4 Squares, 4 Squares, Flush

At 5:30 this morning, I wake up thinking about one thing I didn’t get done yesterday.  And that thought leads to one small question: Will “4 Squares, 4 Squares, Flush” fit on a small notecard?  Mom allowed three squares, so four at double-ply seems more than sufficient.  My boys should be so lucky. Mom doesn’t remember ever setting TP limits, and she laughed at my recall of that being a factual statement.  However, at last night’s meeting, nearly all of the women in my book club had the same experience growing up.  Our moms set clear limits as to how much toilet paper could be used.

Our brand new Kohler toilet can’t keep up with the current demand.  The plunger method only partially worked before Christmas.  Last week, well, I just wasn’t going there again.  Instead, I decided to talk to the toilet.  Even seeing 50 – 100 squares in floating blobs, I felt power supreme.  Me and my new toilet of less than 6 months.  Pushing that handle would have to work.  My final words before dialing Roto Rooter Saturday night: “No, no, no!  Don’t do that!”  And… it listened.  Peaking at near overflow.  I locked the door, pulled it shut, and scheduled an evening Roto Rooter appointment.

“Yeah, I see your problem.  Worst toilet on the market.  And it looks like you’re probably using Charmin too.  You need to get an American Standard and one-ply toilet paper.”

And, now, you need to unclog my toilet with your fancy auger.  $198 and 5 seconds later, my toilet worked like new.

Even if my 3x5 notecards don’t work, and I need to buy 5x8 notecards to make signs for the bathroom, they are cheaper than a new toilet to replace my new toilet.

Plus, if I don’t do this, how will my sons know how to set TP limits with their children?

And, with this new “4 Squares, 4 Squares, Flush” guideline, the necessity of hand-washing may be solidified.

Also, we can have a brief discussion of resource allocation; after all, $198 would buy a very big LEGOS set.  And that opportunity has gone.  Right down the toilet.

Yes, this potty talk is pure opportunity.

The Blizzard of December 2012

January 9th.  A blank page.  A half hour until posting time.  All in my head will take a few pages and more than a half hour to move from swirling stories and pictures to black letters formatted into words, sentences, paragraphs... a story. So, I start with swirling snow: The Blizzard of December 2012.

The Malcolms landed in Cedar Rapids, Iowa on December 19th around 4:30 and the blizzard hit at 4:32 as we deplaned and rented a car.  It wasn’t a few snowflakes and then wind.  It was a wall of blizzard: blowing and snowing.  It shut parts of major interstates for nearly 24 hours and some gravel roads even longer.  This one was nearly a 48-hour weather event.

In the middle of the big blow, my wisp Will wanted to go out with his big cousin to a friend’s and build a snow fort.  They needed to walk a few blocks to a dead-end street where the plows pushed the snow into high mounds, after all that was the best fort building site.

It sounds silly, but I felt a tug that Obama referenced in Newtown: Our children are our hearts we send out into the world.  We were in a blizzard in Iowa.  Was I crazy?  Crazy for keeping him in?  Crazy for sending him out?  Out won… What an opportunity for a 9-year-old!   Bill and I gave the OK for Will to build forts in the middle of the blizzard under the wing of his cousin.   While my heart was frozen with the 40-mile-an-hour gusts of flying snow, Will’s heart was merrily pumping as he built with the big boys in the Blizzard of December 2012.  In the following days, the boys sledded, hiked drifts, built more forts, ate pounds of snow, and threw snowballs.   I think, like so many Iowans, we will remember the name of that blizzard.  And that bit of independence that came with it.

(Then there were the Blizzards of 2015!  Here is 50 Inches of Snow in Pictures.)

Happy Holi-daze!

Tis the season for decking the halls!

My snowmen are so darn cute framed in the little window by the fireplace…

But so darn naughty from the outside.

Pulling into the driveway yesterday morning, I gasped and momentarily wondered how a big white bum got pressed up against that little window…

Blue moon, harvest moon... and now the snowman moon.

Happy Holidaze!

The New Voice in My Kitchen

No new kitchen is thoroughly broken in until smoke from the oven or stove sets off the smoke detector.  Unfortunately, I did so when my boys were sitting at the kitchen counter. The new smoke detectors are wired into the ceilings.  Gone are the batteries of old.  We discovered if one goes off, say near the kitchen, they all go off.  Throughout the house.  Creating an eerie echoing, like a sound effect from a sci-fi film.

Shockingly, a calm but insistent woman’s robotic motherly voice spoke to us.  “Fire.  Fire.  Fire.”  The high electric shrill beep of the smoke alarm was startling.  This voice… unnerving.

Our three sets of eyes grew and locked gazes for several seconds when she started directing.  As I grabbed a towel to fan the nearest alarm, I said in my best calm motherly voice, “There is no fire.  It’s just smoke from the oven.”

Will and Liam were frozen as they heard repeatedly, “Fire. Fire.  Fire.”

“Guys, there is no fire.”  I tromped closer to the alarm and started fanning.  They watched me with great doubt moving through their little bodies.  She was winning them over.  I could see their minds, capable of making big pictures, churning.  In their heads, they were running out the door to our emergency meeting place in the neighbors’ front yard.

With 10 good waves of my towel – more than what was needed with the old detectors – beeping and speaking ceased.

She would be effective in an emergency situation, but I wish she was more perceptive in non-fire situations.  It would be helpful to me if she said words like, “Bacon.  Bacon.  Bacon.”  Or, “Last pancake.  Last pancake.  Last pancake.”   Or even, “Mom’s Burning Food.  Mom’s Burning Food.  Mom’s Burning  Food.”

Or not.

Turkeys and Love

Ahhhh.  Thanksgiving morn.  I felt a telepathic scuttle when my alarm went off this morning.  That turkey energy running through kitchens all through the country.  Houses quiet but for the one person carrying the load of the day: preparing the turkey. In our house, it’s double duty.  I’m kind of the director and Bill does the hands-on lifting, cleaning, rubbing, and carving.  We have a special guest of honor this year: we know our turkey lived a charmed life roaming on Chestnut Farms.  On Sunday, Bill went to the distribution point to collect our gobbler.  My name wasn’t on the list but the farmer remembered my name.  She asked, “What size did Linda order?”  Bill hadn’t an idea of available sizes.  “Probably a medium.”

And on that day our turkey grew from 14-16 pounds to 17-20 pounds for four people.  There will actually be six of us, but I’m pretty sure Will & Liam won’t be trying the turkey.  “Point of View” by Shel Silverstein was read by one of the students at all-school Thanksgiving meeting Monday.  Many of us chuckled at it.  Others of us used it to sum up exactly why mac’n’cheese is a perfectly good Thanksgiving entrée.

All week I’ve been visualizing that beautifully roasted, domed bird.  Daily Bill has been given it cold baths, per farmer’s direction, then covering it with a wet towel, foil and returning it to the fridge.  I’ve been studying the many options of preparation: brining, buttering, herbing, or simply shoving it in a 350-degree oven.  Since we are having an evening feast, I’ve decided to go with brining it for the day in kosher salt in a sinkful of ice water.

At 6:30 a.m., Bill brought the turkey up from the basement fridge and uncovered it as I gave directions.    “I think it should go breast down so that meat is fully submerged in the brine.”  We started filling the sink with water and ice; Bill placed the turkey into its prep sink.  I restated, “No, it needs to go breast-down.”  Bill, looking at me as if I had two heads, “It is breast down.  It’s been this way all week.”

Thus we enter a very peculiar state of “I’m right… No, I’m right.”  But I AM right, as sure as I can tell the pungent difference between cow manure and pig shit, I AM right.  At this intersection, I can’t speak.  After a few seconds staring at the tail, the elbow of the wing – and yes, the backbone – I say, “Bill, do you really think this is the breast?”  Pause.  Sigh.  “No, now I don’t.”

Our DD breasted turkey was now a BB.  Flat chested.  Condensed.  Flat as a pancake.   She had been lying comatose on her breasts for four days.

Today, I’m thankful for a slower pace so we can gather as a family, turning off the responsibilities and the roles outside our four walls.  After all, it’s the human side of Bill that I just adore.  At moments like this, he makes me smile deliriously.

Next weekend, I think we will roast a chicken together.  I will make a farmer out of him yet.

A Day Off Work or The Hump Day That Got Away

It’s crunch time on construction.  Or should I say “punch time.”  We are down to a task list of items (the punch list) yet be completed.  All the little bits are coming together, like tiny dominoes built meticulously in a tight train. Last week, that meant meeting the cable guy.  Was that an audible groan that slipped from your lips?

It started with a Sunday appointment and a local guy that was pretty much tickled to see the interior of our house, after driving by it for months and viewing it from the outside.  Unfortunately, he was so enthralled with our new utility room – shiny, compact, and labeled – that he missed the dropped line in the ugly little unchanged room which meant an easy job for him.  He went away needing to schedule a 5-hour appointment to wrap the exterior of our whole house in cable.  On Monday, the electrician looked at me incredulously when I told him the Sunday cable guy’s plans.

Later that day I received a text saying that my “ticket was closed” as all work was completed on the assigned job number.  Interesting, as we still had no land-line, no internet, and no cable – only a new fan of the fine craftsmanship that went into our addition.

I called and scheduled another appointment.  Cable guy #2 arrived, came inside and said, “This was called in as a missing dial tone.  This is a bigger job than I can do today.”  After 20 minutes on the phone to set-up this visit, only the “missing dial tone” box had been checked?  “Let me call the business office.”  And off to his truck office he went.

Deflated, I rounded a corner and met my finishing guy, fuming.  “You’re too nice.  Tell him he’s not leaving until the job is done.  Tell him you took the day off to be here.”  This pep talk coming from a man who had a year-long appointment with cable guys – until one cable guy finally cut an exterior line, drained the water out, and put a new line in, creating a long-awaited clear picture on the big-screen.

I headed out the door, in the rain, with no coat.  I hovered outside the truck office’s open window.  “Any word?” I called into the cable guy.  “I’m working on it.”  Then, I heard him mumble “Thursday.”  Through rain drops, I shouted, “Thursday won’t work – thresholds are being stained and no one can be in the house!”   I got the wait-a-second finger.   He hung up.

“I really need you to do this today.”

“I don’t have enough time today; I have five other customers.”

“But I’m a customer too!  And this is the second cable appointment I’ve made in a week to get this job done!”  At this point, I glanced at the ground in front of the truck.  Soft, wet mud.  Shall I throw myself on the ground in front of his truck?  Until the Barefoot Contessa is recording on my DVR?

Why is Bill in China and missing out on all this fun?

“Let me make another phone call.”

I heard negotiating… I dealt the last card as advised by my finishing guy.

“I took the day off work for this appointment!”

That night, the boys and I watched Halloween Wars on the Food Network.

an early start

t It's 4:47 a.m.  I just deleted nearly a half hour of writing.  Whatever I hit, erased my page and left me with the above "t."  When does one remember to save work along the way?  There is no apparent "undo" button on this program.  I was just thinking how well I was doing to write directly onto my blog and to skip the Word doc phase.  I have now hit "save draft."

At 4:19 I escaped that contortion called sleep.  With a head firmly nestled at the nape of my neck and a butt in my gut, I popped out of the sandwich like a chunk of strawberry preserve wedged on the edge of a PBJ.

I have been reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.  For the third time.  I haven't unpacked my unread books, so I borrowed one from the boys.  The little boys.  The big boy hasn't held a paper book since I gifted him an electronic reader thing.  I'm to the point where Hermione Granger has her arm stretched to the stars wanting to answer a question in Snape's class.  Apparently, I too tried to answer the question most of the night.  My arm was numb and stuck up when I awoke.

At 4:28 I brewed a cup of coffee with my Keurig brewer.  Without placing a cup under the dispenser.  I was mystified that I could forget this.  And even more mystified that I couldn't remember which cupboard I designated for mugs.  Ah yes, across the kitchen from the brewer.  Not to worry, the drip tray will hold a full cup of coffee.  I've tested it before.

This, I believe, is where Hump Day originated.  Some days the mid-week hump is bigger than others.  Thankfully, today, it's just a series of funny little humps that will be forgotten by the time I push "publish" ... or accidently hit "delete."  Again.

Happy Hump Day...

 

 

Liam's Forever Family Day 2012

We moved out of our house for the renovation May 26th.  We moved back into our house, and slept in our own beds, last Saturday, September 22nd.  During the summer months, we slept in a couple dozen beds.  Now, we are living simply until construction is completely done inside.   With just mattresses on the floor that we are calling beds, we are sleeping at home.  With a quilt that floats from unfinished room to unfinished room, we are picnicking at home.  With a flurry of activity around the house and construction, it’s alarming how special days are slipping through the cracks. So it’s time to put a pin on the calendar for this week: Liam’s Forever Family Day is Thursday, September 27th.  Six years ago we brought 9-month-old Liam home from South Korea.  And now he’s 48 inches tall.

Liam is the man with a view.  He sees the whole playing field in soccer and in hockey.  He sees the whole chess board.  He sees the whole maze.  To me and my wacky, challenged sense of depth perception, this is amazing.  He sees the whole picture.

Desperate for the hand-held Nintendo DS, which I removed from the house three years ago, Liam has been reading like a trooper since school started.  I told him when he wanted to read as much as he wanted the DS, we would talk about its return but not until fall.  Since August 22nd, I have been reminded that fall is on September 22nd.  Forgetting momentarily about the DS, he looked out the window September 22nd and somberly noted that there weren’t any leaf piles to jump in.

Liam is strong.  Strong.  Strong. Strong.  Strong-willed.  Strong-tempered.  Strong thinker.  Sometimes in my attempt with the “removal of privilege” system, which I KNOW works equally as poorly as the “reward system” with this child, we butt heads.  “Yeah, Mom, I don’t care about that.”  After a conversation this summer with a mom of a similarly wired kid, it clicked: I am Liam's greatest commodity.  And I can’t take me away from him.

In a heated discussion on our way to floor hockey, we were going at it.  When I should bite my tongue, I engage.  It’s like two mountain goats butting heads over a single blade of grass.  With a snarl thrown in my direction – and my return motherly-snarl saying “don’t-snarl-at-me” – Liam runs onto the gym floor.  I stay to watch; Liam has said he doesn’t want me to run errands.  Today, I could use an errand or two to recover from the head butt.

Fifteen minutes into the practice, they start a game using hockey sticks and whiffle balls.  With no protective barriers, the ball flies off walls, benches, and parents.  The ball and six boys come charging toward me.  From the pack, I hear a loud and clear and slightly ferocious warning, “HEY!!  Be careful of my mom!!”

Ahhhh…  Glad I didn’t run errands.

Much is the same, yet much has changed since Liam's 2010 Forever Family Day.

Hello from The Black Bra Inn

Good Morning from the lobby (aka: our living room) at the Black Bra Inn... Liam & I have been here since 5 a.m.  Liam and our next door neighbor were having coughing fits.  Liam's was from allergies.  Thank goodness for Netflix on my computer... That leaves me pecking away on.my phone.

We are only days away from sleeping in our house!  Yesterday l saw trash cans along a street.  They made me homesick; soon we will be putting our own trash out.

Hotel staffers know my name.  To my face they call me "Linda.". I have to wonder if privately they use a qualifier:  "You know, the black-bra woman who's usually in the lobby at the 5 a.m. Shift change?"

meanwhile at the house, our mattress and bed springs have returned to our bedroom.  The stacked pair looks like a squatter holding firm for our imminent return.  We are waiting for the floor finishes to be completed and for the smell to go away.

Once in the house, we will probably leave the bathroom light on as we have in every place that we have slept this summer.  It's a comforting beacon at 2 a.m. in a place that isn't home.

Once in the house, we may not venture out for anything other than school and work... And meetings, gymnastics, floor hockey, soccer, Boy Scouts, trumpet lessons.  Looks like penciling in AT HOME on the calendar needs to happen for us to do some serious nesting.

Yes, I must get out of here... I just helped a British couple operate the coffee brewer in the lobby and then provided travel tips for Boston.

Sometimes dusty, dirty, and demanding... Here's to home.

Happy Hump Day...

Confused by the name of the inn?  Read Finders Keepers for clarification. :)

phone charger cord for the car

(This little ditty was sparked taking inventory of my purse in "This Morning's Office"... ) In Massachusetts, I found the phone charger cord for the car as we left the rental house in Gloucester, so I tucked it in my suitcase to take to Iowa.  However, as I criss-crossed Iowa I rarely had cell coverage.  Not too shocking as no-service had become the norm this summer.  So my always-fully-charged phone rarely worked.  Perhaps T-Mobile is MA-based and can get power through buildings but not corn tassels.

While in Iowa, occasionally  I found 2-square feet to stand in to get 2 bars of coverage.  One of those times was on my sister's porch in the middle of Iowa at 8 a.m. when my phone rang.  "We are calling on behalf of Sprint to collect a bill you have not paid."  Never do I give a credit card number over the phone to someone who calls me.  "I don't have Sprint.  What service is it for?"  "I'm not sure, Ma'am, I just have the amount due that covers two billing cycles."

Crap.  It clicked: I do have Sprint.  At the beginning of summer, two billing cycles ago, I bought a "hot spot" so that wherever I go I can hook up to the internet with my lap top.  That is, wherever I can get cell coverage.  Which ended up not being at the house in Gloucester this summer.  So the magical hot spot went into a cardboard box, in the POD, in our driveway.

I have flashbacks of seeing "Sprint" in the subject of emails and not opening them because I don't have a Sprint phone.  I thought they were marketing emails... and I have fast delete fingers when it comes to those emails.  I had gone with paper-less billing for my Sprint hot spot.  Realizing that I actually did have a Sprint product and knowing I hadn't paid any bills, I grimaced and gave my credit card number and 3-digit secret code to this man.  Who called me.

Loading up the kids to go to Reiman Gardens in Ames, I felt a pit in the bottom of my stomache.  Even with the realization that I hadn't paid my Sprint bill, I shouldn't have given my card information to that guy.  The best solution for my panic was to contact a local Sprint office and confirm that the call was legit.  "Oh, Ma'am, that doesn't sound good.  What is your phone number?"  I don't have a phone with Sprint.  "Well, there is a number associated with the hot spot -- what's that number?"  That number is with the paperwork, in the hot spot box, in the POD, in the driveway, at our house, in Massachusetts.  "Well, there's no way I can look at your account without that number, Ma'am."  What about my name?  I know my name!!  "Unfortunately, we can't look up accounts by name.  You should probably call our 800 number for help."

I tossed paper and pencil to Will in the back seat and asked him to write numbers down as I repeated them from the Sprint lady.  She gave me two numbers to try.  I dialed the first one that Will had written down.  "Hello..."  Wow, that 'Hello' was way too sultry for Sprint customer service.  "We are so glad you called.  Are you looking for hot, steamy..."  Shock knocks the memory.  The Sprint lady gave me a sex line.  Or did Will write the  number down wrong?  I hit 'end call' and dared not call the second number.  I would go on faith that the collection agency that had called me was legit.

Later that afternoon, I heard the ping for an incoming text.  "Creamy chocolate or hot latina lovers r waiting 4 u.  $25 credit on your first call... or, do you want to SEXTEXT?"  No!  I really don't!!  And why are you sending this to me??  Ohhhh...  My cell number was captured after I called you.  By mistake.

That came in at 4:04 p.m.  "END" went out at 4:05 p.m.  My one and only sextext experience lasted less than a minute.

And to make sure there are no cliff-hangers: My hot spot is still in the cardboard box.  And the collection agency call was legit.

Need more endorphins freed up today?  Try this:  Finders Keepers

 

Finders Keepers

Wednesday morning I was herding the boys, trying to leave the hotel room and get to school.  Liam, putting on his shoes between the two beds, said, "Hey, Mom!  What's this?  I want it!"  Frazzled, I acquiesced and had a look.  It was a black bra.  Not mine.  Stuck under the leg of the bed.  "No you can't have that!  It's not mine!"  Thinking he had really hit a jackpot, "What is it?  I want it!  Finder's keepers, ya know, Mom!"  Bent over laughing, I told him not to touch it and to get shoes on and get out the door.  My response to the surreal is apparently belly laughing. I scooted the boys out of the room and stopped at the front desk.  Speaking in shorthand to the woman at the front desk, I conveyed what needed to happen.  "My son found a black bra under the bed.  Not mine.  Stuck under the leg.  He's playing 'finder's keepers.'  There are clothes all over the room, but that is not mine.  It needs to disappear before I get back."  She was mortified.  "I'm so sorry."  Across the lobby I said, "Maybe you can think about something you can give me in return for what you take out of the room today."  The response, "We will come up with something."

After school I returned with the boys to pick up the laundry and go to the laundromat.  I subtley peeked under the bed.  It was gone.  I snatched all the dirty laundry and opened the suitcase (aka: dirty clothes hamper) to add these last bits.  And there it was.  Neatly folded... the black bra.  Still not mine.

What got lost in translation?  "The woman in room 123 can't get her bra out from under the bed" v.s. "The woman in room 123 wants the bra that's not hers out from under the bed."  Knowing there was a seeker in the room playing finders keepers, I whisked it out of the suitcase, opened the door, and threw it into the hallway.  There are housekeeping carts right outside my door.  Someone will now get the message.

A half hour later, Will opened the door as I wheeled the suitcase right behind him.  "Mom, why is there a black bra out here?"  "I... I threw it out here because it's not mine and..."  Hells bells.  I threw it out into the hallway.  Do the housekeepers think I'm in a rage because I found a bra in the room, not mine, and slung it out because my husband is having an affair?  (He's not... read this clearly... it's what I thought the housekeeping staff thought...)   I grabbed a plastic bag, picked the black bra up again and delivered it to the front desk.  Different woman at the front desk.  I shorthanded her the story.  She too is equally as mortified as the first woman.

The only ones I cannot explain the situation to is the housekeeping staff.  There I am with two little boys, throwing another woman's black bra out the door.  I am left wondering how they are telling the story.

God forbid, I hope I didn't grab the hotel laundering bag to get rid of the thing.  It may come back neatly folded... and clean.

(Want to read more about my "finder's keepers" guy?  Liam's Forever Family Day 2012.)

 

This Morning's Office

We are just a few days away from moving back into our house.  So close.  Life is more than a little jumbled living from a small hotel room, a POD, and the back of my van.  And this morning, from the hotel bathroom as my morning office.  I didn't feeling like putting clothes on at 6 a.m. and sitting in the lobby.  This morning, I brought my purse into the office.  I have become a bag lady.  Holy smokes, that thing must weigh 20 pounds.  This morning I'm cleaning it out... A hard cover address book stuffed with social invites needing replies or gifts... three passports, one  needs to be renewed... the boys' Easter money from Grandma & Grandpa - three ziplocs filled with coins... Will's heavy wallet, what does he have in that thing? ahhh, it has a coin pocket --filled with quarters... my envelope of cash... two driver's licenses -- I lost my original at the beginning of summer... my camera... Advil... 2 ziplocs filled with receipts... 2 hotel bills... a mysterious bill in my side pocket, probably from Mom, she has a quiet-money-tucking way about her... one duplicate checkbook, no cover & paint sample paint strips with kitchen color possibilities marking where the next unused check is... hmmm... there is also a reorder note on the top edge and the color of the basement carpet written on the back...

...an IPASS from IL that works in MA...  1 set of keys with all those little store tags... deoderant... empty prescription bottle, don't want to throw it in the hotel trash... "Wet Ones" package about half-way down in the bag... box of band-aids with a tube of antibiotic salve inside... big green Mentos gum bottle...crumpled receipts distributed evenly throughout like confetti... ziploc of hair bands and clips... phone charger cord for the car... a key... a receipt for granite sealer...big tube of Cortizone... little tube of Aquaphor...  I can see the bottom of the bag! ... my prayer bracelet... a note from Will's teacher... a note from the landlord who owned the house we rented this summer, there's a drawing of the house on the front of the card, she would love to have us back next summer -- the deposit check is tucked inside... another baggie full of coins... another key...

...an origami Yoda I'm supposed to be mailing to a friend for Will...tic tacs... Premier 1k Mileage plus card from United with my name on it... another car key... and two more...my business card holder -- empty... LEGOS flier from the garden in Ames, IA...rental car agreement... a banana key chain with a single key, either to the POD in our drive or to our steel case containing important stuff... package of gum... more confetti receipts...Liam's bracelet that a friend made for him... leftover tape from Bill's wound this summer... band-aid wrappers... a car rental receipt from Iowa...tweezers... plumbing supplier business card... lipstick...another key... more leftover tape

I've always been fascinated by inventories.  Lists can tell a story and each item has its own story.  Just wait...there are three pens and a pencil in the bottom of the bag as well.

Happy Hump Day...

Summer Numbers

At the end of this tailspin called summer, I’ve been recalling events in numbers – a little strange because I’m more of a word person.  Short & quantifiable, numbers highlight this Hump Day Short. In the last 30 days, I’ve slept in 17 beds.

After flying 1,600 miles to the Midwest, the rental car had racked up 2,000 Midwest-driving miles at the end of our 14-day trip.

45,143 LEGO blocks were used by master LEGO sculptor Sean Kinney to create a mother bison sculpture on display at the Reiman Gardens on the ISU campus in Ames, IA.  It was one of 27 sculptures in the gardens.  (Click here for pictures of sculptures.)

6 pair of underwear; 1 set of pajamas; 2 capri pants: What I left behind in a hotel room drawer after 1 beautful wedding in the Midwest.  It was shipped to my parents’ house in 1 box that took 7 days to arrive.

Quantillion, quintillion, googleplex.  A number created during a drive through cornfields in Iowa; I think it relates to the numberof corn tassels we saw.

½ of 1 toenail left on my big toe – a result of the 26- mile Avon Walk in May.

ZERO:  How many ears of corn are on many cornstalks in Iowa due to the drought.

ZERO: How many days until school starts.

1 alien space umbrella I was using yesterday made 8 people smile.

A few days rather than a few weeks until we move back into our house – too early for exact numbers.  Thanks, Mom & Dad, for our 1 mantel.  It's a piece of white oak from my grandpa's timber on the old home place, cut down in 1952 and shipped from Iowa to Massachussetts for $40.  Yes, it's so cliche, but... priceless.

Waiting for a Story

It’s one of those days.  I’ve started five stories and can’t finish a single one as a Hump Day Short.  One is kind of funny but going to be too long.  One is too emotional.  One I can’t find words to describe.  So, I’m beckoning you… help. Across the river from the house on the Annisquam in Gloucester lies a simple island with several houses of similar design.  It’s a private island and, we were told, it has no electricity and no indoor plumbing.  In the evening, lanterns moving through the house resemble the glow from within Amish houses.  A few small boats are tied up at the wooden dock throughout the week.  On the weekends, kids run and play on the sand flats when the tide is out.  Although less than 100 yards away, my boys never met up to play with them as their privacy was protected by the deep river channel.

It's a setting ripe for a story.  Now we need a plot and the details.  Don’t be shy.

Scroll down.  Pretend “Leave a Comment” really reads “Next Paragraph” and add to the story.

Can the Great Hump Day Diversion be built in a day?  A week?

In Which Boat Will You Float?

Two paddlers are side by side on the Annisquam River as I write this early Tuesday morning. One is in a hard plastic blue kayak paddling with one long double-bladed oar alternating side to side. The boat is on a calm, steady glide. The kayaker sits inches away from the water on a seat nestled in the cockpit.

The other paddler is in a beautiful custom-made wooden row boat with the oars anchored to the sides. With both oars being pulled simultaneously, the boat creates powerful strides reflected in the wake. The rower sits apart from the water on a seat inside the boat.

The kayaker faces the bow controlling the boat's direction.

The rower faces the stern and constantly looks behind, over the bow, to see where the boat is headed.

Today, I’m kayaking.

Cupboard Doors

Do you ever get delightful, welcoming, calming diversions unexpectedly? In the house renovation, we are installing new cupboards in the new kitchen.  Bill is not going to miss my noisy parade of doors in the kitchen: all of the doors slammed shut regardless of how delicately I tried to close them.  (I must admit “delicate” is stretching it a bit… particularly in the Morning Kitchen while flying through to make breakfast and lunches.) Even the felt I attached to every seam hardly deafened the sharpness of the closings.   The doors under my sink had other issues.  Not only did they slam, they also fell downward over the course of the week.  I kept a Philips screwdriver under the sink and taught Liam how to tighten the hinges.  That would last only a few days before the doors would bang out, “Hey, would ya tighten me up here??”  They had a strong Bostonian accent.

Before we went to England at the end of May, I needed to run to the kitchen design store to finalize our cupboard layout.  I squeezed the trip in between packing and picking up the boys from school.  I was haphazardly packing suitcases for England, packing boxes to take with us for the summer, and packing the contents of the entire house into four rooms.

Haphazard = putting four pairs and 15 single socks in the boys' suitcase for England; sending bookcases for the summer rental house with the movers, minus a few book shelves, minus ALL pegs that they sit on; throwing ski pants on the floor next to the basement door prone to leaking water.  (Yes, it did...)  I must have looked like a wild woman when I walked into the kitchen store.

My designer was wrapping up with another customer, so I went to my favorite spot in the very non-haphazard showroom: next to a drawer and a cupboard door that self-close.  I opened the cupboard door and gave it a push shut.  The door caught about three inches from the cabinet; then silently, smoothly the hinge pulled the door shut.  I opened a drawer and gave it a little push.  It caught about three inches from the cabinet and closed itself too.  I got in at least 10 good opens and closes on each before the designer appeared at my side -- a little mystified by my cupboard meditation.

That episode still makes me smile.  Cupboards whispering, “Let me help you with that.”  “I’ll finish this for you.”  “Go ahead do something else.  I've got this covered.”

Wishing you simple diversions…  Happy Hump Day.

(During construction, this was a summer of numbers.)

Sea Glass

Glass.

How long will it take for this new Bath Aqua Glass in Bath, England to become sea glass?

Will it ever make its way to an ocean to be tumbled and rubbed, eventually lodging on a beach and then landing in a beachcomber's pocket?

In Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, there is a brilliant short quote something to the effect of "if it's glass, it will break; it's only a matter of when." If you can get your mind around this, then the shock is lessened when something breakable -- perhaps even considered valuable -- meets its demise.

When it happens, how long before the swept up sharp bits and chards become someone else's treasure? Say at low tide on the Annisquam River or the beach at Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, MA?

A part of me wants to know the history of this beautiful, broken, buffed yet cloudy sea glass. But most of me wants to hold on to the romance of it. No history lesson. Just let the sea glass be. After all, what if it wasn't on a transatlantic ship in the 1700's? Do I really want to know that?

Not today.

Sunset

Do you love a good sunset?  The Malcolms do. Although it’s arguable on Bill’s side of the family when that beautiful sunset actually occurs.  What part of it is the most spellbinding.

Years ago while vacationing with Bill’s family in Florida, we dropped towels on a beach just in time to watch the sunset.  The ball of fire was brilliant and we had to shield our eyes to look west.  We could only hazard a quick glance at it – the silhouette of which momentarily burned onto our retinas.  A rather painful endeavor.

The ball dropped behind the horizon as if a string from below gave it a final tug to make it disappear so quickly.  Then, the other four Malcolms started folding up there towels to leave the beach.  I sat anchored tight on mine looking at them in disbelief.  Sunset was just beginning!  They acquiesced, but I could tell for them it was like staring at the ball in Times Square after it had hit bottom.  Party over.

Ingredients for my perfect sunset: the sun, a wide horizon, and clouds in the sky.  Bonus: All of these, plus a body of water.  When that powerful, bright ball sinks and the range of pinks, oranges, reds, and purples are strewn over the massive cloud-canvas, changing in hue and darkening in richnes by the second...

This is sunset you can watch full-on.  Sometimes for more than an hour, until true dusk wins the battle.  As for the bonus of water, it doubles what you get from the sky.  Magnificent.

This is near the moment of the Malcolm family sunset... intense.

(This shot was taken by the owner of the Lobster Pool.)

This is my perfect sunset… calming.

(Taken over the Annisquam River, Gloucester, MA.)

Of course, whatever your definition of sunset, the beauty of Sunset is that it happens every day.

Remember?

Perhaps, walk outside your door and see yours tonight.  Go here, plug in your zip code, and see what time the ball drops over your horizon.

Happy Hump Day…

The Eye of the Storm

I am over three years out from breast cancer diagnosis, cancer-free, and well into the swing of alternating MRI's and mammograms every six months.  These don't seem to get any easier as time goes on. After my mammograms in July, all is good.  The Eye of the Storm reflects on that day.  Please forward this to a woman you know who is living with or beyond breast cancer.  And please, let her know she's not alone.

...

One of the loneliest places on earth is the mammogram room on a call-back “just to check some calcification that wasn’t on the last mammogram.  We’ll book time for an ultrasound, just in case.”

That’s where I stood July 19th, six days after my Friday the 13th birthday mammogram.

First trip into the chamber.  “If the calcification appears scattered then we check again in 6 months.  If it appears to be bunched together, then we would want to look at it more closely.”

After four initial compressions, the radiologist wanted to take a few more.

Second trip into the chamber.  “OK, hold your breath.”  I can’t hold any breath.  I can’t work out why.  Four or five more tight squeezes.

“Just have a seat and I’ll be back in a few minutes after the radiologist reads these.”

This is a new breast care center, so I get to wear a light salmon pink johnny.  The blue johnnies are still in the dressing rooms but under the salmon johnnies.  Should all of the salmon ones get worn, well, thank goodness for the blue ones.  Fucking things.  I must get a Hug Wrap for myself.  “Don’t forget!”  I scream to my subconscious.

“OK, Linda.  We need to take a couple more.”

Third trip into the chamber.  “This time we need to take the images while remaining compressed for 10 minutes.”  “Are you kidding me?” my cancerous snarkiness raises its protective head.  “More like five actually.  We need to work out where the calcification is.  This is the calcification.”

Bunched together... shit.  “The mammogram shows it but doesn’t clearly identify where it is within the breast.”

I realize why I can’t hold my breath.  I can’t breathe in to fill my lungs.  The compression keeps my breathing shallow.  I’m holding my breath on the exhale with no air in my lungs.  I pick a spot on the wall; hyperfocus on it; tell my brain more oxygen will come soon.  So that it doesn’t panic.

“Let me look at these before you go back to the waiting room.”

I stood in the middle of the quiet, dimly-lit room with the whole world spiraling around me.  Which path do I walk on out of here?  The room is calm.  Peaceful.  In the eye of the storm.  A storm of normal life and responsibilities is what I walked in with.  Will I walk out with the same or in the middle of another storm that makes the first one look like an April shower?

“Looks good.  You can wait outside.”  Minutes pass.  Have I done everything I should?  What are my priorities?  Do I need to focus more on family, less on volunteering?  Liam’s life book isn’t done.  Do I even pray any more?  Do I over react to things that I really shouldn’t?

“Sorry, Linda.  We need to take a few more.”

Fourth trip into the chamber.  “So the radiologist thinks the calcification may actually be on your skin.  In that case it is 110% NOT cancerous.”  Well, that’s good news.  Perhaps my blood pressure dips a few points.  More exhaled breath-holding.  More compressions.  “That should do it.  Go ahead and get dressed and just sit in the waiting area until he reads these.”  Ahh… the power returns as the salmon johnny is dispensed into the dirty laundry.

“Linda, come on back.” Oh, for fuck’s sake, I need a “Linda-go-home.”

Fifth trip into the chamber.  “Don’t worry about changing into a johnny again.  Let’s just take this.  He wants me to roll you so we get a horizontal shot proving the calcification is on your skin.  He just wants to be very careful given your history.”

Back to the waiting room.  Ten minutes later, I’m sweating.  I sent a message via a passing nurse saying, “I’ve got to go get my kids.  I can’t stay any longer.”  My kids are at a short play date that should have ended a half hour ago.

After checking in with the technician or radiologist, the nurse came back with a smiling reply, “We’ll see you in a year.”  I’m pretty sure the technician forgot about me as I sat wanting to crawl out of my skin in the waiting room.  After nearly two hours, five visits to the mammogram room, and 20 compressions, I flee to pick up my boys.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  And tired.  And teary.  Next time I’ll stand in the middle of that room with a Tuscan red and yellow Hugwrap about me.  I’ll arrange for a friend to meet me afterwards for a class of wine.  Then perhaps dinner with Bill.  Could I give myself the day rather than a tight two hours to sail through the next one?

That eerie calm standing in the eye of a storm.  Exhausting.