shouldn't have to, but I apparently have to.

Eggs, easy

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The hens are laying again. One by one, they find suitable places (never a regular nest; god forbid!) and lay a lovely brown orb full of nutritious goodness. A popular place for Betty (or is it Biddy?) is in the waist-high brick planter by the back door.

Last season, it was in the seat of my dead aunt's power wheelchair that recharged by the backdoor, waiting for my sister's husband to retrieve it. That didn't go well. Winston the Wonder Dog ate every one of them. It wasn't a happy situation; how can a girl relax enough to pass an egg with a squished black face waiting eagerly to consume the next generation? She fretted, he gobbled (then farted), we were without eggs. But, she could not be dissuaded. Even when the chair was removed, she laid the egg on the patio where the chair had been. I'm telling you, it is no wonder these birds need the protection of humans.

So, here we have the sad tale of the modern small farm. Hen lays egg, Pug eats egg, farmer goes hungry. Farmer endures smelly companion.

Chocolate Christmas

We are a family of chocolate lovers. Not the sugary, oily stuff in cheap candy, but the real, rich, cacao laden miracle food. And, this Christmas, we indulged our love.

We exchanged bars and drops, fruit-filled, nut-bumpy, milk, dark, high octane. My Seattle son brought us chili limon chocolate, chipotle lime chocolate, and other exotics. We all had blissful expressions on our faces and bliss on our tongues.

I give thanks for its South American origin and the rainforest climates that sustain cacao crops globally.

Hope in troubled times

These are the words to a song by Jewell. They are an inspiration to me when I am down. I felt that this holiday season, during these difficult times, they might be a uplifting message for you.

We have so much to be thankful for, and we have control over many things, just not all things. That is when we let go and let God.

I hope you seek and find peace within yourself this coming year and change just one thing for the better. I hope you tell someone that you love them, and I hope someone tells you back that they love you. I hope you run out of fingers when you are counting your blessings.

I hope you know that you are important to me. Thank you for reading.

"Hands"

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these

I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after

We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray

We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart

Happy holidays and a wonderful New Year!

Anniversary thought

It may be more romantic to be the first love,

but it's better to be the last.

--from Grit and Gumption, A Cowgirl's Guide

Medical bonding time

My middle son is getting surgery again. This time on his foot, his heel specifically.

This follows scar revision of the hand, an ACL repair, appendectomy resulting in abscess and more surgery for placement of drain in abscess which wore a hole in an artery causing an arterial bleed and more surgery. He has had mono, bad flu, broken clavicle (2,) broken thumb (2), concussions (2).

We have spent a lot of time in medical facilities. We call it bonding time. We talk, joke, philosophize, dream, and actually enjoy the time. But, all the time, I worry. Until he is out of surgery, without complications, and stable, I worry.

Hey, he's still my baby.

High desert magic

We went to the high desert to celebrate our anniversary. We walked in mild sunny weather in soft sage-and-juniper scented wind. We followed tiny deer tracks trailing next to larger ones. We went back where we have spent so much of our best times, in the mountains.

It calmed and recharged us. We laughed and held hands. It was good.

Happy anniversary, Husband

Twenty seven years ago today, I pledged my troth (whatever the hell that is; I mean, I get trough, I know tooth, I've heard of froth, but troth? I figured I had nothing to lose by pledging something I didn't even think I had one of...) to George. That's a long time, and in all these years, he has never asked to see it, (my troth, that is... much less give it to him), so I'm doing good.

And so are we. He is arrogant, rude, goofy, self-centered, dense as an oak stump, and thoroughly lovable. I asked him, 'When we met, you had money, muscles, hair and a Corvette. What the hell happened to you?' He says, 'You.' How rude.

True, we dated ten years before we married, but that was so he could make those little tune-ups that I requested. I was pretty much squared away perfect, so I just waited for the improvements. Anyway, it turned out okay, and we are still together, mostly because I am so loyal, loving, and attractive.

Seriously, my hubby-love loves me like no one else ever can or ever will. He makes me laugh, and think, and feel interesting and alive. He laughs with me and at me. He makes me crazy and props me up. He is who I want to be with, now, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.

Happy anniversary, H.

Love, W.

If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day,

so I never have to live

without you.

--Winnie the Pooh, to Christopher Robin

Sorry for the neglect

Okay, first, I am sorry to neglect you, my sweet blog friend. You have been my salvation and catharsis during my empty nest/ dog death/ lousy weather thing.

But, please understand... My sister had a NSTEMI, what we call an en-stim-ee in the trade, a 'non-ST elevation myocardial infarction'. A heart attack that does not result in the elevation of the S and T waves on an electrocardiogram. Serious stuff, dammit.

But, I am doing fine. I am spending a good portion of my time checking on her, explaining meds and side effects, doing last minute shopping for her, arranging for visits with her grandkids...

Anyway, I have not forgotten you. I'll be back soon.

Reality check

My sister, the one closest in age to me, a mere eighteen months older, had a heart attack today. Damn. That is not supposed to happen to chicks as young as we are.

Wait, though... she is only one year younger than our dad when he died of cardiac related issues. And,...oh, yeah, just four short years younger than our mother, who died of a heart attack aided by the incompetence of a doctor.

Hunh... maybe we are in that window of opportunistic death. Maybe we are facing mortality.

I can't take this. I don't want to deal with this. The family is calling, calling, texting, e-mailing... What's up? How serious is this? Serious. Really? Really. But, you two are the 'little girls', the babies, how can this be?

Time, baby. It catches up with us all. We trade the bad habits, the studious ignoring of symptoms and heredity for the future. Time to pay up. Sad and alarming, but true. As a famous law enforcement instructor told me, "There are very few true victims".

I will pray for a better tomorrow for my sister, and for the changes wrought by a wake-up call.

Ice pug-cades

Winston the Wonder dog was in rare form this morning. He was going on a ride! (Twitch of tail, lick of lips) Yes, a ride! (Snort to clear mucus from tiny little nose), Do you want to go on a ride? (Head tilt, snort, twitch, run to door, look back over shoulder)...

When the door opens, he races out, sideswiping the opener-person, and does wild laps around the nearest vehicle. Or, attempts to.

Today, the morning began with a thick sheet of ice on everything, results of a night long freezing rain. Even the sides of the cars were glazed with ice. Which makes high speed laps dangerous to humans, but hilarious for Pugs. Even more so when the Pug in question is wearing red and white checkered long johns with a trap door at the butt.

Winston realized his problem at the first turn, which did not go the way he anticipated. He slid wide, skittering madly, his rear end passing his face. He looked over at the offending part like it was a rival driver in a drag race. He scrabbled even faster with his front paws. No luck. Now his front end was doing something strange, turning slowly away from the rest of him.

He made the turn, missing the nearby truck by mere inches, and passed by his shrieking audience; red, white, black; red, white, black. We laughed until our sides hurt at the sight of the poor black child in the dim morning grayness spinning on the ice.

Which made him get all silly and show-offy. He made multiple laps then, enjoying it for its craziness and class clown potential, deliberately spinning out on his tummy, tongue lolling and eyes wild.

Early morning ice-pug-cades.

Graduation day

(My son and his thesis adviser, the Dean of Sciences)

Today, my husband and I attended the graduation of our middle child, our son the pre-med soccer player. He graduated with honors, cum laude, with an additional degree from the Honors College in addition to Biology. He was selected by the faculty to speak at the ceremony.

A reception followed, during which time we were surrounded by professors who were effusive in their praise of my son's intellect, character and kindness. It was, as George says, a report card for us as parents. And, we got A+.

We have had two of our children graduate from college so far, and one will follow next year. I am grateful for the hard work and diligence my kids give to their studies and future. I came from undereducated, low socioeconomic roots, and I have been determined for my kids to have better than I had. I made it through both university and nursing school, but with lots of loans and hardship.

Now, another one faces the real world, equipped with education, no loans, a good car, and a deep appreciation for what put him where he is.

Congratulations, my son, the graduate.

No encore

In this season of joy, anticipation, hope, healing and birth, our friend is dying. Will die, today.

Because he has deteriorated in two short weeks from being a vibrant, handsome, talented man of fifty to a wasted patient in intensive care, connected to tubes and drains and monitors. Because the doctors have concurred that he will never make it.

If a miracle occurred and he did somehow find a way to support his own life, he would be blind and deaf. He is a professional musician with a voice like a god. He might cope with the blindness, but to silence his music would be to lock him in a living hell. In this performance, he gets no encore, though we are applauding as loudly as we can through our tears.

But, he cannot live without the machines right now. And they will be stilled as soon as the family gathers later today.

For the songs, the smiles, the encouragement, the decades of friendship, thank you, Dan.

You have been more than a friend. You have been music to our ears.

God bless, Danny Boy.

Quote

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If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder without any such gift from the fairies, he need the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in.

--Rachel Carson

Cabela's Club

Yes, we are a member of the sacred Redneck Society of Cabela's. We worship at the shrine of the Bargain Cave. We love this stuff.

However, at Christmas time, when Club Card Bonus points are being spent in the furtherence of holiday magic, it is hard to keep a secret. These assholes report every little damn transaction. I have no secrets.

Just yesterday, George opens an envelope and asks, 'What boot dryer did you order?'. I am flabbergasted. The order went in yesterday, as in: less than 24 hours ago! Damn!

I pause... then, I am suddenly pissed at this snoopy invasive person called husband. 'It was supposed to be a Christmas gift! Maybe, you could have just pretended not to read that so I might be able to surprise you once in a while!' I purged my Cabela's wrath!

He looked at me through those stupid fucking magnifying reading glasses, which just serve to make that little hurt expression more intense, and said, 'Well, I didn't know...'

Not to be deterred, I said, 'George, it's December! Don't ask questions about the bills!' and stomped out of the kitchen.

For a long while after, we both felt kinda lousy...

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Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa.

--Bart Simpson

When pickers marry rippers

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Yesterday I went Christmas shopping. Today, I will wrap and maybe put up some decorations. It is hard to get all excited about Christmas stuff when the kids aren't around. Doing holiday stuff alone is lonely.

Today, I invited my sister over to work on a project of hers while I wrap. That will help. I'll set a fire in the fireplace (well, okay, pellet stove with window, but a fire, nonetheless), and turn on holiday music. Maybe light some cinnamon candles. Maybe take an antidepressant (kidding...).

I am pleased with my purchases, excited for my family to open their gifts. That is the real good stuff about Christmas for me; everyone home, gathered together, ripping wrapping and laughing and exclaiming.

My kids and I are wrapping rippers. We became such as a direct and deliberate contradiction to George's family, who open gifts one at a time, one person at a time, carefully peeling away each bit of tape, carefully preserving the wrapping paper, stopping with both ends of the package open, and guessing what's inside, feeling, guessing, picking at tape, stopping, looking meaningfully all around, catching each person's eye, turning the package over and over in their lap, picking tape, sliding fingers under the tape joining the pieces...ENOUGH, ALREADY!! Open the damn gift and let's get this horse in the barn! You people think this is fun? It is not; it is agony and passive-aggressive bullshit. God! It makes me want to head to the nearest liquor cabinet, regardless of the time of day!

The first time these people saw that my kids and I were becoming out-of-control, ripping and laughing and shouting and helping one another, they pursed their lips and made disapproving comments about savoring the moment. Savor this: my people live for six and a half decades. Yours for nine, you know, as in ninety years or more. You have the time to screw around with day long gift exposing. We don't. We need to get to the good stuff so we can enjoy it before we die. And hurry to the table. And then to the liquor cabinet.

Merry Christmas!

Sunday, and tired...

Tonight, I will rest. And sleep until I feel like getting up...

Oh, wait, the city inspector will be here at 0800 to check on the new heating system. In the family room and in my bedroom. I can't really sleep in, can I? Oh, at the same time, the 'under the house insulators' will begin their attempt at stopping the mass exodus of warm air from this place.

So, George just informed me of this latest onslaught to my nest, my privacy. Only because I asked if everything was done regarding the heating thing. Thanks for the warning.

So, tomorrow, my first day off without chores or obligatory show-ups at kids' places or prison to visit a beloved nephew, is to be spent once again dodging workers, some who want to talk about my previous life as a shooting celebrity. I used to like the attention... but not now, not in my own home.

I really don't care about their recent purchase of a ___ gun and how it performs in their inexperienced hands. I have heard the millionth story about the elk/deer/sheep that so and so got or missed. 'Do your job and go away' I want to scream. I listened to this when I was getting paid for it, and now, I want to be left alone.

Put in the heat thing and go away.

Am I mean? Antisocial? Jaded?

No, I am tired...

Battle cry of the Little Red Hen, Goodie Two-Shoes and Miss Congeniality

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I Wanna Go Too Far

by Trisha Yearwood

'Everything in moderation', that's the way it's always been

Never gettin' out of control - never hanging it out

Always reelin' it in.

I saved my money for a rainy day

But now I've had enough of playin' it safe

I wanna go too far, I wanna go too fast

Somebody draw the line so I can blow right past

I wanna spend too much, I wanna stay too late

I'm gonna roar too loud, I'm gonna be that way

I wanna play too hard, I wanna go too far

I'm the one they all depend on

Sensible, predictable, and strong

But every now and then,

I feel like I've played that role too long

I need to rock the boat, I need to speak my mind

Just this once let it all unwind

I've gotta set this spirit free

That's hiding here inside

I feel like a bird in a cage

It's time for me to fly

I am with ya, Trish. Some days, I solve so many problems for other people that I feel like a calculator. Or I listen to unending problems with no solutions, or none that the speaker wants to incorporate.

La Leche League, the breast feeding advocacy and education group, calls a phenomenon of a mom's life with toddlers and babies on her constantly being 'touched out'. Your body becomes overloaded with the physical pressure, heat, and intimacy of clinging children. I think there is such a thing as becoming emotionally touched out.

When those around you are troubled or stressed or angry, and call or come by to talk/seek help/dump, it takes a toll. When lots of people do so, and some on a regular basis, it becomes crippling for me. I feel immobilized in my inability to cope or help them or stop them. I want to escape.

I want to go too far, away from this place.

A smile from God

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Taking out the garbage, western style

(Maurice Clemmons, import from Arkansas. The face of hatred, evil, and a waste of good ammo. From Seattle Post-Intelligencer website, today.)

Career criminal, cop killer,baby raper, evil in a slime ball, a man who had been given multiple opportunities to change, is dead at the hands of an Irish cop. This is not a lead in to an action movie. It happened today. In the early morning hours near the scene of his latest mayhem, Maurice Clemmons lost his latest duel with police. He was shot dead by Benjamin Kelly, working alone when he was approached from behind by the suspect.

When ordered to stop advancing and put his hands up, Clemmons continued his advance, circling the officer and reaching for his waistband. Kelly shot him. Later, it was discovered that Clemmons was reaching for the gun taken off of one of the officers he had killed a few days earlier, preparing to use it, again against a police officer.

Code of the West, baby. Live by the gun, die by the gun. If you're gonna be stupid, you better be tough. And, remember, cops are put there by society to serve a specific purpose. We love them. We train them, we invest in their well-being. We really hate it when you fuck with them. And, they hate it when one (or in this case, five, are fucked with).

Another day at the landfill. Code of the West.

Farewell to heroes

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My heart breaks today for the families and fellow officers of four uniformed police officers shot down today in Tacoma (Parkland), Washington. A coward walked in to a coffee shop and slaughtered them. Three men and a woman who had devoted their lives to our safety; dead in a second. At the hands of a murderous waste of life force, a gutless chancre on society.

I desperately wish for him justice at the hands of the other men and women in blue.

I wish for those left behind healing peace, in time.

Thank you for your dedication to our society, officers. God speed.

From the Seattle-Times web site:

Police are looking for a Pierce County man in his 30s in connection with the execution-style shooting for four Lakewood police officers in a coffee shop this morning, sources told The Seattle Times.

The officers were killed at about 8:15 a.m. by a scruffy-looking man who walked into the coffee shop and opened fire.

The officers — three men and one woman — were found dead by deputies who arrived at Forza Coffee at 11401 Steele St. S., said Pierce County Sheriff's spokesman Ed Troyer. The officers made up one patrol unit, including a sergeant. Their families have been notified, but their identities have not been released.

"It's carnage out front everywhere," Troyer said, describing the front of the coffee shop. "It's like a bad horror movie, it's horrible."

The officers were in uniform, including bulletproof vests, and were working on their laptop computers as they prepared to start their day shifts, Troyer said. It is unclear whether they drew their guns and fired their weapons, he said.

"This was a targeted, selective ambush," Troyer said.

The Queen of the Forest

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Today, George went to a rural area deep in the coastal range mountains to the property of a friend. He rode with the man in a Gator up steep forested hillsides to secret spots to harvest gold, the gold of the native Chanterelle mushroom. A mushroom called the Golden Queen of the Forest by chefs.

Together, they picked (or gathered, more precisely) nearly two five gallon buckets of the tasty delicacies. Having $30 a pound rare edibles growing wild is a bonus of living in a rich and fertile area of rain forest climate.

Tonite, we feast on the rich woody taste of this example of our earth's bounty. And for many nights to come.

Tell about your life

“… the problem is that you haven’t realized how much

your stories matter. You may not realize every story

you tell is important … Nothing is more important

than the stories you tell yourself and others about

your work and your personal and community life.”

~ Annette Simmons, Whoever tells the best story wins

This is a quote from a book encouraging us to tell our own stories. Nurses, especially, need to let others know what we do, how we do it, and how it affects us and our patients. The public and our loved ones need to hear and feel the scope and reality of our work. How the unrelenting pain of a postsurgical patient tears at our composure and heart, how the desperate fear of the unknown can be felt in a patient's damp grip, how we soar to heights of joy when we catch a problem before it gets really bad for the patient, how hard it is to get some patients out of our mind at the end of a day.

But, the outside world needs also to know how analytical and cerebral nursing can be. The nurse is responsible for knowing the condition of the patient, the likely complications and how to avoid them, the homeostatic condition of the human animal and how that becomes disrupted in illness or insult. She must recognize the indicators: chemical, physical and behavioral, of impending doom. She must know how to respond to each, and when to call in the cavalry.

I have been amazed at the body of knowledge necessary to being a good nurse. Even after nursing school, the education continues at rapid pace. A nurse needs to continue reading, researching, and taking classes for years to become good at what she does. And do so on blue collar wages. Mechanics and electricians make more than nurses.

We need to tell our stories. The world needs to know that hospitals can only stay open as long as nurses are there. That the quality of care and the outcomes of patients are directly linked to the education level of the nurse caring for the patient. That we are held accountable legally just like a doctor or pharmacist, but have less education and receive less income and less recognition for our work. That, in the absence of financial recompense, recognition and appreciation will do.

Thanksgiving leftovers

It is Thanksgiving Day. The nest is empty, figuratively and literally. My kids have all made other plans. My siblings and their offspring are way too much work to have factored into this holiday for many years. George and I are alone together.

Quiet house, no special meal, no plans. We did get an invitation to dinner in a town a hundred miles away through a snowy pass.

I have a lot to be thankful for, I know that. But, right now, I wish I had a kid or two at the table. I feel so lonely, so forgotten.

Thanksgiving leftovers.

Warmer

I have spent the past few days self exiled from my home. Because workers have been installing a new heating system and occupying my space. They are in my two warmest and favorite rooms, the family room and my bedroom. I cannot tolerate seeing them there or sharing the space. I'd rather be gone.

These were nice guys, very respectful, clean and quiet. But they were others in my space. One guy noticed all my handgun magazines (the ammo holding kind) and wanted to talk guns and shooting. And talk some more. Being the antisocial person I tend to be in my private spaces, I was very uncomfortable.

So, I left home. For the hours that they were in my home, I was gone. On the first day, I drove home three times only to turn around and leave again when I saw the trucks still in the driveway. (We should have factored my forced absence and subsequent shopping into the budget.)

Yesterday was the workers last day here. The system is in, functioning beautifully. The house is warmer than its been in the three years we've lived here. Maybe I will ache a little less and have fewer episodes of Reynaud's vasospasm this winter.

My nest is again my own. I am warmer, and there are no strangers tramping about.

There are those days...

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WOMAN'S PERFECT BREAKFAST

She's sitting at the table with her gourmet coffee. Her son is on the cover of the Wheaties box. Her daughter is on the cover of Business Week. Her boyfriend is on the cover of Playgirl. And her husband is on the back of the milk carton.