My range/oven is dead. After never giving me a minute’s grief in 27 years, it has given up the ghost. The technician came today; two of the three needed parts are no longer made. I can send the board to be “rebuilt” but it’s only a 50/50 chance that it can be fixed and I’ll be without my oven for at least a month.
Got any good appliance shopping advice?
Even though it was Saturday, I woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep. I had directions to Canterbury Downs already printed out, a fully charged phone for photos and a huge wad of one dollar bills. That’s right – time for my favorite stamp show!
I don’t really need to go to a stamp show. Let’s face it, I already own more stamps and paper and ribbons and ink pads than any normal person needs. All the companies represented at the stamp show have websites (and you know I have them all bookmarked). But there’s something about being at a convention full of your hobby/passion, surrounded by folks just like you, who understand your desire to see the stamps and paper up close and in person. And who get all your stamping jokes.
The Early Bird line (for those who purchased their tickets ahead of time online) queued up pretty early. I showed up 20 minutes before opening and was about 40th in line. They actually counted down the last 10 seconds on the sound system before opening; for those of you thinking it, yes I did yell along with the others during the countdown.
This is the stamping show that’s I like best; there are several of my favorite companies there and almost every booth does a “make `n take” (unlike that other not-as-good show that was in town last month). I had my dollar bills in my pocket so I was ready whenever there was a free chair to make a sample; most make `n takes are $1 but a few are $2. I spent about 5 hours at the show, made 12 cards, chatted with folks either at tables or in line. I even met the designer who made a 6 x 6 calendar template especially for me back in February! Didn’t win a door prize (no surprise there) and blew my budget (no surprise there either) but had a glorious time.
What kind of mud does your pig like?
As the parent of a 23-year old, I am constantly reminding myself that it is my job to raise her to be independent and that it’s her job to grow up and forge her own path, separate from mine. Knowing this and living with the reality are two completely separate things.
We have two traditions on Fourth of July – the small neighborhood Tangletown Parade and the larger Richfield Parade. The first is walking distance from our house – kids on decorated bikes and trikes, dog with red and blue bandanas do a short parade down to the park where there is music, food and games. Richfield has a more traditional parade with politicians, marching (& riding) bands, some military and local businesses. And, of course, candy for kids.
I was a little disappointed when YA got up early and then started talking about going to the Mall with her boyfriend, but then I reminded myself that I could go without her and it would be OK. So I was surprised when she said she wanted to go to the neighborhood parade (and happy). Of course, then it poured rain and neither of us went.
As I was getting ready to go to Richfield, she told me that the boyfriend still wasn’t ready and she wanted to go to the parade with me. Woo hoo! Two stadium chairs, ice water, phones and umbrellas (which protected us from the sun and eventually the rain) and we were on our way. It was a fine parade, with some planes flying in formation (a first) over the parade route three times and a giant grocery cart (also a first). About 75% of the parade had gone by when the rain started and YA said she still wanted to stay until the end. So we sat in our orange stadium chairs under our umbrellas and continued to wave our little flags at the remaining paraders.
It was nice to spend the day with her, especially after I had steeled myself to do the parades alone. I guess I have a year to steel myself for the next Fourth of July.
Have you ever had to declare YOUR independence?
Today’s post comes from Barbara in Rivertown.
I came across an entertaining article recently called “30 Illegal Things Practically Everyone Has Done” https://bestlifeonline.com/crimes-everyone-has-done/ The following is a list from that article, though I’ve edited it by combining some items, and adding the language in italics.
-using public WiFi
– using a fake name online
– downloading music (w/o paying), movies, TV shows
– drinking underage
– playing poker with friends ($2000 or more revenue)
– eating something before you bought it
– sharing your password
– using your cell phone while driving
– not updating your driver license when you move
– sharing medication
– jaywalking
– smoking marijuana
– not getting a license for your dog (or cat, in some cities)
– possessing a permanent marker (in Florida and NY)
– writing “disturbing” material (I don’t think this blog counts)
– littering, esp. throwing away a cell phone
– driving over/under the speed limit
– turning right on red, or rolling through a stop sign
– driving through a red light in the middle of the night
– doing a u-turn when it’s illegal
– rolling through a stop sign on your bike, biking on a sidewalk
– not wearing a seat belt
– public intoxication, OR drinking in public (out in the open, away from a bar or restaurant)
– making a meme (Heck, I still don’t even understand what a meme is.)
Let’s have a little contest – we don’t necessarily need to know WHICH of these illegal things you’ve done, but I think we’ve all done some of them.
How many of these illegal actions have you accomplished?
Any good stories that come to mind?
I looked through the vendor booths at the hand bell workshop I am attending and noticed a book series about murder mysteries and whodunits that take place in bell choirs. The size of the print (large) and the cover art didn’t suggest a lot of literary merit, but I guess there must be a market for such books. One of Dorothy Sayers best books is about a death involving church bell ringers.
This made me think about expanding the series to include other groups and professions. What about Death at the Elks Lodge or The Venomous Inkblot?
Think of some mysteries that could be written about your job or group. Motives, victim, perpetrator, weapon, method? Be creative!
This morning at the library, as I was picking up my held books, I overheard a budding friendship in the next aisle over. Two five-year olds had an extended conversation about what books they were getting, visiting their grandparents, puppies and like all good Minnesotans, the weather.
I met my best friend on April 16, 1983, in a small room 4 floors below the IDS Center. It was my first day at the soon-to-be-opened B. Dalton IDS. Since I was new to B. Dalton, there were several training modules that I had to read through and then take corresponding tests. Sara was transferring over from another store and needed to do some paperwork as well. We talked while we worked, about books and pets and husbands and boyfriends – probably the weather as well. Then we went to lunch across the street at Eddingtons where we discovered we also shared a deep love of bread and cheese.
We’ve been friends ever since, through weddings, divorces, parents’ deaths, kids, home purchases, health issues, money issues – you name it. I can only hope that the kids at the library this morning can continue a friendship that started with books!
Where did you meet your BFF?
An earlier blog this week about repairs made me think of a funny story from my youth. My very first car was an old Datsun stick shift. I don’t even remember what model. But it was old when I got it, had some rust and eventually a hole rusted through underneath so that when you ran through a puddle, you could easily get splashed INSIDE the car.
My boyfriend at the time (eventually husband, now wasband) and I both wanted to be “handy” so I taught myself how to change the oil/air filter and then we decided to tackle the rust spots. We got a sanding attachment for a drill (which we had to borrow from my downstairs neighbors) and some primer spray paint. The idea was to sand off the rust, prime it and then paint over it with a coat of matching light blue. This plan went off the rails in so many places that I can’t believe we didn’t see it coming. First, as everyone can probably guess, when we started to sand the rust off it became clear that we would probably be sanding straight through if we weren’t careful. As the old saying goes, the rust was the only thing holding it together in places. That meant in a few spots, we just sanded it smooth but didn’t get all the rust. Then, no surprise, the primer didn’t want to stick to the still rusty spots, so we really sprayed it on heavily. Then we couldn’t match the light blue color of the car for love nor money. We ended up with seven or eight cans of spray paint and seven or eight swatches of different blues along the back of the car. BF was sure we could match the color if we went up to the Twin Cities to look (I was living in Northfield at the time). Since he didn’t want the car to rust while we were working on the correct color matching, he put duct tape patches on all the rusted and primed spots. (No, I am not making this up.) From a distance it looked like the car had zits.
We never did find the right color, never did take the duct tape off the zit car. After another few months, we ended up with it in Milwaukee where the car eventually ended its life in the blizzard of 1979. I’ve never even considered sanding the rust of another car!
What was your first car?
Since February we called the plumber three times to fix leaky pipes, faucets, and toilets. We are lucky to have a very competent plumber who works evenings and weekends and doesn’t charge extra. He even likes our cats, who try to help him as much as they can.
Tell about heroic repair people you have known. Tell about when repairs haven’t worked so well.
Today’s post comes to us from Steve.
Robert was a painter whose wife, Donna, was his agent. Donna contacted me when I was editing a regional outdoors magazine. Robert hoped my magazine would publish a painting that he would create to my specifications. Although Robert had never painted wildlife before, the February, 1978, issue of Fins and Feathers featured a bobcat painted by Robert.
I later asked Robert to paint the cover for my first book, Modern Pheasant Hunting, which was just about to be published. Because Robert didn’t know what pheasants looked like, I invited him and his family for dinner so I could give him a pheasant taxidermy mount to use as a model. That dinner happened in September of 1979. My wife and I were in our third year of living in a pink bungalow in Saint Paul. Our daughter, a chatty toddler, had just turned two.
Robert and Donna were then living in a dinky rental home in South Minneapolis. Although Donna was ferociously romantic about Christmas, their home didn’t offer enough room to put up a scrawny Christmas tree. Robert, a freelance painter, had a meager and erratic income. He and Donna had not felt secure enough to take on a home mortgage.
In some ways, our dinner was “typical,” typical for how we entertained in those days. We served wine—not a “good” wine, for that would have been beyond our means, but a frisky dry white from Napa. I cooked the pheasant casserole that had become one of my signature dishes when guests dined with us. My wife prepared a side dish of wild rice with mushrooms and sliced almonds sautéed in butter.
Because we dined on a crisp night in September, we set a fire in the big fireplace. The old bungalow glowed and filled with the fragrance of burning oak. Robert described his experiences as a combat artist in Vietnam. I probably talked too much about pheasants. Brandy and Brinka, our dogs at the time, wriggled in next to us when we sat on the soft carpets before the fire.
Our dinner happened on a Friday evening. On Monday morning, quite unexpectedly, Robert appeared at my office with an object wrapped in paper. He thrust it in my hands, mumbled something and disappeared.
The gift—for that is what it was—was a watercolor Robert had made of my taxidermy rooster. Robert had painted it in one long, passionate session over the weekend. The painting included squiggly lines on the lower right side where Robert had cleaned his brush when going from one color to another.
On the lower left side Robert had written a message, a note to our daughter. He described the magic meal we shared when she was very young. Robert said he and Donna would never forget that special evening.
I later learned more about that. Robert and Donna were bowled over by the feel of our shared evening. It all blended together—the wine, the talk, the food, the charm of a 75-year-old bungalow, the dancing fire. By the time Robert and Donna got home they had decided to buy a home.
We had dreams, or at least the adults present that evening did. The dreams did not fare well, although Robert and Donna did buy an old Victorian home in South Minneapolis. My wife was going to get her PhD and teach English, but she never did. Robert anticipated a satisfying career as an artist, although that never happened as he pictured it. While I was thrilled by my work as an editor, that dream died in a long, sorry struggle. Worse, both marriages eventually failed. I don’t know what became of Robert and Donna’s children. I don’t know what will happen to the little girl to whom the painting was dedicated, although a splendid outcome is still entirely possible for her.
That’s how it goes. I could dwell on the ways our dreams unraveled, but I don’t. I remember a lovely aromatic evening when everything seemed possible. This is easy to remember because Robert’s pheasant and its heartfelt message are on my wall, and I smile to see them every day.
Do you remember a special gift?
I had a tooth pulled on Tuesday – one of the big, two-rooted ones. Along with the gauze and pamphlet about after care, the oral surgeon wrote out a prescription for four Vicodin. I was a little skeptical but since I’m not known for my stoic-ness where my dental work is concerned, I decided to get the prescription filled, just in case.
As the pharmacist was going through all his required drug implications, I suggested that I was hoping not to use any of the four tablets. He was very serious and said I should probably take one right before bed so that I didn’t wake up at night in pain. “Stay ahead of the pain” were his exact words.
By bedtime at 9:30, all the Novocaine had worn off and with a few ibuprofen, I was actually doing OK. Remembering the pharmacist’s words, I thought maybe I should try the pain killer for overnight but couldn’t bring myself to take a whole one, so I took a half instead. I slept really well.
Unfortunately, when I got up I had an upset stomach and was pretty woozy. Clearly I should have slept several more hours as that’s how long it took the drug to work its way out of my system. I felt a little incapacitated at work and decided that all math and emails needed to be either re-figured or re-read to make sure I wasn’t spreading my idiocy throughout my world. Even after the wooziness subsided I still felt a little wiped out. All of this from one half of a tablet. The instructions on the side of the bottle say “1-2 as needed”. Sheesh, I’d be in a coma if I had taken 2!
When were you woozy last?
Trail Baboon 