The Carrot Lobby
07 May 2012 2 Comments
in baby, grandparents Tags: carrot lobby, carrots
Carrots (Photo credit: CLC Photography)
I was feeding the Grand-Girl something called Chicken and Rice, which should have been tan. It was orange. Should have been called chicken and carrots. But what baby would eat that, right? I tasted it. Yes. Predominate flavor – Baby carrots.Baby food carrots taste different compared to any other type of cooked carrot. They aren’t too awful. I hate cooked carrots. In fact, I detest cooked carrots but baby carrots are acceptable. It’s really in the carrot-plan.
The carrot plan. Have you noticed? Carrots are everywhere. They show up in every dish, every frozen food box, pot pie, or chinese take-out. Carrots must have one heck of a strong lobby in Washington. Can you picture it? Lobbyist whispers sweet nothings into congressman’s ear – something like -”I will grant your every wish if you tax every vegetable known to mankind except carrots!”Must be it. Else why are they everywhere???
Carrots are good for you. Really? What proof is there that carrots make your eyes healthier? On real people. Seriously, have the old folks been asked? My mother’s eyes are pretty good for an 86-year-old. She doesn’t like carrots either. Last week I was at my mother’s nursing home for lunch and the plate had fish, macaroni and cheese, and carrots. It’s like a punishment. If I live to be 80+ I want jelly beans in place of those carrots, people!
Years ago I was at a children’s book conference and ended up sitting near literary agent Erin Murphy. Carrots were on the menu. A long discussion ensued about out mutual disdain for carrots. I don’t remember anything else about the conference. See what I mean? Carrots – 1. Conference – 0.
I pick them out. Eat around them.
I’m very discreet.
But the baby food carrots taste okay. Here is the CARROT PLAN. First: Make babies love carrots. If carrots are added to everything, they will grow up liking carrots. Carrots! Carrots! All your life, carrots! Heh! Heh! Second: Children will learn how important carrots are in their diet in Elementary School. Important! Healthy! Heh! Heh!
I like baby food carrots and don’t like grown-up real food carrots. The plan failed with me. But then I think – wait - I cook with them. They give a certain sweet edge to a beef stew that can’t be created any other way. Aurrgh! You win, carrot! This time.
Spoiler alert: Ground carrots gives cheese soup its orange coloration.
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- Carrots DON’T Have Kids (fedupfood.com)
The Printer Had Reached It’s Time
28 Apr 2012 Leave a Comment
in illustration, slice of life Tags: cartridges, Ink, Ink cartridge, Inkjet printer, Printer, printers
By Richard Wheeler (Zephyris) 2007. Microchips from Epson ink cartriges. These are small printed circuit boards, the black dome contains the chip itself. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Finally got rid of the million dollar printer. I bought it about ten years ago when wide-format printers were really expensive and there was only one available. I didn’t know ten years ago that a printer like that would not only go down in price but there would be a lot more to choose from, all with better features.
When one ink cartridge would run out of ink the printer wouldn’t print. So if the magenta cartridge was empty, I couldn’t print a thing, not even with black ink. And the cartridges were tiny. The amount of ink inside them had to be minuscule. So I was forever running to Office Depot for more ink cartridges. And while there would inevitably decide that “while I’m there I should stock up on the ink cartridges.” The bill would top $100. For ink.
Today I was going to a birthday party for a friend who just turned 80. She was a neighbor in the old “hood”. A few childhood friends would be there. I scrambled through some old photo albums and came up with a great print that I knew one of my friends would love to have. It was a picture of my family standing next to her grandfather, in Pennsylvania, in 1970. We were neighbors here in Texas. So the photo is a little unusual. I scanned it. Printed it. Ink smears all over the paper. Globs of ink smears. So I cleaned the cartridge heads, and ran a cartridge check, etc. Everything looked good. I printed again. White lines through the faces. This time the printer sends me a message that there are parts that need to be services inside the machine. That’s nice, I thought, and proceeded to go through the head-cleaning process again. This time all the lights were blinking and it was frozen. Nothing.
That was it. I will not spend another dime on this printer. However, it was full of cartridges (there are nine) that if I return them to Office Depot, they will credit my account two dollars a piece. The machine was frozen. I couldn’t get to the cartridges. So I tossed it off the balcony.
No really. I did.
The neighbor took pictures.
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- Printer Ink – Why Does It Cost So Much? (12345dotcom1.wordpress.com)
Houston Writer’s Guild 2012 Conference Goes Without a Hitch
14 Apr 2012 2 Comments
in about writing Tags: Houston Writer's Guild, Houston Writer's Guild 2012 Conference, Ken Atchity, Nikki Loftin
Today’s writing conference with the Houston Writer’s Guild was very well organized (Thank you, Roger Paulding) and well attended. The guest speakers were excellent.
Chitra Divakaruni, author of many books including Mistress of Spices, told us that not one word we ever write is truly wasted. Even if we toss it away, that word led us to another word or another way to phrase something so it is a stepping stone to being better. So keep writing.
Nikki Loftin was hilarious, positive, and thought provoking. She used parts of fairy tales as analogies. For instance, there are witches in our lives who want to keep us from writing. Sometimes the biggest witch is our inner voice telling us to “quit writing and get on with your life!” (that one’s my own personal witch just now popping out of the dungeon) Or she talked about keeping our bread crumbs so we can find our way out of the woods (a scary dark place where we can forget why we keep writing). A bread crumb might be remembering that first time I realized a sentence that I created was wonderful. Or the feeling of finally completing a novel. Yes. I’m keeping my bread crumbs, Nikki. I’m going to put a big poster on the wall with all my bread crumbs on it.
Ken Atchity talked about the changing book marketplace, the film industry, and then he left us with an encouraging poem about being on the first step of a writing career. In other words if we could make it past all the discouragement and rejections into a place where we have completed a writing project is huge step. His story merchant companies www.aeionline.com and www.thewriterslifeline.com provide a one-stop full-service development and management machine for commercial and literary writers who wish to launch their storytelling in all media.
The break-out sessions with the editors and agents went smoothly this year. I say that because I heard no grumbling or complaining. And some compliments. So … well done you people!
I thought the Panera Bread sandwiches at lunch were great – we could grab one and eat and talk to people and mingle. So that was so much nicer than a sit down lunch.
And here is a little something that has nothing to do with the conference.
Bad Boys Are Never Good
05 Feb 2012 3 Comments
in about writing, children's fiction, parenting Tags: Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast, Charles Dickens, Jasper Fforde, Lady and the Tramp, Pirates of Penzance, The Eyre Affair, Thursday Next, Toy Story, Toy Story 3
Image via Wikipedia
My daughter is a brilliant microbiologist. But she was reminding me the other day that she blames Disney for her bad taste in men.
Three movies in particular, she pointed out, make bad boys look good to get. She said it seemed reasonable when seen from a very early age. For instance, take Lady and the Tramp, Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin.
In each one, the good guy is a wreck.
In Lady and the Tramp the male dog is a not only a tramp (bum, ne’er-do-well, street-person) but he thinks he’s God’s gift to the female of the species. Look out, Lady. She sets out to change him so he can be her beau. In Beauty and the Beast you have a guy who is a mess both physically and emotionally. The Beauty sets out to change him, and voila – you’ve got a brilliant dance with the talking dishes. In Aladdin you have a handsome guy who is a thief and a liar.
Cue the drum-roll and bring out all the guys my daughter has seriously dated since high school, with one exception, whom I will not name.
Even West Side Story plays this up with the bad guy trying to get the good girl. It is supposed to be patterned after Romeo and Juliet but really the guy is a switch-blade carrying, grease-ball. The Pirates of Penzance was one of my children’s favorite musicals when they were very small. It’s about a pirate who wants to change and the girl who tries to change him.
These days the big rage in children’s lit and movies is often about the vacuous gorgeous girl finding a handsome vampire to marry and have little vamplets…i.e. “Breaking Dawn.” I suppose a whole race of blood-sucking super babies will engender another round of novels.
Perhaps we have never broken free of Victorian ideals of what a woman is. Women, the fragile species, can’t think. Can’t plan. Can’t make important decisions about the future. And for goodness sakes aren’t they hopeless with money?
Having spent the years my children attended public school (14 years) as a paraprofessional working with special education or as an inclusion teacher, I know firsthand the “self-esteem thing” was drilled into all students from preschool onward. Especially aimed at girls. No good came of it. Not a bit of difference did “education” make in how a child felt about themselves. If anything it made children aware of their own shortcomings.
Let us reflect on the many classic examples of the weak woman and the strong, yet heartless man. Take Charles Dickens‘s portrayals of the heroine – she is a weak, almost brainless, classic beauty with no personal or future expectations save to worship some man and reflect in his glory. (Exception note: In Great Expectations the heroine struggles out of her brainwashing by Ms. Haversham and discovers a few thought of her own. This was an anti-heroine for Mr. Dickens.)
Girls. Bad boys don’t change. You can’t make them change. They like their unchangeableness. Don’t waste your breath. It won’t work.
Parents beware. There are wonderful movies out there that have nothing to do with gender classification.
Here are a few examples: “The Sandlot“. “Beethoven Lives Upstairs“, wow, if you haven’t seen this movie you must do so. “Shrek” turns the tables on the good girl meets bad boy when we discover at the end that the good girl is a troll, too. “Toy Story” – and of the three, “Toy Story 3″ is the best. There are so many good movies for kids that don’t make a big deal of THE STRONG FEMALE CHARACTER but instead have a simple story – the brilliance is often in the simplicity of reason.
And by the way, I have stumbled upon a wonderful heroine (Thursday Next) who upsets the apple cart of reason as she stumbles through her story as a litera-tec who works for Spec Ops 27. She “fixes” the ending of Jane Eyre. Loved this book – it’s called The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Good read.
Steer your child, boy or girl, away from movies that depict a character who thinks they have to change the person they love to make the world a better place. Or a character who decides to change their life to capture the one they think they love (see the movie “Zookeeper” cute – okay for older children like me).
No one can change another person. We can influence other people. We can lead by example. Children know without being told that – Actions speak louder than words.
When my daughter was a child I accepted the popular view that Disney movies were child-tested and parent approved. Silly me.
On Almost Being Arrested, and other things to do on Wednesday night
18 Jan 2012 1 Comment
in Home Repair, Renovation, restoration, slice of life Tags: police
As if nothing else in the world was happening at the Nolen household.
Today the house framers were hard at work on the garage apartment in the back yard. They completed the second floor. The roof was framed. I got an almost frantic call from the contractor. The engineer had called him and told him that on re-calculating the plans he discovered a mistake. This is after everything has been inspected and passed. He had a fit of conscious of something. He explained that they should use two by eight boards for the ceiling on the second floor instead of the two by six.
The contractor told me, no, insisted to me that it was their mistake and I wasn’t to be concerned. But they were going to have a slight delay with taking part of the framing down. I asked what the difference in price for the materials was and I insisted on paying for that.
After all, the house plans had passed city inspection on all counts. And they were willing to stop construction, deconstruct and start over again on their dime. That is integrity.
The air conditioning man showed up around this time. Our air conditioner worked part of the time and the furnace worked part of the time. We’d been spending a lot of time and money having parts and pieces fixed. With a lot of pounding and grating the air conditioner man removed the old electric furnace and air conditioner from our downstairs utility room.
The grand baby slept through it all.
At one point I heard some yelling and high-pitched man-screams and went outside to investigate. The air conditioning man had been under the house (we are on pier and beam so there is a crawl space beneath us for easy access to pipes), he was wiping his brow. His shirt was muddy. All work on the garage apartment in the back yard was suspended as the guys crowded around. Apparently from what I could understand Victor thought there was a bear, or a monkey, or a chupacabra under the house. It had frightened him. He couldn’t get out from under fast enough.
I calmed them all down and told them that my cats were serious hunters of dangerous under-the-house creatures.
Turns out when the other guys used flash lights and investigated, it was our Siamese cat (they called her the “kitty-kitty”). Of course Peanut can look like a bear, or a monkey, or a chupacabra, depending on her mood.
The process of removing and replacing the old rotten air condition and furnace took all day. He and his two workers stayed late, finally leaving after dark. The only thing left undone was hooking everything up.
Immediately, I mean minutes after they left, my daughter said, “Oh look! The police have pulled someone over right in front of our house.”
I looked and it was our air conditioning man. I thought perhaps he had run the stop sign. But while I watched the situation didn’t LOOK like a simple traffic stop.
There must be some mistake.
I went outside and stood inside the fence. I called out to the air conditioning man, “Victor, is everything all right?”
A policeman on the other side of the car (I didn’t see him before this) came around the car and yelled at me that I was interfering with a police investigation. Yelled at me.
What? I stood there, shaking my head. “These guys were just at my house. Did they run the stop sign?”
“No ma’am.” The officer approached me. “You need to leave this alone. It is none of your business.”
“I’m just asking if they are okay.”
“No you were NOT! You are interfering! You need to get back! You are making this a dangerous situation! This vehicle came up as a suspicious vehicle. It has nothing to do with a stop sign. You are being disrespectful.” He was angry. Incensed even.
Disrespectful? I felt like reminding him that he was the one standing in the middle of a busy street. Dangerous situation indeed.
I turned around and went in the house and got a piece of paper and came back out and took the plate number of the police car. (from a respectful distance) I then went and stood far enough away but near enough that the officer could see me. I caught his eye and smiled at him. (How’s that for respect?) I asked him what his name was.
He called to me, that I was to come across the street to him and talk to him. (Now, this is always a safe move in a traffic stop of a suspicious vehicle where the suspicious vehicle’s occupants could be killers escaping from the long arm of the law.) I joined him and he told me that he and his partner felt the occupants of the vehicle were suspicious characters who could have guns and that my interference was clearly wrong and I could be killed.
These guys just spent the entire day in the mud under my house fighting chupacabras why would they shoot me?
I stared through the front windshield of their van. Our a/c man had already been hand-cuffed and put in the police car. The other two guys looked frightened and defeated.
I want you to know that I did apologize for interfering with what the officers were doing. Normally, I would never get involved with a traffic stop in my neighborhood. I’ve seen officers pull a car over and draw guns just like you see on “Cops”. I live a mile from downtown Houston. It’s more of a “duck and run” kind of area than an area where you would pop over to the officer and say “hey, what’s going on?” during a traffic stop. But I had just bid these guys a good evening. I felt like defending them.
Thankfully the officer and I parted on speaking terms. He apologized for getting angry at me. He gave me his card so that I can call him if I see crack smokers or miscreants hanging about.
This is good.
Sometimes it’s hard getting through on the non-emergency line to report misdeeders. The last time I tried the woman kept asking me to “back up and repeat my description of the guys”. By the time I’d finished my descriptions so that she could get it down, the bad guys were long gone, and I’m talking about fifteen minutes of backing up and repeating, honey. Two police cars passed by during that time and she wouldn’t let me get a word in without backing up and repeating it several times.
Here is a side note: The “suspicious vehicle” thing couldn’t have happened quite the way they explained it.
First, they pulled them over as soon as the van pulled away from the curb beside our house. They couldn’t have run plates in that amount of time. Which means they had to have spotted the vehicle before this and run the plates. Second, the vehicle was not the problem. Turns out our a/c man had a warrant for his arrest. Before you get all excited about that – it only means that he missed a court date. Third, if the vehicle had been a problem they would have taken it and they didn’t. They asked our permission to leave it on the curb beside our house so that one of the guy’s wives could come drive it home.
And Fourth, (only because one must have a “fourth” if there is a “third”) I’m without an air-conditioner and furnace downstairs at the moment so excuse me while I go pile on some blankets and enjoy the Wednesday night line-up on television.
Cultural Differences: The Vietnamese Wedding Reception
09 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
in Culture, slice of life Tags: cultural differences, Culture, Vietnamese, Vietnamese in America, Vietnamese wedding reception
Please forgive me. 
While getting a pedicure the other day I found out I have made a grave mistake.
About fifteen years ago my family was honored to be invited to our neighbor’s daughter’s wedding and reception. Our Vietnamese neighbors were quiet, and neighborly but we did not really get to be close friends until our children were in their teens. Their children were a little older than ours, which when your child is a toddler and their child is in grade school seems a lot more than a little older.
I like to be neighborly – you know – take a casserole over when someone is sick, etc. But I decided early in the relationship that no one could “outnice” the Nguyens. I would offer a solution to a garden pest problem, I would get cookies, I would take cake, I would get chocolates (the kind filled with liquor, YUM!) and so on. One Chinese New Year I received a banana wrapped steamed rice dish (a Vietnamese specialty that takes a lot of work to make) for no other reason than sheer niceness.
The Nguyens were simply wonderful neighbors. We went through sickness and health and several joyous times together. Especially memorable was being invited to their daughter’s wedding.
The Nguyens were Buddhists. Their daughter converted to Catholicism and married in the Catholic church. We went to the wedding and sat on the bride’s “side”. Besides her immediate family and a few other neighbors, we were practically the only ones sitting on that side of the church. The groom’s “side” was full. We were sad for her.
We went to the reception which was held at a large Vietnamese restaurant downtown. When we walked into the banquet room I was astounded. It was huge. there were probably fifty round table all set for eight. There was a stage, and lights, and no people. The Nguyens were there, a few neighbors, the groom’s parents, the band, and no one else.
Now we were really sad for them.
Wow, throw a big party and no one comes. The small group of us from the neighborhood quickly gathered at one table and sat awkwardly staring at each other.
For two hours.
Exactly two hours later someone must have yelled “go!” because the doors opened and people flooded in. Apparently, we hadn’t read that invitation very well. There was a time printed clear as clear that the reception began at 7 P.M. The wedding had been at 4. Needless to say, we were starved. As our children were young we were used to eating early. (We still do – only now we call it the AARP eating schedule.)
Soon the music started and so did the arrival 0f the food. Course after course. I’ll never forget the lobster dish with the giant “lobster” made of vegetables sitting in the center. So much food. So many people. A DJ and entertainment. It was a grand party. And we ate like royalty.
I was relating this story to the Vietnamese man who was working on my toes.
I don’t recall how we got on the subject. I was with my mother. She loves getting a pedicure so I take her every four or five weeks for one. It does not fail that she asks each person what country they are from. I want to slip under the big massage chair, because my generation assumes that a lot of young Asians are second or third generation American, but I just concentrated on the suds around my ankles.They didn’t get offended. I’m always amazed that they don’t get offended. I think because my mother looks so old and sweet.
So on this day the conversation got around to Vietnamese food – We could smell wonderful things cooking at the noodle house next door – of course we’re going to talk about food. I remembered the delightful show and flavor of the nine-course meal at the wedding reception so many years earlier.
The conversation turned to how much such a thing would cost and the pedicurist said, “you helped pay for it.”
“I don’t think so. How could I?”
“You put money in bucket. It was passed to your table.”
“Bucket? No, I don’t remember a bucket.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“You were supposed to put money in bucket. That is how the reception is afforded. If you only an acquaintance you put fifty dollar. If you good friend, you put two hundred or so in bucket.”
“What!??” I’m horrified. “I didn’t know.”
Why doesn’t anyone tell about these things. I remember early on the day of the wedding the procession of costumed bride and groom marching from the end of the street to the Nguyen’s house. They told us it was a custom to formally introduce the bride to her in-laws. No one said anything about contributing toward the wedding reception, that it was a cultural thing. Vietnamese wedding receptions are always elaborate – just to different degrees, and the one we were at was big-deal-elaborate. I’m sick. I asked the pedicurist what should I do? and he said that it would be embarrassing to bring it up now.
So I ask you.
After all these years what do I do? Any suggestions? I have not lived near the my former neighbors for about ten years but am still in contact.
All the Bang
03 Jan 2012 1 Comment
in grandparents, parenting, slice of life, weight loss
Image by Camera Slayer via Flickr
New Year’s Eve I listened to the pop of fireworks in the parking lot across from my mother-in-law’s abode. I was in bed but awake. It’s hard to sleep in a strange bed. I think it must have been my fault because I forgot my pillow. No matter what bed you sleep in if you take your own pillow you will sleep. It’s true. I’m the world’s worst sleeper, so I think I have a vote in this.
Speaking of votes, I am NOT listening to the play-by-play of the Iowa Caucus. I’ll see the news tomorrow. No amount of nail-biting will change what will be.
There will be very little bang for the buck here.
We took the itty grandchild to Arkansas with us. I believe my mother-in-law’s face actually had a healthier hue when we left. I’m praying she and my father-in-law soon move to Texas where they will be closer to their children (and great-grandchild) – and better medical care.
Can you believe that baby slept all the way up there (six hours)? What a pleasant and wonderful and brilliant baby during the entire time we spent there. It can not possibly be on account of all those arms wanting to hold her . . . Well maybe it could be. She sure has a lot of fans in southern Arkansas at the moment.
Looking back at the past year all I can say is “good riddance”. In 2012 I think we are a little wiser. There will be no more house purchases. We will be a little less crowded – if and when the garage apartment is completed. And I will learn to be thankful again, get my mo-Jo back, lose the apathy.
I did say goodbye to the twenty pounds I needed to and only gained back three during the holidays.
Already thankful.
Happy New Year!
2011 in review (A Good Start)
03 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,200 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 37 trips to carry that many people.
Christmas 2011
22 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in grandparents, parenting, slice of life Tags: Christmas, growing up in Houston, Houston, South Houston
Image via Wikipedia
This year Christmas came early in the form of a perfect grand baby. Her birthday in September felt like summer – weather wise. Here it is December and the leaves have turned color. So we have a lovely Fall for Christmas. And grand baby has doubled her birth weight into a dimpled little round thing with great lungs.
Thankfully this old house has extra thick walls. This doesn’t help my daughter to sleep because baby sleeps in her room.
Christmas brought activity that didn’t involve a tree or lights. Amongst many calamities, serving a hot meal, making sure the dog got outside occasionally, or staying calm took priority rather than a trip to the attic, decorating, un-decorating, and then re-stocking the attic. Call me Scrooge. Seems we are spending the important holiday moments at someone else’s house with someone else’s decorations anyway.
Besides, I am feeling Scroogish.
Perhaps I feel this way because we didn’t drive around looking at lights in the neighborhood, or because I didn’t turn up the volume to endless holiday songs whilst wrapping gifts, or the fact that we visited Santa at the mall with the baby before Thanksgiving. Christmas just snuck up and walked past while I was looking the other way. I suddenly realized it while singing carols in church last Sunday. Whoa! It’s Christmas.
When I was very young and living in South Houston, Christmas was a big affair. Huge. My parents went all out with the decor. Lights, the tree touched the ceiling, streamers from corner to corner of the living room like a used car lot. We had a cardboard fireplace taped to the wall with a tin electric fire. It didn’t put off any heat. The nearby gas heater did and that was enough. Some Christmases the warm weather outside made even the fake fire warmish. That’s weather in Houston.
We didn’t receive gifts or toys during the year, ever. Instead my mother bought what she bought all year long and saved them, wrapped, in some t0-this-day-secret place until Christmas morning. What good, I ask you, were three brothers if none of them could discover the secret hiding place? Was there not a curious bone in any other them? Humpf!
I learned years later from my older brother that we were poor! I never knew. I thought we were kings and queens living as we did in our yellow asbestos shingle home with the white rock roof. I was inordinately proud of that canary yellow house. Even if the rock rained off the roof when the wind blew and the tar would drip when the weather got really hot. There was a pot of tar in the back yard that I would play in when it was soft. I grew up happy in my world of dolls, lizards, mud pies and climbin’ trees. My brother Jon and I went fishing in the summer, caught crawfish in the flooded ditches in the spring with a string and a piece of bacon, (it was the novelty capturing these alien bug-like creatures – we didn’t discover eating them until we were grown), and we rode our bikes to grandma’s house every season of the year for more trees to climb and her chocolate chip cookies. Life was good. Poor? No way!
Maybe that’s why my mother used the same tinsel every year (and scraping it off the tree after Christmas was tedious) and she cut napkins in half throughout the year (also tedious).
There is something about being appreciative of things when you are small, something about seeing value in everything outside of the presents under the tree. Like enjoying the box more than what was in the box.
Maybe my parents had the right idea about not giving us anything (new) all year. Maybe the anticipation was the really special thing about Christmas. These days it is all too easy to give and get all of the time. What else are those shelves of items along the check out lines for? For you to suddenly realize what you needed. Or for the kids to scream and throw tantrums for. (The only time I ever shop-lifted was a package of Chiclets from the line. My grandmother caught me chewing the gum and made me take a hard-earned nickel to pay the store manager. I seriously never stole a thing ever again.)
Our grand baby doesn’t care about Christmas presents, decorations, or tinsel. Though she does love shiny things – her eyes get huge and she has that way of smiling that melts me. This year she doesn’t even care about the box. All she wants for Christmas is us – those who love her.
And that’s what she is getting.
Merry Christmas Y’all!
The Lamp Incident
07 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in Home Repair, Renovation, restoration Tags: Craft, historic homes, Home and Garden, Lampshade, Light, Light fixture, Pottery Barn, restoration, Shopping, Stained glass
Image via Wikipedia
The husband decided to replace the temporary paper blinds. I don’t think the paper blinds look so bad. From the outside, in the dark, and if you shut one eye they do look like those expensive pleated blinds. But no, he wanted to put something real up. He went and got some mini-blinds, which are okay in my book but not great. I like the expensive pleated blinds.
He was working on getting those mini-blinds installed. Beneath possibly fifty coats of paint the hundred-year-old window casings are made of petrified wood. At least that was what it seemed like around all the objects dropping and bad language coming from my husband as he tried numerous ways to get the parts and pieces screwed in place.
Different sizes of ladders were called for and produced. Different screw drivers. “Why is my cordless screwdriver never charged?” he asked me.
“We lost the charger three moves ago.” Was the correct answer but I hemmed around that with “I can’t find the charger, use this nifty T-shaped screwdriver I got you for your birthday.”
He cursed the T-shaped screwdriver and used it anyway.
He finally figured it all out and had the study’s blinds installed in a short hour and a half. Two windows down. Four to go.
He did the dining room because that only required moving the baby’s changing table, an old dresser, a lamp and a few dozen miscellaneous breakable things.
Now the living room seemed like it would go the fastest because the only thing to be moved was the couch. It’s a small couch. I left the room and when I came back I found him at the top of the ladder leaning forward with the drill poised to go at it. He had moved a side table, the one with the lamp on it. The lamp that wobbles because the lamp shade is so heavy. The ladder’s legs were straddling both the drill’s cord and the lamp’s cord. The lamp, a tall, rusted iron affair with this old, stained-glass lampshade. The lamp’s cord was stretched tight. This didn’t look like it would turn out well. I turned off the lamp and went to unplug it.
“I need that light.”
I looked up at him on his ladder. “But it will fall,” I said.
“I’m being careful!”
Best not argue. He is after all putting up blinds, which is one less thing for me to worry with if I were to ever get around to finding a way to sneak the expensive pleated ones into the budget. A far, far better thing for me to do was to walk the dog.
Back home, the dog and I walked in on the husband holding a broom and dustpan. “What’s up?” I asked because I hadn’t see the mess on the floor. Yes. It’s true. The nice, stained glass lampshade, bent and broken into unrepairable pieces. “Oh,” was all I could manage.
I didn’t need to say anything else. I could tell he felt bad about it. I found a spare linen lampshade and stuck it on the iron lamp. It was a little crooked, but keeps the light shaded and that’s all a lampshade is for.
The next day I took the glass bits and crooked copper-works across the street to my neighbor, Joan Son. (http://joanson.com/paperart/Welcome.html) She is an origami artist. I asked her if she knew of anyone who could use the old stained glass. She did. I’m glad to recycle old things into new ones.
I thought that was the end of that. I have more things to worry about purchasing than a new lampshade so I didn’t worry about the lamp after that.
Except it was my birthday this past weekend and my husband walks in from work with a sack from Pottery Barn. I love Pottery Barn. And you guessed it – it was a new lampshade. It was a good-looking one. But honestly Pottery Barn isn’t known for their lampshades. And when you buy a lampshade for a room you should buy the exact lampshade for all the matching lamps, right?
He could tell I wasn’t enthused. And I was sorry when my daughter came home from work and my husband asked her her opinion. “It’s pretty,” she said. And then paused. “Wait. Wasn’t that the lamp that you broke? You bought a lampshade for mom’s birthday gift?”
All of which didn’t make him feel any better. I apologize dear husband for how badly you felt about the entire lamp incident. Accidents happen. Let’s forget about it and move on.
I have to admit the mini-blinds do look better than the paper blinds.
