Happy Anniversary

Today marks the anniversary of thirty-three years of marriage.
 How did we do it, you ask? (Even if you don't ask, I'm going to tell you anyway.)
Both of us have kept showing up and doing whatever it takes to keep showing up again the next day.

Many of you are familiar with these verses, which were probably used at your own wedding:
 " Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;   does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil;   does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;   bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
 Love never fails." 1 Corinthians 13:4-8

But the verse that has really gotten me through is this:
 "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good"  Romans 12:21

Joining my life to another human being, this one individual human being, in matrimony has been amazing, terrible, joyful, wonderful and sometimes heart-wrenching. It has also been entirely unique to any other relationship on earth:

I chose this one man, and promised God, my family, and my friends that I would stick by him no matter what.  That was a pretty heavy decision for a twenty-year-old  girl.  I hadn't a clue what I was getting myself into. Neither did my husband.  No one does.

Over the past thirty-three years, all of my greatest dreams and some of  my worst nightmares have come true.  We're not done yet.  Our best and worst days are still ahead of us.  We will face them together because we promised.  And, for as long as we live, we'll keep on showing up.

...but I don't want to!

Monday mornings have been a problem for me for years.  When I was a kid, Mondays usually started with me, scrunched up in my school bus seat, No. 2 Ticonderoga furiously scribbling out the answers to homework assignment that I was supposed to have finished over the weekend.  When my kids were kids, Monday meant cleaning up all the fun we had had on Saturday.

You might think things would be a little better now that it's just my husband and I here.  This morning I woke up, like it or not, to Saturday's fun and Sunday's relaxation spread all over the house and piled high on the kitchen counter.  In case you were wondering, I don't like it.  So, I find myself, sweating in my flannel PJ's, and scraping Scalloped Potato slime off my best 9" X 13" stoneware pan, which I left soaking about thirty hours ago.

Beside my regular spot on the living room sofa, a lovely cross-stitch project calls to me.  Oh, how I want to pick it up and celebrate its beauty with ever increasing forms created with needle and colorful thread!  But, no. The dishes won't do themselves, and nobody else will, either.

...but I don't wanna clean the house!  Who the heck am I talking to? I am whining at my higher self, and she must discipline me the same way I disciplined my kids when they used to tell me the same thing.  I had (and still have) really good kids, but that didn't stop them from saying, "I don't want to _________." Fill in the blank with whatever undesirable job you wish.

I would always answer them, "I'm sure you don't.  About 90% of my life is filled with stuff I don't want to do"  Too bad for all of us, eh?

I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in my Monday morning whining.  So, friends, I will rise from here, set a timer for twenty minutes and work on that 90%.  Then I will reset it and do a little bit of the 10%.  Eventually my higher self will win, and my house will be in order.

Cool ideas for a Crummy Bathroom

We have two bathrooms in our house:  One spacious, pretty master bath, complete with double sinks and a big garden tub, and one little crummy one, which all four of my kids shared when they were teenagers.  It measures six-by-seven feet, just barely enough room for the essential tub, toilet and sink.  

I spiffed up the room by making my own unique shower curtain. This is one of the first quilts I ever completed.  To the untrained eye, it's beautiful and amazing.  Those of you who are quilters, don't look too closely.  I was on a serious learning curve when I made it.

You don't need to be able to quilt to use this idea.  Most discount stores sell pretty quilts at very reasonable prices.  Thrift stores and consignment shops sometimes have them, too. You could also make your own custom shower curtain using  a sheet, tablecloth or any type of fabric.  For a full size tub shower, the curtain will need to be a minimum of 70" X 70".  

Purchase drapery rings such as these.  They have a large plastic ring which is attached to a small, strong clip.  I bought mine at Walmart in the housewares section.  They come in packs of six or twelve.  This quilt is a bit heavy, so I used twelve.  Space the rings equally across the top, and hang your new shower curtain on a separate rod from your shower curtain liner.  Keep the bottom of the liner inside the tub, and your spiffy new curtain on the outside.

This method makes laundering your decorative curtain easy.  Just unclip it, and wash according to manufacturer's instructions.

With such a small space, and especially with four teenagers sharing the bathroom, storage has always been a problem.  Here's what I use:

This is a shoe organizer with 24 clear vinyl pockets.  I paid only $7 for it at Walmart, so when it gets dirty or damaged, I just toss it and buy another one.  So easy!

Love and Gravy

Valentine's Day is almost here, and with it comes many great expectations.  Women want romance, and men simply don't want to blow it. Advertisers manipulate both sexes by laying it on thick with opportunities to purchase everything from chocolate covered strawberries and roses to gigantic teddy bears, diamonds, lingerie (to her for him) and hoodie footie pajamas (to her for her).   I, personally, would enjoy receiving any of these surprises, with the definite  exception of the giant teddy bear, and maybe not the hoodie footies because I hate it when my feet sweat.

Advertisers know how the romance game works: A woman wants to feel beautiful, appreciated and loved, but she must never tell her man how he should accomplish this feat.  He is supposed to just know.  If she has to tell him what she wants, then it doesn't really count.  Men, for their part, listen to advertisers and buy romantic stuff in hopes of not blowing it. The romance game is a little like tic-tac-toe:  When you are young, it's challenging, and somebody usually wins.  As you grow older and wiser, the game always ends in a stand-off.  He wants to make her happy, but she won't tell him how because that would ruin the game.

I'm not bitter about this, just realistic.  In reality, romance and true love are linked, but they are not the same thing.  Yes, I love to be appreciated and wooed.  If I could compare our marriage to food, our love would be a really good plate of delicious, tender roast beef and creamy mashed potatoes with lovely grilled veggies on the side.  Our love is healthy, nourishing, delicious and substantial.  Every now and then, I get romance, which is like rich brown gravy poured generously over the whole meal then smothered in savory slices of sauteed garlic.  I  love it!  However, the gravy and garlic wouldn't be that great served on a plate all by themselves. They make a meal that's already good even more delicious.  Continuing with this analogy, why should the gravy be less appreciated, if I placed my order for it?

To be fair ladies, don't be afraid to ask for what you want.  And you, dear gentlemen, listen and respond.  Pour on the gravy, and throw in some chocolate covered strawberries for dessert.

P.S. If my husband is reading this, go back to the first paragraph.  You've been put on notice.

UFO's

This past week, I've been sick in bed with a nasty case of bronchitis.  I have spent several days fading in and out of sleep, intermittently suffering from headaches, coughing fits, fevers, sweating, and chills.  In general, I felt like I had been hit by a Mac truck.

During moments of lucidity, I worked on a UFO.  Here is what it looks like:

Gotcha!  UFO stands for UnFinished Object. 

 I started this stamped embroidery sampler about three years ago.  I bought the kit, which is copyrighted 1974, on ebay because it's design and message represent who I am.  It's pastoral, bucolic, old-fashioned, and it includes a very important law of the universe, which can be found in the Bible (Galatians 6:7).  It says, "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."  As an avid gardener, I find this principle to be completely undeniable, so as a human being I take heed that it is undeniably true in all other areas of life.

My point here isn't to preach the obvious, but to explain why I would bother to pull this particular UFO out of storage and commence working on it while simultaneously hacking up a lung:  I really like it.  It speaks to me.  I want to actually finish it and to hang it on my kitchen wall.

Such has not always been the case with other UFO's in my life.  My grandma used to make an embroidered tablecloth for each of her granddaughters.  When I was a sophomore in college, she began working on mine, but then she passed away before it was finished.  I liked it, but I would have liked it better, if she had been able to complete it herself.  Naturally, it was passed along to me to finish.  I put it in a box and stored it. Along the line I lost the thread that went with it.   At some point, it got damp, so when I retrieved it years later, it was dotted with mildew stains.  For a long time I had it, all mildew-y and unfinished, displayed on a big quilting hoop in the living room.  This gave the appearance that I was working on it, and even though that wasn't true, it made a good conversation piece.   In reality, it was worthless.  I didn't want to finish a big embroidered tablecloth that I would never have chosen for myself in the first place.  I don't remember when I came to this realization, but with the courage of my convictions, I got rid of it. 

UFO's have the potential to be a blessing or a curse, and they are not all necessarily needlecraft or sewing projects.  They can be photographs, files, unresolved relationships, unread books, or incomplete academic degrees.  Anything that you have left unresolved in your life is a UFO.

Here are some questions to ask yourself in dealing with the UFO's in your own life:

1.  Why did I stop working on this in the first place?

2.  Do I even like it anymore?

3.  Am I keeping it only because someone whom I loved left it unfinished, and I feel obligated to finish it, or guilty if I don't?

4.  Would completing it add REAL benefit to my life or the lives of loved ones?

5.  Has "this ship already sailed?"  For example, if you were crocheting a baby blanket for your nephew, who is now 38 years old, how silly would it be to finish it now?

6.  Is it even relevant to present times? 

Not every project is worth the physical or mental energy required to bring it to completion.  In the case of my lovely stitchery, I'm glad to be finishing it because I plan to enjoy it while I can.  I would hate the thought that any of my daughters or granddaughters would find it to be a burden after I'm gone.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Gym

A little over a year ago, I joined the gym down the street from my house.  It looks like this:

What an absurdly mechanical place it is!  Some of you may look at this pic and feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  To me, initially at least, it looked like an alien torture chamber.  For a full year before I joined the gym I would peer into the windows and try to talk myself into opening the door. 

The last time I had stepped into a real gym was thirty years ago when I was nine-and-a-half months pregnant with my daughter.  I had won two free weeks at a national athletic club chain, and I thought that I would start up at the gym a few weeks after the baby was born. When I went in for my initial consultation, the chickee-poo who was showing me around put me on a scale.

Chickee-poo:  "175 pounds!"

Me:  "Yeah, but I'm nine months pregnant.  I've only gained about thirty-five pounds during this pregnancy."

Chickee, wide-eyed:  "Do you always get fat when you have a baby?"

I was clearly out of my element, and apparently so was Chickee.  I walked away and made excuses (good ones, but excuses nonetheless) to never step foot in a gym again. 

Fast forward thirty years, during which time I had gained so much weight that I began to reminisce fondly about the good old days when I was nine-and-a-half months pregnant.  I got Type II Diabetes (thanks, mom and dad).  The doctor said that most of my health problems would be resolved, if I worked out at least a half hour a day.

My aversion to exercise probably dates back to the fourth grade playground, when the love of my life, Pookie Gruber, slammed me hard with a dodgeball.  By junior high P.E. class, I was the last one picked for every team every time.  And in high school, my grandma taught me how to stick my finger down my throat to make myself sick, so I could get out of running laps.  I never did this, by the way, because I'd rather sweat than barf.  I’m just not the athletic type.

I had so many fears.  What if I show up and I’m the only fat grandma in the place?  What if I fall off of the elliptical machine and tear up my ankle?  What if I pay a million dollars for a membership, and then never show up again?  I’m not sure if I had “confearstration” as outlined in yesterday’s post, or if I was just a big, fat chicken.

I made up my mind to do it.  I wish I had some greater epiphany to expound on here.  I simply made up my mind.  I paid my money, and steeled myself for this adventure into the unknown.

 For the next four weeks, I set my workout shoes and clothes beside the bed before retiring.  Every morning I would put them on and say, “I hate me.”  I despised the gym, but I had made up my mind.  I made up my mind.  I made up my mind.  No matter how much I hated it, I had made up my mind.

After about a month, I began to like how working out made me feel.  Then I began to love it.  Now I can hardly bear to stay away.  I still don’t look like a gym person, but for what it’s worth, I’m not the only fat grandma in the place.

I wish I had something more scientific, philosophical, psychological or even sympathetic to call this phenomenon, but good, old-fashioned determination. 

Confearstration

Today it's time to talk about one of my favorite subjects:  Confusion and frustration.  Wait.  That's two.  And fear.  That's three, but, for me they are often rolled into one big sweaty, red-faced, heart-palpitating, time-sucking experience.  For the sake of brevity, let's call it "confearstration."

Confearstration is what happens to me whenever I learn something new, especially when instructions aren't clear.  Or, perchance, when I don't bother to read the instructions at all, which is most of the time.   My years in college psych classes taught me that people learn in different modalities (extra points for the use of the word "modalities" in a sentence, even if spell check doesn't agree).  I am a Kinesthetic learner.  That means I learn best when I am doing.   Other learning styles include Visual learners, who read for understanding, and Auditory learners who find listening to instruction most beneficial.  Anyway, I like to fiddle with things to figure them out, hence the confearstration.

Yesterday it took me around six hours to set up this blog and to complete just one little entry about leftovers.  Confused and fearful, I was sweating in my flannel jammies all morning.  My head hurt the entire time but, I got it done.  Hopefully, the Brussel sprout references didn't turn you against me. In truth,  Brussel sprouts are a rarity around here, and I am unlikely to mention them again until gardening season.  But, I digress.

I know that I'm not alone in my confearstration.  I am certain of this because I have been teaching all types of crafts for decades, and I have found two types of students:  those who succeed and those who give up in confearstration.  Everyone, regardless of learning style, experiences confusion, fear and frustration when introduced to something new.

This blog will most certainly include a lot of references to needlearts and craft projects.  If the thought of crafting geeks you out, stick with me.  I've got a lot of things to say, and  if the thought of Brussels sprouts didn't turn you away, this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Breakfast burritos from leftovers

A talented and resourceful mid-century housewife would never let leftovers go to waste.  Here is how I recently turned a bit of this and that into a scrumptious tray of breakfast burritos for a ladies' gathering.

I started with a few roasted vegetables from supper.  Yes, you do see Brussels sprouts.

I chopped them up fine with this handy hand chopper to hide the evidence. (Most of the people in my family are Brussels sprout wusses.)  

I also had a couple of leftover baked potatoes, which I cut into small cubes.

To make the filling, I fried a few pieces of bacon, the veggies, potatoes, cheap salsa

 and only six eggs in a large skillet.

I scooped some filling onto a soft flour tortilla and topped it with cheese.  In this case, I used mozzarella, not because it's the most fabulous choice, but because it's what I had on hand.  The idea here is to be resourceful, not perfect.

One product which our mid-century foremothers did not have was Reynold's Pan Lining Paper.  Poor souls.  I love this stuff!  It serves two purposes:  It disguises my ugly old 9"X13" pan, and it makes clean-up and freezing meals a breeze.  We'll talk about freezing leftovers at a later date.

The burritos looked kinda dry and blah all by themselves, so I topped them with some salsa verde I had in the fridge, then added the rest of my cheese.  I covered them with foil and baked at 350 for about 45 minutes until the salsa is bubbly and the cheese is melted.

I have made breakfast burritos this way many times without the topping, but I felt good about presenting this lovely dish, complete with incognito Brussels sprouts, to my ladies' group.  They raved over them, especially when I told them that they were made from mostly vegetables.  I made a total of 18 burritos:  Twelve that you see here, and another six which I fed to my family that morning.