My Second Hand Life

The other day I was talking with my mom on the phone and she was asking about the progress of our dining room.  Ah, the dining room.  About 25 years ago or so, the people who lived in our house decided to enclose the patio.  It had tilted floors, single pane windows and no insulation whatsoever. By the time we moved in, it smelled like wet dog, would allow water in during a drizzle (hence the wet dog smell), was hot enough to be a sauna in the summer and in the winter served as an extra refrigerator. But slowly over the last several years we've saved our pennies and Mr. Green insulated, sheetrocked, leveled floors, added can lights, installed tile (I picked it out...give me some credit), reworked the HVAC and replaced doors and windows. I picked out curtains.  And the rods.

As I mentioned to my mom, my dining room is my "new" room.  New because absolutely nothing in it is second hand.  We did buy our dining room table at DI 8 years ago...but it was a scratch and dent set from RCWilley--so technically, not used.  

The rest of my house?  Well, that's another story.  Couches in living room?  My mom's.  Couches in family room?  My sister's.  China hutch?  Thrift store.  EG's bedroom stuff (except mattress)?  Thrift store.  Emerson's bedroom stuff?  Her dresser is from a thrift store; her bed is our old one.  Do you see a pattern here?  Even the desk upon which I type and the filing cabinet I see are second hand. 

There are some days when I'm okay feeling thrifty and making due.  We've certainly found our share of cool stuff at thrift stores (you should see the dual-sink granite-topped vanity currently awaiting installation--Costco's scratch = our $700 savings!) and my kids wear pretty much brand name clothes as a result of my stops into Goodwill and the like.  But more than once I've found myself feeling kind of bad about my second hand life.  

Because I didn't get married until my 30's I guess I supposed that we would have it easier somehow.  That whoever I married would be established in his job, that we'd build a new house and I'd buy new furniture and I'd get to stay home with the kids if I wanted.  That I'd drive the car I wanted and trade it in when I wanted.

Life didn't exactly work out that way. After Dave experienced two layoffs in 8 years, I find myself the primary breadwinner for our family.  My kids are in daycare and afterschool programs.  My house is used, my furniture is used and most of our cars are used.  (The one isn't is now 10 years old.)  I use coupons (never thought I would) and shop at thrift stores (actually said I never would.)   I shop at stores I really dislike (Walmart) am now considering making my own laundry detergent (long story).

And I have to admit that there are some days I truly, truly hate it.

I've been reading other blogs like ChooseToThrive.blogspot.com in an effort to find ways to be grateful that we have what we do.  And I really am trying to find the joy in learning to repurpose picture frames, tables, doors and just about everything else.  But there are days when I really would enjoy being the girl who walked into a furniture store, pointed at a truly magnificent living room set and regally announced "wrap it up boys, I'll take it."

Is that wrong?

Update? What update?

Okay, now considering that I have had a plethora of happy things happen over the last several months and that my children have also had a wide variety of awesome moments, you'd think that I'd be putting an update on here about them.  Um...nope.  No, when I finally break the drought that has been my blogging, I'm bragging about crafting.

Here's the thing.  It's been a long time since I've been crafty.  Much less spontaneously crafty.  Generally it involves formalized get-togethers with women in my church called "Fantastic Fridays" or a panic-stricken frenzy that generally precedes the holidays.   So two create not one, but two, crafts in a single weekend is actually worth blogging about.

So this one originated when I saw a post on schlosserdesigns.blogspot.com, which I found, I am quite certain, via Pinterest.  Now, I think that there are far too few uses in this world for googly eyes; thus, when I saw the perfect craft for them I could not help myself.  I added the "BOO" using chipboard letters from Hobby Lobby (all hail the Lob!) and some extra paper from my crafting stash.  I also got sparkly (yes, I do love all things sparkly) purple ribbon to add to it as well.  I'll give myself a "woot" on that one.   Approximate cost: $15 ($6 for the wreath, $3 for the spray paint, $3 for the chipboard, $2 for the ribbon and $1 for the googly eyes.)  The next one would be cheaper, because now I don't have to buy the paint or ribbon again. 


Now, craft #2: 

I saw this frame at Goodwill; I think it's originally from Target.  It's kind of ginormous--each one of those squares holds a 4 x 6" picture.  I cut up some of the paper from my stash into rectangles and used my Cricut machine and the Printing Press font to cut out the letters.  A little glue, pop 'em in the frame, and we've got a bit o' Halloween fun!  Total cost was only $7 for the frame, and I am planning on reusing it for other holidays.  


So there you go!  My brag is complete.  But just in case you're wondering, I'm kind of on a crafting kick, so there might be more to post soon.  

What I've learned in the last several days

On Monday morning, I departed my home city to fly to the Windy City.   Less than 72 hours later, I have learned the following:

1.        The world is really, really small.  When I boarded the plane in Billings, I saw none other than Brett Crosby, whom I have known most of my life.  Then, while updating my Facebook page in my Chicago hotel room, I was IM’d by Michelle Ballard Mickelson with whom I went to high school and who (seriously) just happened to be in a Chicago hotel room as well. Normally, she and her family reside about 6 miles away from where I grew up.   It's a small, small world...

2.       Watch where you’re walking.  When you do that, you don’t…say…put your foot into a ginormous crack in the sidewalk and twist your ankle to the point that people in Wisconsin heard it pop. 

3.       Walking after twisting one’s ankle is unpleasant. 

4.       Chicago is a big city.  I mean a really, really big city.

5.       My brother, although one who generally consumes rather odd food, knows his Chicago style pizza.  I guess that the 3 years of law school in Chicago really did pay off…if only because he found Giordano’s. 

6.       I’m glad to be an American.  We had 3 cab drivers from 3 different parts of the world, all of whom came to the US for a better life.  I just happened to be born here. 

7.       I’m glad not to live in a ghetto.  We drove through one on our way to the airport today.  Not only was I actually pretty dang scared, I saw these little kids and instantly knew that they had very little hope to get out of there unscathed. 

8.       Being in a wheelchair has its advantages.  Like being wheeled to the front of the security line and not having to go through the pat down/intimate x-ray experience.   It also gets you on the plane first and can actually effect seat selection.

9.       No matter how hard you try not to cry when you’re in pain, there’s only so much you can take.  Like when the nice man who’s wheeling you about in the airport tips you forward and your ankle hits the floor. 

10.   The Minneapolis airport has these quiet little rooms for families with kids and nursing families.  They also let you and a business colleague rest in them if one of you has a foot the size of the average Porsche.

11.   When everything reaches the point of ridiculous (like when the fire alarm goes off in the airport…without a fire) it really is best to laugh.  And when you’re exhausted, laughing can actually be pretty easy.

12.   When the clock shows that, according to the original plan, you’re supposed to be home right now, it’s really a bummer when you’re not.

13.   When you’re in an airport and can’t sleep, it would really be nice if your Wi-Fi worked for more than 5 minutes at a time.   Especially when you want to post your blog. 

14.   Cut and paste is a good thing when you’ve written a blog you want to post and lose your Wi-Fi.

15.   Rethinking that ten bucks for Boingo is a good idea at this point.  Dang it. 

Note:  Posted at 5:48 Central Time the next morning...when Boingo came back...

Cookies, Cookbooks and Shelley Jones

A couple of weeks ago I was shopping with my sister-in-law Kristen in Idaho Falls.  Deseret Book has expanded in its addictions (not just books anymore!) to include delightful treats and Kristen, seeing a lovely chocolate crinkle cookie topped with powdered sugar, remarked that she wished she knew how to make them.

I was stunned.  How could someone not know how to make them?  After all, Shelley Jones had shared her recipe for them in 1987 in the Cowley Cookbook.  Seriously?  Someone didn't know how to make them?

Then I remembered:  not everyone HAS the Cowley Cookbook.  A sad truth, to be sure.  So I assured Kristen that I had a recipe and that we could make some the next day.

As I was separated from my Cowley Cookbook, I called my sister in Utah.  Although Ronda didn't answer, her husband Steve did and I told him of my dilemma.

"Look in the 'Cakes, Cookies & Desserts' section," I told him.  "It's a Shelley Jones recipe, and she mentions how her college roommates would eat her cookies when she'd make them."

Steve, who has been married to a fine Cowley woman for nearly 30 years now and knows The Cookbook well, found it quickly and read me the recipe.  The next day, delightful chocolate crinkle cookies were baked in my mother-in-law's kitchen and enjoyed by all.

But that got me to thinking.  What would happen, I began to posit, if something were to actually (gasp!) happen to my Cowley Cookbook?   Or what if I were stranded in a far away land (as had been evidenced by my trip to Idaho) and could not access the recipe for Ann Bridges' stuffed meatballs, or Shelley's cookies or (banish the thought!) Josephine Crosby's Chocolate Brownie Cake?

And what about all of those people who had no Cowley Cookbook of their own?  What would happen then?

So, here's what I've been doing for the last week or so.  I'm smack dab in the middle of the salads at the moment, and continue to add a few each day.   And yes, once I'm done, I do plan on adding many of the recipes (like Spoonburgers) from the 2002 Cowley Cookbook.  (Don't tell anyone, but eventually I'm also going to list recipes that I've found outside of the Cowley borders and EVEN ask my friends to contribute some of their favorites, too.)

One of the best things about this project, I've learned, is not the recipes themselves.  It's more about the remembering.  Every time I type in a name like Ina Welling or Mildred Snelders or Reva Bennion, I can't help but remember how amazing each of those women were and how much I learned from them.  Or when I read about how Alta Smith had been making the same recipes for the 65 years of her marriage.  In typing in a quarter cup of this and a cup of that, I find myself connected to them somehow.

As I turn each page, I also am reminded about how I typed these recipes the first time.  I was 18 and typed page after page with my Corona typewriter I'd been given as a graduation gift the year before, sitting at a card table in our farmhouse.  My dad would walk by often, declaring that nobody could possibly be typing that fast (I wish he could have seen me a few years later when I hit 120 words a minute.)   Back then, typing these recipes was something I did to make my mother happy; today, it's making me happy.

Feel free to enjoy scrolling through them.  I know I have.  I hope you'll also choose to follow the site; as more recipes are added you just might find one you like.  And yes, I'd love to have you submit some, too.  (Even if you AREN'T from Cowley.) 

Oh--and here's the recipe to Shelley's cookies, just in case you'd like to whip up a batch:

1/2 cup margarine
1/4 cup shortening
3/4 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup white sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp vanilla
1/4 cup cocoa
1 tsp soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 1/2 - 3 cups flour
chocolate chips
nuts (NOTE:  I've never added them, and never, ever, ever will.)

Mix margarine, shortening, sugars, eggs, vanilla and cocoa until creamy.  Add baking soda, salt and flour.  Dough should be stiff.  (Bake a test cookie for best results).  Roll balls of dough in powdered sugar and place on greased cookie sheet.  Bake 8 minutes at 350 degrees.  If cookies bake any longer, they'll get hard.

And Shelley, if you ever happen to read this, thanks for the recipe.  It's brought a lot of smiles to a lot of people since 1987.

Big Mama Thunder Cloud

When I was growing up in the world's greatest town, there was a woman who was remarkably protective of her children.  I will not name her here, but I will say that in her estimation (at least at the time) her children could do nothing wrong.

Once, when my friend Stephanie and I were having a play date, an incident occurred (truly, I cannot remember what it was) which sent the woman over an edge because she believed that her daughter had somehow been rebuffed in some nature.  The woman arrived in quite a huff and proceeded to tell all present of her extreme displeasure.  To say that we two little girls were taken aback is an understatement.  Then, after the woman left, Stephanie confided in me that her mother referred to the other mother as "Big Mama Thunder Cloud" because of all of the noise she made.

Well, I have a confession to make.  I think I could become said Thunder Cloud.

Today, I took my son to his golf lesson (he looooooovvvveeees golfing).   As I waited, I worked on a few things, but kept peeking glances out of the windows to see how EG was doing.  I saw a little boy who I've seen before and who I tend to regard with some suspicion.  Now, keep in mind that I couldn't hear what he was saying, I didn't see that EG had any negative reaction whatsoever, and there were two coaches right there who could hear every word.  But I formulated a complete and utter diatribe of maternal defense that I was absolutely ready to unleash on the child if I saw that my son so much as flinch.

It started off with "Hey Chachi!" (he never seems to have sleeves on his shirt, thus reminding me of Scott Baio) and ending with "you'll need a surgeon, a crowbar and a winch to pull that driver out!  And don't get me STARTED on the putter!"

When did this happen to me?  When did crazy mother train start down the nut track with me as its engineer?  And its conductor?  And probably hanging off the caboose waving one of those weird lanterns?  And will the train ever head back to the station?

I do take some consolation in the fact that years (and possibly menopause) have mellowed out the original Cloud.   I see her every now and then when I go home, and she's actually quite delightful.  But I do have my suspicions that a storm could blow in pretty darned easily if provoked.

In fact, I'm thinking about taking her with me to golf lessons.

"Please Keep My Babies Safe"

I'm a praying sort of girl. Few (at least, fewer than should be) are offered kneeling by my bed. Some are offered as I drive, or when I pull into my parking space at work, when I have little chance of being interrupted by "Mom! Mom! Mom!" Most of them--whether gratitude for a moment of my life or a plea for help--are made in absolute silence.

Today I prayed perhaps harder than I have in quite some time. It happened as we drove home from Idaho, across West Yellowstone and through Gallatin Canyon. The weather had been temperamental; sometimes sunny, sometimes rainy, sometimes sleeting. Suddenly, it turned to snow. And the road turned to ice.

Dave saw it coming at the same time I did, and immediately took action. But it was too late. The car started slipping, turning one way and then the other. One moment we were headed towards the trees on the right; the next we were careening into the path of a full-size pickup pulling a travel trailer.

I watched it coming, I braced for impact. And I said a prayer in my mind as I watched the pickup come closer and closer and closer to my side of the car. "Please keep my babies safe. Please keep my babies safe. Please keep my babies safe."

And then suddenly the car righted itself, missing the oncoming traffic by inches. Shaking, Dave and I looked at each other. I, naturally, cried. And then again I said a silent prayer. "Thank you, Heavenly Father, for keeping my babies safe." I repeated it over and over and over as we made our way down the canyon and into Bozeman.

There are those who would say that it was coincidence or skill or engineering that kept us safe today. I know better. And tonight, I'll be telling my Heavenly Father the same thing.

On cellphones and orifices

I have had a cell phone of one type or another for about 15 years or so. I do not possess a smartphone; not because I don't want one, but because the monthly data plan is more than my heating bill and if I want to spend cash on something I don't necessarily need at the moment it'll probably be a purse or MAC (the makeup, not the product from Apple.)

Cellphones are useful devices. They can even be life saving. We're all aware of it. But I wish that people would pull the ridiculous things from their ear from time to time.

A few months ago, I had the privilege of spending 2 hours in the waiting room of a hospital's walk-in office. Knowing that I was in for a wait (I'd called before I headed in), I grabbed my laptop so that I could do some work on some radio and TV spots for a client. I sat quietly in a corner, brainstorming madly (if silently) and typing my brilliance onto the screen.

About a half hour into my wait, a gentleman came in with his wife and baby and checked in. Eventually, wife and baby left. Gentleman did not. He waited for a few minutes, and then started to get fidgety (aka tweaking) for want of his phone. Sure enough, he pulled out the crackberry and started dialing for dollars. He left several messages asking for people to call him back. Finally, some poor soul was reached and a conversation began.

Now, neither I nor the other folks gathered in that room wanted to hear about this man's day, ailment, worries or general thoughts on society. And yet we were forced to bear them because he decided that he couldn't disconnect from people or his phone for more than a few minutes.

Not long after, I headed into a store to grab a few items and soon begrudgingly found myself having to listen to yet another person. This time it was a woman screeching at her child about borrowing the car to drive his friends to work and how "she wasn't going to deal with this (expletive) anymore (expletive)!" Same day, different store, same kind of aisle, I got to be regaled about a woman's book club and how she just had no time to do two of them while she stood smack in the sticker aisle doing nothing while I had to nose around her.

Yesterday, I ran into CVS to grab some lotion and found it to be sold out. I wanted to get it on sale (because that's how I roll) so I headed to the cashier to get a raincheck. There was a line of people, headed by a woman who talked on her cellphone during the entire transaction. The nice man who was trying to ring her up was completely ignored as she went on about one thing and then another. Her conversation wasn't exactly life impacting; it consisted mostly of "yeah (giggle) uh-huh (giggle) oh I KNOW (giggle) I'm just waiting here (sigh)."

At that moment, I knew I'd had enough. I have never been more possessed to grab a phone (smart or otherwise) out of someone's (apparently not particularly smart) hand and smash it. I seriously wanted to scream "I'm mad as H-E-double hockey sticks and I'm not going to take it anymore! I don't care about your infections or car washes or book clubs or giggles! Pay attention to the life (and people!) around you and stop believing that you are in some kind of magic bubble that precludes the rest of us from having to listen to you. We can hear every freaking, ridiculous, and BORING word you spew from your head's largest orifice (which, incidentally, doesn't appear to me to be your BODY'S largest orifice!). Hang up the phone, moron!"

Click.

I'm thinking of changing my name...

...to Johnson. Admittedly, I had a hard time changing my name from Rasmussen to Green (despite the fact that my married name people would have an improved chance of spelling correctly), but now I'm thinking that one more name change just might be in order. That is, at least, if I can capitalize on it.

In any given month I buy not less than 5 boxes of Band-Aids. The little people who live at my house (one in particular) believe that Band-Aids can cure everything from a paper cut to cholera. Bad hair day? Pop a Band-Aid on your foot. Feeling a little down because of the rain? Band-Aid on finger. Can't find the pink crayon? Band-Aid on knee.

We've had Spiderman, Barbie, Sponge Bob and Scooby Doo all on the same leg at the same time. I find discarded Band-Aids in shoes, in the laundry basket, on furniture and on the bottom of my foot.

My daughter is home with tummy troubles again today, and just assured me that if she could have a Band-Aid, she'd feel better. She now has two Barbie Band-Aids on her toe. And I do have to admit that she hasn't had to go potty in roughly a half hour, a near record for the day. Obviously those sticky little strips that "hold on tight in the bathtub and cling in soapy suds" have magic powers imbued in them.

Over the course of my children's lifetimes, I have spent countless dollars on Band-Aids. I probably could have paid for their first year of college instead. Hence the name change. Surely if I were to change my name to Johnson, I'd get some sort of discount, right? Perhaps even a share in the company?

Or maybe...I'll just hyphenate.

On Taking Breaks

Has it really been so long since I posted? Holidays and milestones and funny moments that now I can't remember have passed me by, never to be memorialized here. And then I can't help but think that too often I let life pass me by in much the same way--so caught up in the "have to's" that I never get the chance to stop and see the "remember" times.

This morning, for instance, I stayed home from work because Eme was sick. As she laid on the couch eating crackers, I worked on my laptop. I paused only when she needed me to empty the dreaded bowl or wipe her face, then she'd lay on the pillow again and I would start typing.

When I went to the office I had ever intention of still leaving at 5. Of course, 5 lately has stretched to 5:30 and oftentimes EG is the last one picked up at his after school program. But today, I wanted to get home and be with them. Then one project, then another, then another creeped in and how could I say no? So I arrived home just after 8 tonight. Eme was feeling better, but so tired that she fell asleep in her dad's arms. EG was immersed in a movie and had little time for me, although later he let me lay down with him and tell him his favorite story--the day he was born. He didn't understand why I cried, but as it's not that unusual for his mother to cry,he took it in stride.

Afterwards, I tried to talk to my husband about my worries, and it ended up sounding like I was accusing him of not working hard enough or trying hard enough. Really, I know that he does try hard, and that he does work hard, and if it were up to him he'd still be working at the job he loved rather than the one he has now.

In truth, I know that I am lucky, that others have it harder, that there are many things to be so grateful for. Instead, I find myself typing (because as I always say, it's the one thing I know how to do) at this computer, beating myself up for not being the kind of wife and mom that I know I should be and that my friends all seem to be.

Perhaps it's the rain and all the dreary days that have brought this out in me. But I also have to wonder if anyone out there ever feels the same.

I promise that my next post will not be so long in coming and that when it finally does, I will be far happier and less tear-streaked than I am now.

Saying Goodbye

There are some mothers for whom the end of the "having baby" phase is something they look forward to. I must admit that I am not one of them. I love being pregnant. The way that my skin feels--the way that I feel. Knowing that those little people are growing right inside and that my only job is to keep them safe. I don't think that I've ever felt more needed. Even when I had troubles in my first pregnancy, I loved feeling my son kick or move or get the hiccup. It was no different with my surprise baby, my daughter--how I loved feeling her roll about. And how I loved bringing my babies home from the hospital for the first time and laying them in the crib that had been waiting for them for months. The same crib that had held my nephews when my sister took them into her arms after waiting--sometimes for years--for a birth mother who knew that it was the right thing to do.

Today my "having baby" phase officially ended, with Dave taking the crib--and yes, a piece of my heart--to a thrift store. I'm teary-eyed and sad, despite knowing that I'm 42 years old and that another pregnancy wouldn't be a particularly good idea. But I can't help but hurt a little bit as I watch another step taken and knowing that there are more to come as my children grow. It reminds me of a sign I have in between my kids' rooms: "Cleaning and dusting can wait 'til tomorrow, for babies grow up, we've learned to our sorrow. So quiet down, cobwebs and dust, go to sleep. I'm rocking my babies 'cause babies don't keep." I know that someday soon that sign, too, must come down for it will be far too "babyish" for my fast-growing son and daughter.

So for now, I'm going to look at the picture I made Dave take of the crib, and cry a little bit and say goodbye to a friend I never knew I'd miss quite so much.