To an Old Good Friend

I had just turned 12, and it was a cold March day in Reno, NV. My family had all gone to Walmart and I stayed home to glean a moment of silence rarely found in a family of 6. I pushed my schoolwork aside and closed my eyes, enjoying darkness and sounds of nothing.

The door slammed open and my siblings tumbled through the door. "JULIA!" I sighed. "GUESS WHAT?"
I couldn't guess - even if I had wanted to, there wasn't enough time in between the noise. My dad pushed through and smiled at me. "We went to Walmart but got something they don't sell there."

? Walmart has everything. What can possibly NOT be gotten at Walmart but would still be there?

 "We got a puppy!"

I laughed at them, trying to fool me. "No you didn't." "Yes we did!" "No, you didn't." "YES WE DID!" The house echoed with the chorus of excited children as my dad laughed over them. My eyes narrowed, studying the faces. They didn't lie this well. "You did???" "Yup!" "Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

Two weeks later a small Miniature Australian Shepherd came home to live. He was small, the size of a full grown cat, with fluffy black fur and little brown eyebrows over his dark eyes and a sweet white muzzle. His poor little tail was just a stub, being docked at birth, and when it wagged his whole backside shook violently back and forth. Naming him was the hardest thing we had done. Up till then, my parents let my youngest brother name the pets, subsequently resulting in the names he named everything. Jimmy. Little Fellow. This time it was a family decision and nobody knew what to call him. We struggled through Elmo, Sky, and about 10 other terrible names before my dad settled on Joey. Him being an Australian Shepherd who jumped when excited, it seemed appropriate.

This is the dog that caused me to trip and fall down a flight of stairs, breaking my ankle and crushing my Nutcracker Dreams that very fall. This is the dog that followed us from Reno to California, to Ohio, and later to New Hampshire. This is the dog that romped in the snow, rolled in the leaves, swam in the lake, plopped himself on the floor at the end of the day and let us lay our heads on him. We taught him to sit, lay down, do pretty paw, sometimes he even rolled over. When I went away to college, he was only 5 years old, still a puppy in every way. He would do his donut when I came to visit, that is, roll himself so that his nose and his tail practically touched and run in a circle to show his excitement. He always remembered me, was always happy and running around. Even when I stopped visiting but for every few years, when I show up, he knows me, he runs over, cries, licks, pushes against me for scratches in his favorite spot. He is now 14 years old. Older than most dogs his breed and size live to be. He has arthritis and can't get up and down stairs well. Sometimes he cries because his hips hurt and the medicine doesn't work well. He moves slowly through the halls of an empty house, waiting for my dad to get home from work, maybe remembering the ghosts of 4 children who he used to play with.

But when the snow comes, when a playmate from the past shows up, he forgets the age and the aches. He runs and plays and is 2 years old again, ready to chase cars.

This sweet dog got to meet Shiny last October, his first baby. He was as uncertain as she, but eventually they sat next to each other, her leaning against him and exploring the feeling of his fur. He is the only dog I would trust 100% with her, no worries of rough housing, accidental bites, growling over pulled ears. He earned his patience and his sweetness.

And now, he will has earned his rest. I will miss him. I hope my kids will get to have a dog like him one day.

Ok so I'm sitting here, eating cherries, Shiny's down for a nap, The Brain is at work, and its just me and my 20 week old belly sitting here, reflecting what a terrible human being I am. Of course, what makes it worse is that I know and don't care. Why, you may ask?

Because, a 16 year old boy shot his mother, allegedly went on a shooting rampage through Main Street, and was on the loose for two hours in my small town of under 5,000, and I'm upset. Why am I upset? Because the lockdown of the town made it so I couldn't take my kid outside and go swimming, and instead we were stuck inside again. Yup. Dumb Shooter Ruined My Afternoon. See? Julia. Terrible.






Okie Dokie. Back to my cherries. Happy Summer All!

The Polarity of the Working Mind

If there’s one thing I hate doing, it’s working.  At anything.  But especially work.  Ugh.  Expending energy on doing something I don’t want to do; yeah, no thanks.

But on the other hand, there’s nothing I hate more than a big-time slacker.  Hey, you know that paycheck you’ve been getting since you got hired here? Yeah, I know, it’s great.  The thing is, they don’t just hand those out for exhibiting your extensive collection of witty t-shirts and drinking coffee like a fiend. 

The former is a product of under-stimulation for pretty much my entire life.  Being just enough above the average intelligence of my classmates to get decent grades with very little effort has haunted me since I was old enough to have homework.  Study skills?  Those are for people who can’t write an A- term paper in one night.  Unfortunately, those sorts of skills are employed in many other areas of life.  As I have sadly discovered.

The latter is from something instilled in me since childhood, handed down from my parents, lovingly dubbed the ‘Protestant work ethic’ (not to say Protestants corner the market on getting stuff done or anything.  That’s just silly.)  Doing what you’ve got to do to the best of your ability, simply because you’ve been tasked with doing it.  Or something like that. 

Anyway, this is one of the many ways in which I’m practically schizophrenic (if such a thing is possible, which I’m inclined to believe it is.  But not making light of mental illness, which is a serious thing.  But I majored in Psychology, so it’s okay for me to make jokes about it.)  Even now, as I write this sitting at my desk covered in expensive computing equipment, I’m completely torn between avoiding my work at all costs because it is boring and dreadful and I don’t really like doing it, and fricking getting to work because I have a lot of stuff to do and if I don’t do it then it doesn’t get done and I’m only shooting myself in the foot for tomorrow. 

It’s like a cartoon.  You know the ones.  The shoulder angel and devil making equally ridiculous polar opposite assertions about how to proceed in any given situation. 

‘Seriously, you can just come in early tomorrow and get this stuff done.  You had a hard weekend, just relax.  No one really expects to get a lot of work done on a Monday.  It’s no big deal.  I mean, at least you’re at your desk!  That’s more than you can say for some of your co-workers at this moment.  Plus, you’re on salary; you can just make up the time later.’ 

‘What the flippin’ HMF *&#@! are you doing?!  We both know you’re not going to make it in early tomorrow, and you know you didn’t get enough s*#@ done last week!  Do you really want to go into this week knowing you’ve wasted half your frickin’ day on Pinterest?!  Can you live with the guilt? Can you?!  You’d better hope they don’t check your browsing history girl, because you are so f-ing fired if they do!  In fact, you should just quit right now for being such a terrible worker.  Do you think they pay you to sit there and make sure the mutha-flippin’ Internet is working?’

I know.  My shoulder angel is kind of crass.  I think it’s all the caffeine; she’s kind of high-strung already.

So, what to do, what to do.  Buckle down and get to work?  Uh…yeah…tried that. (Hello procrastination station, I seem to have been rerouted from my intended destination.   Create my own meme website?  Well…I guess I didn’t really need to go there.)  Just live with the fact that I am going to be a horrible, inefficient , sub-par employee banking on the fact that it will take a few months before they around to firing me? Because that’s a really brilliant plan.  (Hi Mom and Dad! Mind if I move back in for a while?  Uh…yeah…my job…well, you see…)   Give up “working” to become a nomadic goat herder who sells weird beaded jewelry on Etsy? 

Actually…that doesn’t sound that bad.  I wonder how one gets into goat herding?

Politics for Dummies

For 25 years I avoided politics. Ignored blissfully. The closest I have ever come to politics was when Obama came to the bar I worked at in Michigan for a much needed drink after a long talk about HOPE and CHANGE. My view is, politics are like religion. Even when you are on the same side you don't agree on the same things, and when you are on the opposite side its pretty much a matter of life and death. Offend no one or offend everyone. Plus, it never completely affected my life, even after "becoming a grownup". No matter who was in office, I still had to pay my taxes, obey the laws, and go about life in a generally same fashion. Would it be nice if  my government could do certain things, like figure out the economy died because of the amount of debt I was in? I still say that if the government canceled all my loans I'd go out today and buy a car and a house. Would it be nice if i could decide whether or not to buy healthcare? Wear a seatbelt? Sure. But if I could go through a week without worrying about Congress, then it really didn't matter what was going on.

Somehow, this year, I've gotten bit by the political bug. And this is why. I learned a few shocking secrets.

1. The President's job is basically like being a parent in a badly functioning relationship with multiple children. It's not rocket science, but you have to learn to delegate, mediate, and for Goodness Sake Be Honest.

2. Congress is like wiping the toilet seat with paper before you sit down. Unless it's wet, its Totally Pointless.

3. There is no such thing as Republicans and Democrats, only really angry people who call each other stupid names when they disagree with something the other one things. You know who else does that? A 2 year old in a sandbox who just found out that the "poophead" on the swings likes applejuice. Applejuice? Gross. It's all about the chocolate milk. What a freak. I hate to say it, folks, but in the end we really all want the same basic things. Health, happiness, a place to live, enough money, enough food, and the FREEDOM to make our own choices and mistakes. All that stuff that is fought about? It really shouldn't be the government deciding that anyways. Way to nitpick the details so we ignore pressing issues like illegal immigration and a completely failed economy.

4. We (Americans) say we just want a president who understands us. A normal, everyday guy (or girl...ha) who had to struggle to get by just like most of us. The sad news is, unless you are rich, you don't get to run for president. In order to get your issues known, you have to be in press conferences and national debates and on the ballots. In order to have that happen you have to be a serious contender. In order to be a serious contender you have to have lots of advertising and buzz. Without ads, rallies, etc, you only have the internet. Most people don't take the internet seriously - we just aren't of that generation yet. Also, you have to raise a certain amount of money for your campaign in order to even get on the ballot in every state, otherwise you have to pay mucho dinero or get like 5000 signatures of people wanting you. So unless you have a few million or more to throw around, you pretty much don't stand a chance, especially since you can't get large donations from corporations, only "people". Beginning to see why certain people win?

5. Politics shouldn't be a career. I get 4 years or 8 years of being president is hard. Lots of pressure. Lots of death threats. But once you are done, I hate to say it, but get a job. I'm pretty sure you could write a book, be a movie star, or a seriously Kick A Consultant. "One hour with the ex president and your business will thrive!" I don't want to pay for your lavish lifestyle until you kick the bucket. Same for everyone in Congress, and the House, and the Senate. Do I appreciate them? No, not really, because again, its no harder than being in a relationship. Work on it, negotiate, and stop being so damn selfish, and maybe we could get a few things done and you would earn your 200K a year. Maybe.

6. Several years from now, that 1% and that 99% are really going to be "first class" and "peasants". The peasants are mad that the first classers have so much freakin money and aren't spreading it around. It really doesn't seem fair. The first classers are mad that the peasants don't seem to appreciate that much of that money came from their hard work in the beginning. Now if a peasant became a first classer, would they give all their hard earned money away to again become a peasant? Probably not. But at the same time, it does seem pretty crappy that so much money is so unevenly spread. Unfortunately, that's life.

I should probably stop here. I guess what I am getting at is, I feel the need to do something. Vote, maybe. Run for president, maybe. Something to help people get together and recognize that everyone feels the same way and if we could strip away the petty idiocy we could actually make a difference instead of voting in bought yahoos with an agenda - become famous and retire rich.

Well, That Was a Disaster

Back around Thanksgiving we had a big party at work and as gifts, we all received a burlap sack containing a can of pumpkin, a tastefully decorated jar filled with layers of flour and brown sugar and such, and a card on which was written a recipe for pumpkin bread. I've been meaning to try it but haven't gotten around to it yet--too much gingerbread to bake, you know--but I just found a recipe for pumpkin white hot chocolate and remembered that I had that can of pumpkin in the pantry.

I won't give you the recipe here because I'm not convinced it's worthy--although I intend to keep tweaking it--but the gist is that you whisk together milk and pumpkin puree and a variety of appropriate spices, wait for it to get all steamy, and then stir in white chocolate. Present to applause.

I thought the pumpkin looked a little curious in the can. It wasn't a brand I've ever used before, or even one I've seen in the grocery store. I imagine the party planner at work got them in bulk through some sketchy back-alley deal. But I plonked in a sizable dollop and proceeded with the spices.

Well. It was not a success. I poured two big mugs for myself and the hubby, and we both took a sip and just about spat it out. I went back to take a look at the can. On the front it said, "PUMPKIN: 100% Pumpkin!" And on the back it said, in extremely tiny print, "Ingredients: Assorted squash."

Squash hot chocolate. Oh, oh, the awfulness. We'll file that under M for Mistakes I Will Never Make Again.

In Which I Nearly Refuse an Invitation

Here's what happens at my place on Saturdays:

I plonk myself down the couch and surround myself with all manner of cookbooks and magazines. I page through the cookbooks and peruse pretty pictures and imagine what's getting shrively in the fridge and needs to be used up. (In an ideal world I would get up and check the fridge instead of imagining it, but I've already plonked myself down and I don't care to disturb the delicate balance of magazines on my lap.) An hour or so later I have compiled a complete menu for the week and a categorized shopping list. I am intensely proud of my lists and go show them to my husband.

"Do you really want to schedule the whole week?" says he. "Wouldn't it be good to leave a day free for something else that might come up?"

"Nothing will come up," I say. "This is a perfect menu and nothing will change."

"Something always changes," he says. "You've been doing this for a year and we've never yet had a week that perfectly aligned with your menu."

"This week will," I say. I am confident. I go to the store and I procure all manner of produce and meats and extra butter because I dread being out of butter. I come home and put groceries away.

This is usually when the phone rings. Do we want to go out for waffles with friends?

Yes. Absolutely. Push the whole menu back a day and call it good. Not once does my husband say "I told you so." Hurrah.

Tuesday. Cheap night at the movie theater. Do we want to grab Mexican and see a film?

Of course. Yes. Splendid. I stick tonight's fish in the freezer and hope we can finish the watercress before it wilts and command the hubby to have kiwi for lunch tomorrow because no way it makes it to Friday.

The hubby is still not saying he told me so. Bless him.

Friday night. Pizza and wine and Apples to Apples at a friend's house?

No. No. No. Because I was going to make a mango and red onion salad with roasted chicken and probably an orange-honey-sesame dressing, and I have peaches and blackberries defrosting in the fridge at this very moment waiting to go into a cobbler. And it's just not going to hold until Saturday. (Even if it did, Saturday is listed as "Date Night" on the menu and the hubby says I'm not allowed to change it.)

Screw it. Apples to Apples it is. Friends are more important than food. But here's my menu for next week:

Monday: Macaroni with Prego sauce

Tuesday: Frozen broccoli. Possibly rice?

Wednesday: Pizza Hut

Thursday: Meh

Friday: Spaghetti-Os

So come on over, because at the House of Kate you've got a menu you can count on.

"Turn around discreetly and throw it somewhere"

In the daily ins and outs of my job, I occasionally happen upon a book such as the following.  Upon which I often spend rather more time than I ought desperately biting my lip to keep from laughing out loud in the workplace and giving myself away in the midst of my not-strictly-work-related-activity.

Excerpt from Practically Useless Information: Food & Drink by Norman Kolpas

SIXTEENTH CENTURY TABLE MANNERS FOR CHILDREN


Excerpted from De Civilitate Morum Puerilium (On Civility in Children), published in 1530, by Dutch philosopher Desiderius Erasmus:


 On Coming to Table:
 Come to the table clean and in a merry mood.


 On Pausing Before Eating:
 Some people immediately descend on the dishes the moment they have been set down. Wolves do that.

 On Banquet Settings:
 At banquets, two people share each soup bowl and use squares of bread (trenchers) to serve as plates.

 On Letting Others Go First:
 Be careful not to be the first to put your hands in the dish.


 On Avoiding Greediness:

 What you cannot hold in your hands you must put on your plate.

 On Resting Your Hands:
 Do not rest your hands on your trencher.

 On Drinking:
 Do not drink more than two or three times during the meal (mostly wine diluted with water or thin beer), and wipe your lips with a napkin after each sip, especially if a common drinking-cup is used.

 On Food You Cannot Swallow:
 Turn around discreetly and throw it somewhere.

 On Bones:
 Do not put chewed bones back on plates. Instead, throw them on the floor for the dog.

 On Licking Your Fingers:
 It is impolite to lick greasy fingers or to wipe them on your coat. Better to use the tablecloth or the serviette.

 On Burping:
 Retain the wind by compressing the belly.

 On Sitting Still and Avoiding False Impressions:
 Do not move back and forth on your chair. Doing so gives the impression of constantly breaking, or trying to break, wind.

 On Spitting:
 Turn away lest your saliva fall on someone. If anything purulent falls on the ground, tread upon it, lest it nauseate someone.

 On Sharing Your Handkerchief:
 Do not offer your handkerchief to anyone unless it has been freshly washed.

 On Losing Your Food:
 Do not be afraid of vomiting if you must; it is not vomiting but holding the vomit in your throat that is foul.


So, the lesson is, of course, that throwing your food on the floor and vomiting are perfectly acceptable mealtime activities as long as the alternative is worse.

Accordingly, Mr. Kolpas indicates that today, January 31 is National Brandy Alexander Day!  So have a drink friends; you've already made it 1/12th of the way through the year!