Paper Dishes: making Life easier

I would like to thank the inventor (or inventors rather) who created disposable dishes.  Paper plates and cups, plastic flatware, aluminum pans – though not yet invented for the stove top – at least that I know of.

          I don’t mind doing dishes – but I don’t thrive on it.  It does irk me quite a bit when I know I’ve done the dishes – lots of them – and less than four hours later the sink gives one the appearance that I haven’t done dishes all week.  Where the heck do these extra dishes even come from?  Usually it’s just me and Jenna.  Or me.  In the morning and after work it is Roland, Jenna and me – well not every night. 

          Biff works graveyards – and although he does cook at odd times during the 24 hour day – he doesn’t use that many dishes.  Two – maybe three.  I think I have dish gremlins that break into my house.  I honestly can’t find any other explanation.

          I try to keep paper products on hand – for the few guests that we invite to our huge luxurious house (usually my sister and her husband) so I don’t get stuck with even more dishes than usual.  Not only are they convenient for after dinner, but paper products also take less space than normal dishes.  And they don’t break when they crash onto the ceramic tiled floor.

          Disposable containers are wonderful when sending home left overs or even packing a lunch for those who neglect bringing the containers into the house from the car (if they did indeed make it to the car) or taking treats to neighbors. The treats that my daughter made at the sitter’s house for instance – when they vanished (less than 24 hours later) I simply threw the pan away.  Disposables don’t have to be returned.  What an awesome invention!

          Some people may argue that there is more waste – waste of money and garbage waste with disposable dishes.  But look how much you are saving on dish soap and germs.  When examined by a doctor, everything is thrown into the waste – the tongue depressor, needles, cotton balls – they never sterilize or try to wash those products – it is for health and safety issues.  Well that is how I feel about paper products.  It is sanitary.  It is safe.  I can’t believe how many dishes have gone through the sink or dishwasher that really aren’t clean – and that’s just the stuck on stuff that one sees with the naked eye.  But what about the stuff we don’t see?  Really.  Think about it.

         

          Have you ever gone to a restaurant and picked up a dirty fork?  Or a buffet and picked up a plate that had food stuck on it?  So your home dishes may receive a little more care than the food industry – or does it?  All I’m saying is that I like the idea of disposable dishes.  I think they are awesome inventions!

Driving Miss Daisy - Lucy Ricardo style

          My mom has always had a lousy sense of direction – at least since I’ve known her.  Improper medication or improper amounts due to failing health and aging does not help matters.  She’s always been an okay driver – not exceptional.  Perhaps even good at one time – now?  I think my mom behind a wheel is rather a scary combination.

          But then again having me behind the wheel when the sun is streaming over dirty windows – also scary.  And to top it off – send me to unfamiliar roads.  It’s like Lucy Ricardo driving Ethel Mertz.  (For those of you who have no clue what that statement even means, I encourage you to go to YouTube and click on “I Love Lucy” – any episode, doesn’t matter.  It should help you to understand my comparison)

          Mom and I have actually had quite a few Lucy/Ethel moments – like the first (and only) time we attempted to wallpaper the bathroom – figuring it was the smallest room – and how long does one spend in that particular room anyway? 

          The wallpaper itself was truly loud.  Big huge flowers in a variety of colors.  And bright.  One could walk past the bathroom and attempt to flip the light switch thinking that the light had been left on but never turning off the glare – which only became even brighter when the lights really were turned on.

          Have you ever been in the tub when suddenly the wall paper joins you?  It was quite obvious in many ways that those who had hung it were definitely amateurs.  As I recall the bathroom had to be redone after only a month.

          Recently I had to take my mom to the Driver’s License Division.  A specific DLD – one that might as well have been in another county considering the route we took to get there.  Over half the roads had not existed ten years ago when I had last driven there (or that general area rather) and was more familiar with where the roads went – or at least thought I did. 

          What an adventure!  I detailed my day in three pages and emailed it to my sibs and family to make them aware.  Some laughed – I’m guessing Corey shook his head in disbelief with another concern: perhaps someone ought to review his sister’s driver’s license as well.  And I’m sure if the DL workers could have seen me driving on the road they would have had me retest as well.

          I’m not saying I’m a horrible driver.  I try to be careful.  I don’t answer my cell phone – I take the slow roads and back ways.  I avoid traffic as much as possible.  And I don’t drive at night.   But throw me into a foreign area without a GPS and it’s pretty chaotic.

          And then there’s Roland, who for the most part has a keen sense of direction, who can drive somewhere for the first time and make it appear as though he drives there on a daily basis.  I admire that.  I can make my routine travel appear as though I’m driving for the first time.  I am Lucy Ricardo.

I just DON’T have a passion for family history

          When I was twelve I took a family history class – only it wasn’t actually called Family History.  At that time it was referred to a genealogy. (Boring name; must be why they changed it) I was the only youth in the class.  The instructor was early 40s – possibly late 30s.  The rest of the class members were all over the age of 50.

Things were done on legal size paper.  There were Xerox machines (photocopiers) and pens.  No PAF, Ancestry.com, Google, etc.  I would imagine doing family research is so much easier now than back then.

My instructor had been raised in a foster care system and had always had a strong sense of getting to know and understand her family.  It was a very long process.

I understand why family history is so important to her.  To have a connection.  And when she did find connections, the discoveries were great.  As an adult she learned that she had a sister who had chosen the same profession and was married to a husband who served in law enforcement just as my instructors husband had.  And I enjoyed hearing her stories.

I enjoy hearing stories of my own youth.  Or those of my ancestors.  But after a while they are just names.  I don’t know if I am seriously related to these people or not.  I don’t like family research.  In fact, I loathe it.  It’s just not important to me to know where I came from or how my ancestors were treated or how they treated others. 

Even when names and stories are given to me and they become more than names or stories but actual people I have read about in books – I still don’t know the accuracy of our relationship.  So what if we’re related? So what if we’re not?  I just don’t care.

That’s not to say I don’t credit other people with finding their ancestors.  Spending countless hours searching for some sort of a clue.  All the more power to them.  If that it truly what they love and want to do, let them do it.  Kudos to their desire and passion.  Bravo.  It’s just really NOT my thing.

For years and years our family could be traced to William Button’s mother, Eliza Tate – a very unattractive woman.  Legend was that she sang opera with her three sisters who were in favor of aborting her baby.  Upon hearing their plans, Eliza had run away.

 Eliza had William out of wedlock.  Now that had bothered me.  Wouldn’t a child out of wedlock have the same name as its mother if dad was not even in the picture?  I don’t know.  As a twelve year old I accepted all information as being accurate and complete. 

Recently I was told by a cousin that the information that we have had for all these years is inaccurate.  There are no records of any Eliza Tates being born in that particular town (or village or city or whatever) or approximate year.  The woman supposedly never existed.  So who is it really that appears in the photograph?  And where did the photograph even come from.

My cousin got in touch with another cousin – a very distant cousin to the both of us.  Her records indicate that Williams mother (who had him out of wedlock) was Jane Button.  Okay.  She had him out of wedlock and had given him her name. I accept that.  But does my approval really make it fact or fiction?  How do I know?

I do enjoy the stories I’ve read about my great-great (how many generations?) grandfather.  He sounds like quite a personable man who loved his family – and though he had his feelings hurt for whatever reason – seemed to resolve them.  But they’re all second hand stories.  I still don’t know what is true and what is not.  And it really doesn’t matter.

All of my ancestors were part of the human race.  None was perfect – though each of them may have strived to live up to the good family name, parents’ expectations, the community’s belief, or whatever.  All have had struggles – whether with an occupation or family member, day to day routines, diseases.  And then there have been black sheep and orphans – raised as orphans and yet they were produced biologically.  And I’m sure they can be found by one who has the passion to find them.  I don’t have the passion. 

My ancestors most likely experienced pain and sorrow, laughter and joy.  There was wealth and poverty.  They endured their fair share of trials.  They were part of the human race.

I do keep histories and scrapbook for my own generation.  Does that count? My passion lies with the future – though I do enjoy stories from the past and can learn from them.  The past is not where my passion lies.

I am grateful to all of those who have the passion and for the enthusiasm one experiences with discovery and sharing.  I am grateful to those who are willing to accept my choices for not pressing forward with my own family research.  And for understanding that the passion is just not there. 

We Don't Tell the Animals How to Behave

I so love it when nature seems to work against itself.  I’ve received emails featuring dogs or tigers raising pigs

 ;

or orphaned duckings accepted and raised by a non-biological mother.  I’ve read miracle stories on animal survival and unexplainable compassion.  And I think that it is totally great!

          Recently my brother introduced me to the Blog “Raising my Rainbow”  which I have checked periodically and tried to follow from the beginning.  In a few posts the blogger has sought out advice for book recommendations.  And I have checked out various recommendations that have been left in the comment section. 

My favorite book thus far is “And Tango makes Three” by Justin Richardson  and Peter Parnell – a charming book about two male penguins at the Central Park zoo who found themselves enjoying the companionship of one another and tried to imitate what the other penguin couples were doing.  The most fascinating thing about this children’s book is that it is a true story.  It actually happened.

And I wonder how much flack these animals may receive from those in the animal kingdom.  Probably not near as much as those among the human race.  Why do things have to sound so “scandalous”?  Why do we have to try to analyze every little thing? Why can’t we appreciate the genuine love and compassion?  What are we scared of? Wouldn’t it be great if all of us could learn to love and be accepting of one another?

Today is a holiday in which we honor Martin Luther King Jr. as his birthday was yesterday. His dream included acceptance. I am grateful for his victory in fulfilling that dream (though we still obviously have a long way to go) and for life’s lessons that teach us “It is okay to be different”

I would much rather search for a lost dog than for a missing person

         Perhaps that seems a lousy comparison.  And I am not actually comparing the dog to the human being – I am comparing the emotions one may go through as he or she searches for a pet as opposed to searching for a family member.

          I do have examples for both.  We have had two dogs that have come to us in their prime.  Both during different years and in different cities.  Both had/have a sense of adventure beyond our fenced yards.  And both have managed to escape – though it has been quite a mystery about HOW they escaped – especially the first one.

          The one who lives with us currently has always been nearby and often returns home on his own.  The first one was a happy wanderer who was on a mission to find his boys – he had claimed them before they claimed him.  He loved our boys and would often show up at their school.  Animal control found him just as many times as we did.  We didn’t have a chip for him.  It would have been less costly.

          I would think the idea of putting a chip into a child would appeal to many parents.  And lately I’d be leaning toward putting a chip in my mother – who has become frail and disoriented and just recently lost her driver’s license.  Although she had one before the new year.

          90% of the time she seems to be coherent.  But that 10% can raise frantic emotions like you wouldn’t believe.  Take the the end of 2011  for instance.  Her car had disappeared from the driveway.  And it was dark.  But she decided to go for a joy ride.  Afterall “she has been driving for years and it’s okay for her to be by herself” – that was how she rationalized it when she was confronted five hours later.

          I was one who was searching – not even close or semi close to where she was found – and so all the information that was given to me was second and third hand information.  But watching her distant facial expressions and hearing the explanations from her mouth the next morning I was actually present for.

          My brother had put in a police report giving out the car, make, model and license plate #.  Mom has NEVER had the best sense of direction anyway.  Nor has she ventured out at night for some time. But now – she can’t find places – she doesn’t even like to go very far – nor does she even know how to get there.  She is quite rational when she is coherent – but if she doesn’t check her blood or take the right amount of medication, another personality seems to take over.

          My family and I would like to express our gratitude to the police who found her and pulled her over and took her keys away and called my brother to come and get her.  For she is safe now.  And we would have never even thought to look where they found her. 

          I don’t know anyone who has been able to involve the police in searching for a pet. I would rather spend two weeks searching for a lost pet than just six hours searching for a family member.

Outside of the Box

                I remember watching an episode of “The Twilight Zone” in which a “turning of age” theme was introduced.  Girls were expected to trade in their bodies for a much more exciting model.  There was even a catalog of models to choose from.

         

          The main character of this episode had her birthday coming up – and it was expected of her that she would choose from at least two different models.  The girl was quite plain – perhaps even homely looking.  But she had a mind – which she really wanted to keep.

          It seems like those who had changed their bodies had become so obsessed with the way they looked that they did not or would not think about anything else.  It wasn’t her.  She wanted to remain an individual and not have to join the “Stepford” clan.

          Last month I read the following story  about a quite colorful house that was built into a very earth toned neighborhood.  This in turn  reminded about this particular “Twilight Zone”  and also an episode from “Third Rock from the Sun” in which the aliens still feel inadequate as fitting in and accepted as human beings.  They decide to join a click who calls themselves normal.  They live in the average apartment where walls and floor are all one neutral color and everybody is a perfect “cookie cut-out” all from the same mold.  After only three days the aliens become bored with not being able to fulfill whatever individualism they possess and sabotage the average “rules” so that they will be kicked out of their lease agreement.

          As with any other city Herriman has its share of uppity people (no pun intended) but I’m happy to read that there are neighbors who would like to keep the colorful house as is.  And for the new homeowners sake, I hope it doesn’t have to be painted some drab color just to appease some snob – unless of course there really is a written rule: “Thou shalt NOT paint thy house with bold colors if it does not please thy neighbors”  I wonder: Does the community have their say in all the Christmas decorations?  Style of clothes that can be worn? 

          I mean I can understand if it’s honestly harmful to the community.  Don’t imagine any of those willing to see the house become a boring earth tone have ever seen or understood the movie “Up” What’s wrong with trying to fulfill a dream.

          I think people who live in the box are afraid of people who talk about moving out – let alone when they actually do.  How dare anyone shatter their drab boxed up world.  How dare someone or something should shake so hard that they are forced to notice that not all people are the same – nor do they want to be.

          Me?  I’m a shaker.  I have NEVER had the desire of being a carbon copy.  I want to be the original one of a kind – but not so it takes away from another.  I just don’t wish to feel trapped.  I enjoy being able to breathe on my own.  I think if neighbors had a say in what color I have to paint my house, I’d be a little more than sad.  I actually wouldn’t want to live in a community where I have to become somebody else.  Or nobody.  Without my individual worth I think I would cease to exist.  It would be like removing my mind.

         

          I had once taken a toll painting class in which we would complete three projects.  The first was a bat – a decoration for Halloween.  All of the class was taught to paint their bats black with white trim.  Mine was purple with pink trim.  When the class did their houses in a steal blue with red trim – I painted my house yellow. 

          I had dismissed myself from the class for whatever reason.  While I was gone, the instructor made the comment to my sister-in-law that I certainly do move to the beat of a different drummer.  That is true.  I will go miles out of my way to find the perfect tune to dance to – perfect to my ears anyway.  But I don’t expect it will be the same for all people. And it doesn’t bother me if I’m alone.  It’s what makes me tick.

          Thank you to all of those who allow individualism and may accept even if they don’t agree. Thanks to all the citizens of “Pleasantville” who learned to accept the changes and appreciate the color – expanding their thoughts and acceptance from a black and white world.

My First Pregnancy

         When our boys were 12, 13, and 15 I got pregnant.  I know the exact date, too.  Memorial weekend – May 28, 2002.  Only I didn’t know I was pregnant.  And I didn’t figure out until just before my child was aborted.  I still cry about it.

          It was the 11^th of July (I believe) when I’d gone upstairs to use the only toilet in our house.  Sharp pains I’d never felt before.  I didn’t know why.  At first I tried to ignore it.  I went back downstairs to lie beside my husband.  No – I was in pain.  I went back into the bathroom – but it wasn’t a throwing up pain.  It was different.  I can’t remember what it felt like now – I had never experienced pain like that before or since.  It wasn’t until later – much later – that I learned my belly had been filling with blood

My husband shot out of bed and announced he’d take me to the hospital.  That was a little dramatic I thought – I didn’t understand until much later on why he had responded that way.  The boys’ mother had told him she hadn’t felt well.  He dismissed the idea and she lay down and never woke up.  She died of heart failure.

There’s really not too much about that night that I actually remember.  I remember checking in.  I remember receiving an ultrasound and listening to the heart beat.  I remember being told to move myself from the gurney to the operating table.  That’s actually the last thing that I remember.  Being told.  Whether I actually moved on my own or not remains a mystery. I don’t know what kind of drugs were used on me, but I was gone.  I was in and out.  I don’t even know how long I was in the hospital.  At least two or three days.  I felt like I was in a coma for two weeks.

There were needles stuck in both of my arms.  My right arm was hooked up to IV.  My left arm?  That needle wasn’t connected to anything.  It was just there.  I remember wondering why.  I would think I’d ask.  But then I would forget about it. 

Upon my release I was given a wheel chair.  I’m assuming that I somehow managed to sit in it myself – though I don’t remember.  I do remember the nurse bending down just before I was wheeled out of my room.

“Almost forgot,” he said as he bent down to remove the needle that had been pushed into my left arm.

Oh, yes.  I had forgotten about it myself – many times. 

“What’s that for anyway?”  I asked, still feeling the sensation of the drugs that were in me.

I don’t know how slurred I was or if I sounded slurred at all. He answered, “That was in case you needed a blood transfusion”

A blood transfusion?  That sounded serious.  But I was so drugged up I just let it sink in and didn’t question it any further.

I had an appointment to go back and see the doctor.  I don’t know if it was during those two weeks or if it was right after.  I was alert enough to know I shouldn’t be driving.

My sister-in-law kept asking me questions.  They were all good questions but I didn’t have answers.  I selected her to come get me and take me to the doctor and then she could ask him all the questions as I suspected he would probably have the answers – obviously more answers than I could provide.

I learned that if we had waited another hour (before going to the hospital the day of the unusual pain) that I might have bled to death.  Wow.  So that’s why I needed a transfusion.  She asked another question (actually lots of questions – that’s actually the only one I remember) My doctor turned to me and asked if I didn’t remember.

“I was kind of out of it,” I confessed – still in a fog from whatever medication was in my system.

“Yes you were!” he said matter-of-factly embarrassed about having even asked me if I remembered.

Chicken Soup for the Soul had sent me a manuscript about the mature women.  One section contained stories about older women giving birth.  I could relate to some story beginnings and wept for our unborn child.   

Roland thought we should give her/him a name.  Not knowing the sex of our unborn baby, we named her/him Tracy.