books

The 1988 Toothbrush

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

The 1988 Toothbrush

1988 was an interesting year. If memory isn’t tricking me this morning, ’88 was the year we moved into the barn as our residence.

It was rough – both the barn and life in the barn.

We had electricity and one working toilet. That was it.

I cooked in electric fry pans, crock pots, and a silly little portable burner. We trooped down to my parents house, towels and toothbrushes in hand, to shower.

The 1988 Barn

Eventually, we had water, but still no bathtub. I washed dishes in a tub outside on the picnic table.

Eventually, we had a tub. Sheer luxury.

We had no phone. [That proved to be rather nice. In fact, well after we could afford it, we lived sans phone.] We had framing and insulation, but no walls. There was no kitchen to speak of, though I did have a stove – an ancient thing that we bought used somewhere. The ex’s work bench served as the dining room table and it was a plum pain in the ass to move the table saw every time it was time to eat.

The barn was slow going. We were trying to do it without incurring debt. The materials we needed at the beginning were expensive. Winter was coming, so we needed a furnace. The barn was in danger of slipping down the hill, so we needed a stone retaining wall.

We picked up some kitchen cabinets somewhere – they were beat up, ugly and not well-made. I danced in joy.

The 1997 Barn

In 1997 – 9 years later, we gave up and procured a construction loan. We hired a contractor. Then the fun really began. It was a nightmare; it was a dream come true; it was frustrating and, finally, the not-quite-finished barn was a not just a loved home, but a real house. It looked like a badly-built California Contemporary, but I adore every square inch of it – still do, worrisome warts and all.

Except for recent projects, nothing has been painted since 1997. The barn has been in desperate need of interior paint and exterior stain. The exterior is daunting, so I’m concentrating on the interior.

The most annoying part of paint prep - getting things out of the way.

The family room is now underway for a new paint job – Wellspring Blue. The color is dark, maybe too dark, but right now I love the color in the can. As part of paint prep, I removed the books from the top of the semi-built in bookcases and found a toothbrush still in its packaging up there.

Puzzled, I carried the oral instrument into the kitchen. While I don’t clean often, the top of the bookcase has been cleaned at least once a year since 1997 when it was installed. The most recent cleaning was about this time last year.

The flattened package was a major clue.

I peered and found a 1988 date on the packaging. Truly, a WTF moment. We didn’t have bookcases until ’97 and the top has been cleaned, while not frequently, at least often enough that missing the toothbrush was unlikely. The toothbrush package was flattened, but clean and dust free – an important clue.

Old Webster gets more of a workout than one would think.

 

[The barn is a retirement home for dirt and dust – truly, Jehovah could create an entire metropolis of people from blowing on the dust of just one room.]

I have deduced that the toothbrush fell out of a book. The ex used to use all manner of strange things as a bookmark. That’s the only reasonable explanation. I thank him for that habit – 1988 has come flooding back. To quote Dickens; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . .

These times are also the best and worst – the yin/yang that life always seems to be. I’ll probably keep the toothbrush. De-junking is one thing; but little memory provokers here and there keep me grounded and cognizant of the yin/yang.

The Art of Doing Nothing

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Nope. Not gonna do it.

Nope. Not gonna do it.

Just as our bodies need downtime in the form of sleep, our bodies need downtime during our waking hours.

I’ve had a drought of downtime both asleep and awake.

Today, when the alarm went off, I silenced it, rolled over and went back to sleep. I clocked something like 10 hours. It wasn’t enough to eradicate my sleep deficit, but it was enough to provoke a feeling of well-being.

Yesterday, I did just enough housecleaning that I didn’t curl into fetal position when I went downstairs this morning. [It’s still a mystery to me how the house can become a Super Fund site when I’m never here.]

I plopped my ass on the sofa. After a few minutes, I arranged myself in a supine position. A few minutes later, I pulled the blanket over me. The dogs and I reacquainted ourselves there on the sofa.

I announced, firmly, “I have things to do.”

I got up, poured another cup of coffee, and stared out the window at the kitchen garden – looking at the mess I never had time to get to.

I forced myself to take clothes out the dryer, put the clothes in the washer into the dryer, and put the last load of laundry into the washer.  Drudgery, pure drudgery.  The inner adult had wrestled the inner child into submission, but neither were happy.

I poured another cup of coffee and stared out the window some more.

I announced, firmly, “I have got to motivate.”

Deciding that perhaps some sunlight on my pineal gland would help, I toddled out to the garden and plopped my ass in a lawn chair. From that seated position, I willed the calla lilies to bloom. I noticed that the morning glory had wrapped itself around the gate making ingress and egress impossible.

I contemplated getting up and whipping the morning glory into submission.

Stating clearly and audibly, I said, “Fuck It.”

Without getting too technical, the FuckIts are that state wherein no matter how hard your inner grownup spanks the inner child, nothing on the to-do list is going to get done without a change of strategy.

Nothing.

Facing this knowledge, the person with the FuckIts will develop a great sense of peace and sometimes giddiness. I am not going to do a damn thing and you can’t make me. It’s not rebellion, obstinacy, defeat or disobedience.

It’s very nice. It’s a lot like when you have a killer headache and you notice, suddenly and with pleasure, it’s gone.  The to-do list evaporates.

In my Geek Girl persona, I equate it with rebooting the computer. When you’re holding too many tasks in memory, sometimes you just have to reboot. (You Mac people can just shut up now.)

I trundled back into the house and heated up leftover tuna casserole. I settled in with a book – a bite of casserole, turn the page. Bite, turn.

Self permission to do nothing is energizing.

mmmmmm book and a nap

mmmmmm book and a nap

I’ve wandered about the house with the book. With no hurry, no agenda, no sense of looming responsibilities fixin’ to fall on my head and destroy me, I’ve managed to do even more cleaning between chapters. Paid some bills. Found and removed the source of the gnat problem in the kitchen. Readied my clothes for the following week. Put the jewelry back into some order. Cleaned off the desk.

I’ve actually done more than was on the to-do list to begin with.

People who are into meditation talk about this phenomena all the time. Quieting the chatter of your mind, either through counting breaths, repeating a mantra, or giving yourself permission to do nothing allows you to accomplish so much more. The essence is simply doing, or not doing, without thought of the past or the future. Without haste.

I had a fledgling meditation/yoga practice going that I abandoned when the to-do list got daunting. Big mistake. I haven’t been on the exercise bike (white noise and muscle toning all at the same time) in weeks. Another big mistake. I haven’t been reading well-crafted novels or listening to the music that makes my heart soar.

No wonder I’m a cranky bitch.

Doing nothing is both a luxury and a necessity.

I’m going back to my book now. I’m kinda thinking that napping in the guest bed in the afternoon sunlight after reading some of the book would be nice. If I do that, I’ll probably put clean sheets on the bed and vacuum – after watching the dust dance in the air for awhile.

Pan Seared Tuna with Mango Radish Coulis – NOT

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment
Fresh ground pepper and an elegant presentation always helps.

Fresh ground pepper and an elegant presentation always helps.

I do enjoy foods that those with sophisticated palates (or a lot of money) eat regularly. Just ask Chef Boy ‘R Mine. I’m his guinea pig. [And it’s about time he comes home and cooks for me again.]

I also like a lot of junk food, pseudo food, comfort food and stuff that is plain fare. I even like stuff, some of it, that involves a can of Cream-of-Something soup.

So sue me.

In the junk food category, I get weak-kneed over Cheez-Its. Ruffles (have ridges) potato chips and Slim Jims are perennial favorites. As for pseudo food, I like Twinkies (though I prefer SnoBalls), but will not abide Cool Whip.

Comfort food and plain fare remind me of my childhood, which was good, and serve, well, to comfort me. Plain fare I regard as further up the haute cuisine ladder than comfort food. Comfort foods are those things that you’re a little embarrassed about liking. Spam is one. Morton beef pot pies are another.

When I was about 10, maybe 11, I read a Beverly Cleary book about a high school girl and her first date. I was beginning to find boys a little interesting, but overall was pretty clueless. For those of you not initiated, Cleary wrote children’s books – Ramona, Beezus, Henry Huggins – which were funny and poignant. While they sometimes had a moral, the heavy-handedness of it was blunted by the comedy. Beverly Cleary could channel all those feelings and ideas and actions of a kid somewhere between 5 and 10 years old. She wrote a few books about teenagers. They weren’t as compelling.

In this book that I’ve forgotten the name of, the protagonist is a bundle of nerves before her first date. She worries about everything including whether or not her mother is going to make Smells to Heaven Tuna Casserole. Cleary, knowing her audience, explained the onion breath problem. Most ten year olds, at least in my day, didn’t worry too much about bad breath.

It’s either a testament to Cleary’s writing or my love of tuna casserole or, perhaps, both that forty years later I remember that detail.

I like tuna casserole. I don’t remember not ever liking it.

My mom made it with Cream of Mushroom Soup, noodles, onions, sometimes celery and tuna. After putting it in a baking dish, she crushed potato chips and spread them on top of the casserole about a 1/2 inch thick.

Now I did and do abhor canned mushrooms. They’re not even as good as pencil erasers (something I chewed on quite a bit as a kid). I hate them, and when we had tuna casserole, I ate around them. They’re chopped up fine and those tiny little suckers could really slow down the eating process.

When I started making my own tuna casserole, I discovered Cream of Celery soup.

Well, well.

I love celery. I toss it in anything I can get away with. Cream of Celery soup and chopped celery became necessities in the production of perfect tuna casserole.

I use the extra-wide noodles. I don’t want any wimpy noodles likely to get limp and pasty. I want them bold and al dente. This is a must.

I’m not sure when or why, but sometime early in my tuna casserole production years, I began substituting French’s French Fried Onions for the potato chips. It’s now a necessity. I could no more enjoy tuna casserole without French fried onions than I could enjoy it without onions or celery or tuna or noodles.

It’s a perfect gestalt of sodium, preservatives, msg, calories and the meager Omega 3s that that the tuna provides.

And I’m having it for dinner tonight.

I haven’t cooked for myself in months. And I haven’t cooked for one person  in months. I was surprised I had to think about how to go about making the casserole. This is not a recipe that’s ever been written down.

I managed to do it, but I could easily feed 12 people. I’m going to be eating tuna casserole all week. I suspect that I will, but it remains to be seen, if I will still like my Smells To Heaven Tuna Casserole next week.