Homeschooling

Many homeschoolers do so for strongly religious reasons, and/or because they hate public schools. We incorporated no religious study, and I’m a supporter of public schools.

So “normal” families don’t understand us because we homeschool, and homeschoolers don’t understand us because we’re secular.

The arguments people give against homeschooling I pretty much don’t have the inclination to argue against. “Socialization” is one I hear a lot, that I just don’t care about. D and I are both introverts, and the kids are pretty well adjusted, pretty well able to get along with a wide range of people. The less they act like kids their ages, the better.

Homeschooling has also, I’m sure, made our kids be better friends. The Girl plays well with The Boy because she has to (he’s the only one around) and because she’s not surrounded by peers who vent about how they hate their little siblings. The bonding between our kids is one of the things others remark on—how well they get along. I can only hope it continues.

So while we aren’t officially homeschoolers this year, I still feel like a homeschooling family. I have the mindset that my kids should have a great deal of flexibility and the ability to learn at their own pace. That they shouldn’t be oppressed by teachers. (D and I have plenty of stories of teachers doing just that to us.) Although the curriculum we’re using this year is prescribed, I know we will still study other topics as they interest us.

Many people ask how long we’ll do this. I answer, as long as it works for us. Many families homeschool for early grades, then “give up.” Helping the kids get through high school doesn’t intimidate me too much. Math is my best subject, and between us D and I can cover higher level science pretty well (elementary science is complete fluff and a waste of time). Colleges have gotten pretty good about evaluating applicants who have been homeschooled, and test scores seem to be the most important determinant. Besides, I can see both kids taking community college classes early on, both to get a jump start on credits/save money and to demonstrate their suitability for college.

Well, that wasn’t so bad. Maybe.

From today’s New York Times: “Dire predictions of 20-foot-deep toxic rivers running in the streets and huge buildings coming apart did not materialize.” Some of last weekend’s forecasts sounded extremely dire, but if they were more than likely to occur, got people’s attention, and made more families evacuate than otherwise would have, then they were necessary.

The major news ports want to predict and project the final property damage and death toll, but it looks like it won’t be known for weeks. And although New Orleans missed the worst of the wind and storm surge, today’s levee breach means that it isn’t over yet.

Daniel Drezner calls it Hurricane Porn, and refers to the titillation one receives from reading about a catastrophe happening elsewhere. It’s like the rubberneckers who slow down traffic at an accident, looking for blood. I don’t think animals do this, but for some reason it’s human to want to see someone else’s troubles, as long as we ourselves are ok. Although I’ve been an online-news junkie about the storm and its results, at least I haven’t been watching the TV images of it!

Did the meteorologists cry wolf? I don’t think so. Will people in potentially affected areas not listen, not evacuate next time, because the damage wasn’t as horrific as warned on Sunday? I hope not, and maybe we’ll get more accurate forecasting and tracking models as a result of this storm. What’s the line between sounding a strong, necessary warning, and over-hyping your special area of interest, which only gets a good workout a few times a year?

People prayed for the storm to miss New Orleans with its full brunt, and Katrina (or God) did indeed oblige by turning slightly eastward—were those prayers answered, only to have deeper destruction wrought on Mississippi and Alabama? That sounds like a harsh result. I have a lot of problem with prayer.

Dialogue

Me: I need to pay for a lost library book.
Librarian: Are you sure you won’t find it?
Me: Actually, I’m pretty sure it’ll turn up tomorrow, now that I've confessed that I lost it.

Hurricane!

Last night I couldn’t stop reading the Katrina updates. It was addictive for D, too; he was on one computer checking different satellite and radar views, while I was on the laptop reading blogs and disaster projections.

Some were writing with almost glee at the possible scope of the disaster for New Orleans—city destroyed, a hundred thousand dead, evacuees having no home to return to, chemical pollution disaster, and so on. And the weather people certainly get excited about the prospect of a huge, destroying storm. What’s in human nature that almost looks forward to something horrible happening, as long as it’s taking place somewhere else?

The thing that makes a hurricane different from an earthquake, tornado, or tsunami is that you can see it coming days in advance, and there’s nothing you can do about it, except grab your family photos and pets and RUN. Where the other natural disasters strike suddenly, you have several days to see this twisting, growing storm bearing down on you, and know that there’s nothing that can be done to allay its destruction.

It’s hard for the mind to absorb the idea that a major U.S. city could be destroyed by the elements. We believe we have gotten so good at controlling our environment. Surely “they” will think of something.

So the hurricane is coming ashore right now, and it’s maybe not the worst possible hit for New Orleans, but still bad. What a dumb place to build a city—below the Mississippi River, with water on three sides. And where’s the National Guard, to help with security and clean up afterwards? Mostly in Iraq!

The best to hope for is that the weather people were once again crying wolf, and desensitizing people yet again to their forecasts. But it will still be an excuse to raise gas prices.

Machines

A lot has been written about different kinds of intelligences. As in, we ought to value people who aren’t necessarily “word smart” and “math smart” and perform well on standardized tests. There’s high emotional IQ, which lets you get along well with others; musical smarts; mechanical ability; etc.

Well, having been one of those students who did do well on standardized tests in school, I raise my hand and admit to being guilty of snobbishness towards those who are otherly-inclined.

To say I’m not mechanical is an understatement of such magnitude to make my husband snort. This week I had to set up the fruit press, which I can do unaided only because I have memorized its assembly.

I have a friend who freely admits to not being “smart.” But. Last year when it was time to set up the press for applesauce, she took the pile of parts and whipped it into a working machine. She honestly doesn’t want written instructions, just show her what it’s supposed to look like, and she can probably get it there. She’s the one who helped us at Christmas time when we were trying to fold origami boxes, and were stumped by a particular step.

So, here’s tribute to those who can see how parts fit together and make things work: I'm sorry I was ever unappreciative of your abilities.

Tomatoes, tomatoes

Finally the tomatoes are ripe. Before we were farming and trying to grow vegetables for money, I had a large garden; but everything else was just filler until the tomatoes were ripe.

This year, we planted hundreds of tomatoes—partly by design, partly because we started some in flats to sell as plants, sales of which didn’t really materialize, probably (probably!) because we didn’t advertise.

First the cherry tomatoes ripen. I read someone who compared them to relatives who visit from out of town. First, you’re happy to see them. You welcome them, you haven’t seen them in a long time, and you find all kinds of activities to involve them. Eventually, however, you’re tired of seeing them, you run out of things to do with them, and you wish they’d leave already.

We have hybrids, we have Romas, we have heirloom Brandywines (Nancy Nall: “Best. Tomato. Ever.”) And omething else that I thought was Brandywines, but maybe isn’t.

Some are sold at farmers’ markets, some at the stand at our house, some to restaurants (a new market for us this year—they are pretty excited about the Romas, which are very attractive and box up nicely). Some are given away to friends and the food pantry. The spoiled ones go to the chickens. We eat a lot, in various forms, but usually just sliced.

I preserve a lot: juice, whole, spaghetti sauce, salsa, dried. Juice is the easiest, and what I did yesterday. I have a conversion chart that says x pounds will make y quarts, but instead of doing the calculations, I just juiced up all the otherwise unallocated ones—we’ll have plenty before the next market Saturday. Not planning ahead meant I ended up washing more jars, then more.

Juicing is the easiest. Wash, core, cut out spots, cut up and heat till juicy (I guess if you have a good juicer you don’t even need to heat them), and squish them through the juicer. Juice and pulp come out through the screen, skin and seeds get pushed out the end. Run the pulp through a second time to extract even more goodness. Make sure you have lots of vats—for heating, for holding the juice, and finally for canning. 25 quarts in about 5 hours, mostly including clean up.

What’s the juice used for next winter? The most obvious answers are spaghetti and chili. Then I make a lot of what the family calls “gloppy gloopy” (from a song on the PBS show “Arthur”), and what others in the Midwest call “casserole.” Also for soup or just drinking straight. And, you can cook rice or noodles in tomato juice for extra flavor and nutrition.

Whole tomatoes are harder (messier) because you have to plop them in hot water then take the skins off, but easier because then you just stuff them (whole) in jars. Salsa is a complicated mixture of stuff, but I’ll have a partner for that. Sauce—eh, maybe I won’t make any this year—the hardest part is reducing the juice to something pretty thick. One year D set up a fairly crude but effective evaporator for me—a fan and deflector shield over the bubbling pot on the stove. Also effective: cooking overnight in the oven in an open roaster with the oven door cracked open.

None of this is fun when it’s 90 degrees outside and 88 in the kitchen, but we’ve had a couple cool(er) days this week. Fall is on its way—I saw sumac starting to turn red this week, the true sign of cooler temps and autumn. I have come to like fall more than I did the time I described it as “the season of death and decay.”

Yeah, right!

Yesterday's business section headline: "Bankers say no housing bubble."

Tomorrow's: "Foxes say chicken house security adequate."

What’s in a name?

I recently took a different route home, and saw in the middle of a beautiful piece of farmland a sign: Pleasure Valley Preserve. Well. It wasn’t in a valley; apparently the farm is NOT going to be preserved; and the pleasure will likely all belong to the developer. Where does it stop?

“Berry Fields” read one sign near us when we first moved to our farm. I foolishly thought it was a pick-your-own berry farm.

Some blogger wrote about his theory that housing developments are named for that which they displace. Amusing, but not likely true. Another one I saw recently:

Heron Lake
“Affordable side-by-side ranch homes.”

I guess that means duplexes. Who pays upwards of $250,000 (I’m estimating, based on the area) for a home that 1) shares walls with another family; and 2) is cheaply slapped together drywall by a crew of underpaid laborers?

And I don’t think any herons were rousted from the lake cum runoff pond.

Baptism

We had a baptism today at church. Afterwards I remarked to the mom of the baby that she had been so good; the mom replied, “She had no idea what was going on.”

I guess the appropriate response to that is, of course not, none of us really do.

My denomination believes in baptizing infants, the sooner to receive God’s grace.

Grace, not the same as protection.

It’s easy to cross the line from saying baptism is important and we believe it somehow changes a person, to equating baptism with the sprinkling of magic water. I can’t explain the difference, but I know we’re taught to baptize babies, rather than waiting till, as some denominations, the “age of reason,” in which an individual must actively assent to the act. (Oddly enough, many of those churches have now instituted an infant blessing or naming ceremony, in which the child isn’t baptized with water, but is presented to the church, promises are made on its behalf, etc. Sounds a lot like what we try to do with baptism!)

Baptism is a sacrament—that is, an important activity performed by the church, instituted by Jesus. (That, by the way, is why we have only two sacraments—communion and baptism—actions started by Jesus. Marriage is important, but not a sacrament. When Bill Frist talks about the “sacrament of marriage,” he’s a Baptist using Catholic language and displaying his ignorance about his own religion. Yet another reason he should just STFU. Ooh, profanity in a post about religion.)

Baptism, like taking communion, infuses us with God’s grace. Can you be “saved” without either? I believe, yes. But performing these actions helps us to be and live as better Christians. How? I don’t know, but we assert that the sacraments give God’s grace the opportunity to work in us.

What happens to people who are baptized, and then never make another positive action toward Christianity? When they die, where do they go? I don’t know. My church says baptism is sufficient for salvation. (Sufficient, but not necessary.) Can you renounce your baptism, and the promises made on your behalf? I don't know.

The orthodox Catholic hell contains a lot more souls than mine does. For example, they would say Joseph Stalin, Martin Luther (the founder of my denomination), the woman who’s unrepentant about using a diaphragm, and every Aborigine who’s never heard about Christ. My vision has hell a lot emptier.

We’ll see who’s right when we die.

What's that?

Lesson from today's farmers' market:

The only people who want okra, are the people who really want okra.

Money, money

Americans save $.40 of every $100 of disposable income, according to this (for the mathematically illiterate among you, that’s forty CENTS—please note the decimal). According to the economics professor I listened to on public radio this week, the savings rate of Americans is zero. Others place it in negative territory.

We’re told that Americans are treating their houses like giant ATMs, taking out cash via home equity loans to meet fleeting desires. Trading a hard asset (the house) for depreciable and/or fleeting ones (cars, vacations, restaurant meals). Homeowners refinance, take cash out to pay down credit card balances, then run them up again, leaving themselves with 1) just as much credit card debt; and 2) less housing equity.

Homeowners act as if housing prices will continue to rapidly rise forever (I agree that the Midwest is not as susceptible to a housing bubble as coastal cities—Boston, Southern California [ok, it’s not so much a “city” as a state of mind], D.C.). They figure on finding some new buyer to finance their retirement.

Where are the flaws in this? The upcoming buyers will need to be compelled to buy your overpriced house—why will they pay your price, among a glut of want-to-be-retirees’ houses? And, in retirement, you’ll still need a place to live, right? Trust me, you won’t be able to live with your kids. Finally, as energy costs continue to rise, heating those 3000+ square foot energy sinks is going to make them less, rather than more, desirable.

You can find multiple financial “advisors” who say DON’T pay down your mortgage early. Your home is not a liquid asset, there are better places to invest your money, you’ll lose a great tax deduction; I’ve heard the arguments and I don’t buy them.

Who benefits if I have no mortgage? Only I do. Having a paid-off residence gives me a great deal of freedom in determining what I will work at—and maybe the freedom not to work at all. (Ok—you do lose the flexibility of deciding WHERE you’ll work.) Businesses (and by implication, the “U.S. economy”) lose if I’m not driven to work/spend/borrow/work for whatever pittance/horrible boss I happen to get.

Last year we traded our variable rate mortgage for one with a fixed rate, and the assurance of knowing our payments will never go up. We could have done the refi for another 30 years, but we didn’t want to essentially erase the seven years we’d already been paying. Our goal now is to pay the rest off as rapidly as possible.

As an individual, I can have zero effect on the national debt. All I can do is choose to have as little personal debt as possible, and make it easier for my family to weather any oncoming financial storms.

My advice for everyone: don’t buy a house that takes two salaries to afford. Keeping your house payments low gives you incredible flexibility, and lowers your stress immensely, when you know you don’t have to keep working at any particular job. (Exception allowed for singles, obviously [I bought my first house when single]—just don’t spend nearly as much as the realtor or bank tells you you’re “qualified” to.) Eschew the interest-only loans and 100% financing; people pushing non-traditional financing options do not have your best interests in mind.

D has a vision—eventually it will be considered a “crime against the economy” to quit your job if you have any debt. We’re not going to bring back debtors’ prisons, but we’re going to re-institute slavery—you will be made to work, for the elusive benefit of the U.S. economy.

Remember right after 9/11, when we were supposed to show how patriotic we were by buying things? What brings more national security—having everyone tanked up with credit card debt and enslaved to banks and their employers (economic serfdom), or having a populace that is financially free to act in their own best interests?

Money, money

Americans save $.40 of every $100 of disposable income, according to this (for the mathematically illiterate among you, that’s forty CENTS—please note the decimal). According to the economics professor I listened to on public radio this week, the savings rate of Americans is zero. Others place it in negative territory.

We’re told that Americans are treating their houses like giant ATMs, taking out cash via home equity loans to meet fleeting desires. Trading a hard asset (the house) for depreciable and/or fleeting ones (cars, vacations, restaurant meals). Homeowners refinance, take cash out to pay down credit card balances, then run them up again, leaving themselves with 1) just as much credit card debt; and 2) less housing equity.

Homeowners act as if housing prices will continue to rapidly rise forever (I agree that the Midwest is not as susceptible to a housing bubble as coastal cities—Boston, Southern California [ok, it’s not so much a “city” as a state of mind], D.C.). They figure on finding some new sucker buyer to finance their retirement.

Where are the flaws in this? The upcoming buyers will need to be compelled to buy your overpriced house—why will they pay your price, among a glut of want-to-be-retirees’ houses? And, in retirement, you’ll still need a place to live, right? Trust me, you won’t be able to live with your kids. Finally, as energy costs continue to rise, heating those 3000+ square foot energy sinks is going to make them less, rather than more, desirable.

You can find multiple financial “advisors” who say DON’T pay down your mortgage early. Your home is not a liquid asset, there are better places to invest your money, you’ll lose a great tax deduction; I’ve heard the arguments and I don’t buy them.

Who benefits if I have no mortgage? Only I do. Having a paid-off residence gives me a great deal of freedom in determining what I will work at—and maybe the freedom to not work at all. (Ok—you do lose the flexibility of deciding WHERE you’ll work.) Businesses (and by implication, the “U.S. economy”) lose if I’m not driven to work/spend/borrow/work for whatever pittance/horrible boss I happen to get.

Last year we traded our variable rate mortgage for one with a fixed rate, and the assurance of knowing our payments will never go up. We could have done the refi for another 30 years, but we didn’t want to essentially erase the seven years we’d already been paying. Our goal now is to pay the rest off as rapidly as possible.

As an individual, I can have zero effect on the national debt. All I can do is choose to have as little personal debt as possible, and make it easier for my family to weather any oncoming financial storms.

My advice for everyone: don’t buy a house that takes two salaries to afford. Keeping your house payments low gives you incredible flexibility, and lowers your stress immensely, when you know you don’t have to keep working at any particular job. (Exception allowed for singles, obviously [I bought my first house when single]—just don’t spend nearly as much as the realtor or bank tells you you’re “qualified” to.) Eschew the interest-only loans and 100% financing; people pushing non-traditional financing options do not have your best interests in mind.

D has a vision—eventually it will be considered a “crime against the economy” to quit your job if you have any debt. We’re not going to bring back debtors’ prisons, but we’re going to re-institute slavery—you will be made to work, for the elusive benefit of the U.S. economy.

Remember right after 9/11, when we were supposed to show how patriotic we were by buying things? What brings more national security—having everyone tanked up with credit card debt and enslaved to banks and their employers (economic serfdom), or having a populace that is financially free to act in their own best interests?

Beans, etc.

The beans are ripe, and they are a pain. If you didn’t pick beans yesterday, you’d better be picking them today. Actually, that’s not even enough—it should be every 36 hours. If you picked Monday night, you need to pick again Wednesday morning. Even then, there will be plenty of overripe ones that need to get tossed. And the overripes still need to get taken off the vine. If you don’t pick them, it will delay the maturation of the rest of the beans on that plant, just like cucumbers—you have to pick that giant yellow submarine, or the little bitty ones won’t develop.

And what are the beans worth? $2 a pound. A local restaurant is buying some, some are sold at the farmers’ market, some are for the freezer.

The kids, especially The Girl, have been pretty useful at bean picking. The Boy does it, but with more complaint and less thoroughness. Me, it’s mindless, but easy. Good time for thinking of blog entries.

The kids were also useful Saturday when I was freezing corn. I know that alone, my limit is about 70 ears—husk, blanch, cool, cut off cob, bag for freezer. (I'm envious that my sister gets to do it with her MIL and SIL. Obviously they can do a much bigger batch; the husbands also help.) 70 ears is about three hours work, including cleaning up afterwards, a non-trivial part of the process. While I cut up beans, the kids husked the corn and made that job so much easier for me. And even better, while they weren’t fast, they didn’t complain, and even asked when they could do it again.

Submission

I spent a LONG time on the phone last night with a friend who tends to talk a lot, at least on the phone; she’s pretty starved for adult conversation, and her husband was working late that night. When our girls were both 5, The Boy was 2, she had a newborn, and we were both 100% SAHMs, if I called her at 4:00 p.m. to check about car pool arrangements for Brownies, it was guaranteed that I’d be late starting supper, because she would talk, and talk, and talk, while I went, “Uh huh, yes, ok, right.”

She’s been “home” for six years, and agonizes about when to return to work (and what to do when she does). She believes that if she goes back to work and her daughter gets pregnant, that it will be her fault for not being home 24/7. Sounds to me like she thinks all moms are to blame for their kids’ bad decisions/bad luck!

She also is very deferential to her husband, to the point of weirdness. For instance, if I say she can bring her kids over to play, she’ll say, “I need to talk to P. about that.” She spends time with a group of Fundamentalist moms who really buy into the submissive, deferring wife thing. Great if that works for you, but her husband doesn’t give a rat’s a** about the kid care. (And it’s not a mom thing either; if D. told me when I got home that he’d arranged for the kids to go somewhere, I’d say great!)

Hey, whatever makes you happy, right? But what if behaving the way you think you should, brings frustration rather than satisfaction?


Approximate “Cheers” dialogue:
Dr. Crane: Woody, you need to talk about what’s bothering you.
Woody: Oh, no, Dr. Crane. That’s not what we do in Indiana. If something’s bothering you, you just keep stuffing it down inside.
Dr. Crane: Tick. Tick. Tick.


The Girl: Other people talk on the phone a lot. How come you and Dad don’t say much when people call?
Me: Because they call us for information; it doesn’t take long to deliver “yes” and “no.” (D and I are not chatters on the phone!)

Cats

Heard on the ask-a-vet call in show on public radio:

Caller: My cat wakes me up every morning at 4:00 or 5:00. Why does he do this/how can I make him stop?

My answer: Because he is a cat and therefore evil. The only way to make him stop, and then only temporarily, is to violently throw him out of the bed. After a week, though, he’ll forget, and return. Cats are dumb as well as evil.*

Real vet’s boring answer: try throwing a shaker can toward, but not at [for heaven’s sake, I say throw it right at him!] the cat. Don’t get up and feed him or put him outside, thereby rewarding his behavior [duh!].

----------

Caller: My 19 year old cat suddenly just wants to sleep all day, and to hide. Do you think something’s wrong?

My answer: Your cat is like 153 in human years; it’s going to die. Better attach a GPS monitor so you can find it when it’s both hidden and dead.

Real vet’s boring answer: could be a number of things, better have a vet check him out.


*After many years, my cat has managed to retain the knowledge that he’d better come to my side of the bed, not D’s, in the middle of the night. The only time he will snuggle with anyone is at 3:00 a.m. I used to know when fall had arrived, because he’d abandon the relatively cool kitchen floor for our bed and its blankets; that system has been completely messed up by the arrival of the dog, and the fact that she owns the kitchen at night. Now, even when it’s 90 degrees, I get a 12 pound fur blanket. Ever have that dream where you can’t move your legs? I get that one a lot.

Bowling for Soup

I’m not an album person; my musical tastes are extremely superficial. But last spring when “1985” was getting a lot of airplay, D bought the album, A Hangover You Don’t Deserve, and I listened to it enough times through to really get it. It’s got an interesting pattern of songs, with “1985” actually being the oddball track.

First is “Almost,” a song that’s also gotten some top-40 airplay here, although with somewhat cleaned up lyrics (someone stole “a video game” instead of “a bunch of the drugs,” “a slut with much bigger breast-es” becomes “a girl who sewed her own dresses—as a parent, I don’t object to the original wording, but who knows what will generate FCC complaints). Anyway, the singer loses the girl.

Next, a sweet little ditty called “Trucker Hat” (only song where he gets the girl), followed by the over-exposed “1985.” (I really do know the woman with her minivan who’s featured here, for whom life has turned out to be a huge disappointment.)

Get Happy, another throw away tune. Profanity four words into the song; had to remember to turn it down quick when the kids were in the car! Anyway, loses the girl.

Ohio (loses the girl) is my favorite song on here, so I’m happy to hear it getting a little radio time now. The rhymes are great: went to Cleveland/with some guy name Leland; make a deposit/cleaned out her closet. The Girl heard “There’s nothing wrong with Ohio, except the snow and the rain,” and asked, “Are they being sarcastic?” And way, way at the end of the CD, after some blank tracks, there’s a bizzare reprise of the middle of “Ohio.” For some reason, I love the way they render “waiting” as “way-den.” Sort of a Texas accent, sort of a singing thing, sort of just a lazy way to talk.

Ridiculous, loses the girl.
Shut up and smile—“thank God the TV is on/cuz there’s no way we could know anything that’s going down/or how we’re supposed to be feeling about it.” Wow, isn’t that the truth?
Last Call Casualty—lost the girl, and is stalking her with phone hang-ups. Contains an odd overlap of melody with Shut Up & Smile.
Next Ex-Girlfriend—doesn’t even GET the girl.
A-Hole—loses the girl.
My Hometown—my, what a lot of profanity for an upbeat tune!
Smoothie King—I think he loses the girl. (“You’re crazy and I’m crazy about you.”)
Sad Sad Situation—he WANTS to lose the girl, because she’s crazy—again. (“Maybe you should stay . . . away!”)
Really Might Be Gone—loses the girl.
Down for the Count—loses the girl, but it’s ok because she was crazy yet again.
Two-Seater—lost the girl, he’s stalking her again, this time by vandalizing her car.
Friends o’ Mine—just a close-the-album tune. Obviously they had room for one more track and threw on some junk they’d been messing around with.

Anyway, I recommend the album—every song is listen-able.

The Fair

Last week the county fair was held. The kids were involved with some 4-H projects (no animal stuff, however), and Friday I took them down for a day of rides. I bought a fistful of ride tickets before I realized how discounted the rides were in the early afternoon, so they got to go on tons of stuff, including the Tilt-A-Whirl with me a couple times. The Girl is at that awkward age where she’s too big for the little kid rides, and not brave enough for the advanced ones. In a couple years she’ll be wanting to go with boys on the rides, but for now they are both content to roam the midway with Mom.

I made them ride the mixer/egg beater with me, which brought back memories of going to an amusement park many years ago with a guy, and that was our first ride of the day. It was sort of our first date, and although I don’t want to be with him, I feel a real nostalgia for that particular time in my life. I don’t want to be the person I was then, but she had way fewer concerns, and her money and time were all her own.

Some comedian (Jeff Foxworthy?) has a line: If you ever start feelin’ sorry for yourself, just go to a state fair and look around.

Isn’t that the truth? (My alternative is, any K-Mart parking lot in the Midwest.) The Midway, of course, and its workers is the clearest example of this, but the sorry-looking people are truly found all over. I especially love the way that the heat becomes an excuse for all shapes and ages of people to walk around in all styles of undress.

On the last whirl from the Tilt-A, the kids went alone; the worker miscounted, and rather than have their own car, they ended up sharing with a single boy. The Girl asked why that happened; I said the worker couldn’t count to seven, not without his missing fingers.

Also, I’m pretty liberal, but it was poor planning to put the Planned Parenthood tent with its “free condoms” placards steps away from the rides for little kids. I’m sure that will generate letters of complaint (whining) to the local paper.

A couple years ago, this particular fair sparked an outbreak of e coli, which was never traced to a specific source. We ate only minimal fair food, and I was pretty scrupulous about frequent hand washing.

Big Lots

Last weekend D and I had a date, and as we often do on dates, we visited both Fleet Farm (motto: “if you can’t get it at Fleet Farm you don’t need it”) and Big Lots (motto should be: “you don’t need it but it’s cheap”). We only go to Big Lots because it’s near the movie theatre and it’s a good place to kill time. Besides, like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’ll get.

Don’t get attached to any food you buy there—it’s only at Big Lots because it failed at the mainstream grocery stores. Example: D scooped up a box of cereal, I think from General Mills, called “Chocolat-y Oh’s.” Think chocolate Cheerios. Think chocolate frosted sugar bombs. They are BAD, albeit tasty, and surprisingly addictive. Box says “makes chocolatey mik.” Notice the word “chocolate” is never actually used. I didn’t read the ingredient list, but I’m sure it’s not there. When you eat them, the taste is overwhelmingly artificial, and oddly, a little bit banana-y. Anyway, once this box is gone (and it soon will be, due to my snacking), we’ll never have the chance to purchase them again.

Another find, this one mine: hand towels for the bathroom whose color can only be described as “dirt.” What a great idea! Like the suggestion from a friend (a real friend, not someone who happens to have a daughter the same age as The Girl) that if I tile the floor when I redo the kitchen, make sure to choose dirt colored grout.

Hot Dog

I am not a dog person, but last fall we got a puppy, whom we named Kiva. D grew up near a small town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula named Kiva, and I thought that would make a unique name for a child. That is, I thought so until 1) my dad, who has an unusual German name, went off on a tirade about how wrong it is to give a kid a name that no one can spell or pronounce, and 2) a friend from Michigan who actually knows the place said, “Why would you wanna name your kid after a place full of drunken Finlanders, eh?”

So, we did not name The Girl “Kiva,” but I still had the name floating around in my brain when we got the dog. It follows the dog naming “rules”—two syllables, ending in a vowel, making it easy for a dog to hear and distinguish from one syllable commands. It’s unusual, as is our dog. Most people we know have labs or golden retrievers for pets. I wanted a border collie because they are supposed to be so smart and easy to train. Yes, they need a lot of activity, but I thought that keeping her busy would be good for all of us. And we may eventually get some animals for her to herd. After I made an offhand comment about wanting a border collie (“someday”), my dad found a breeder and said he was giving us one from their next litter.

She is a beautiful dog, with the classic black and white border collie look—think “Babe” the movie. There are many acceptable border collie looks—brown, red, blue, even mostly white, but I think black and white is perfect. My parents got a pup from the same litter, although theirs has a lot more brown. When we visit them with Kiva (we are not only dog people, we are People Who Travel With the Dog) and the two get to romp together, it’s a weekend of the two-headed dog—one entity constantly bounding around. At least there it’s outside—at the in-laws, it’s the two-headed dog bouncing off the walls.

She’s now about 10 months old, and is fairly well behaved, although of course we could spend more time training her. She and I took a six week basic obedience class, during which she performed pretty well; the trainer loved her, and Kiva performed exceptionally well for her—it was those sausage bit rewards! Of course, the point of obedience school isn't to teach the dog things, it's to teach the owner how to train their dog.

Lately she’s gotten pretty shaggy, and with all the heat we’ve had, I thought she’d be better off with a trim. So yesterday, I took her to be groomed for the very first time. (We are making progress in behavior: she did NOT pee out of excitement/submission when seeing new people.) I answered yes when the groomer asked, “Do you want her pretty short?” Nothing was mentioned about s-h-a-v-i-n-g. Well, she now looks like a boxer, or even a pig, her hair is so short. I just hope it grows back before the cold weather.

Remodeling

I have a grand plan to remodel my ancient kitchen. Fortunately, I have a great deal of space to work with, and don’t need to expand into other rooms or beyond the current house boundaries. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten bids from three contractors, all within the same range, and I can’t justify spending that much money on my house. I’ve contemplated possible ways to scale back the project, and it won’t save a lot of money—what I need to do is, frankly, just costly.

First, gut the plaster. And as long as I’m doing the mess, I’m going to do the office, which is an ugly room right off the kitchen. Happily, that’s something we can largely do ourselves—not as quickly and neatly as a team of professionals, but hey, even the kids can swing a hammer and break up old plaster.

Actually, FIRST first is the heat. I have clunky, ugly, effective radiators that need to come out both for esthetics and to be able to move the sink where it needs to be. They are to be replaced with in-the-floor conductive heat. D is confident he can do this, and has order the parts. Obviously, this has to be completed before heating season, which usually starts in early October.

Meanwhile, how do we eat while this is going on? The refrigerator and microwave will get moved into the dining room—which is actually going to become a DINING room, not a TOY room as it’s been for the last eight years. I probably will try to manage without the stove, although D says he can hook it up in the garage or basement. In good enough weather, I can use the grill outside. And I’d like to make ahead and freeze a bunch of meals (not completely once-a-month-cooking, but something along those lines).

I’ve started boxing up stuff for moving to the attic. Some (like the cake saver or Christmas cookie cutters) is rarely used; some (like the giant salt shaker and pepper grinder D got me as a joke) could probably be tossed. (Last summer I did take several boxes of stuff to the local donation center, including the wok.)

In packing, I found a smallish (maybe 6x9) three ring recipe binder with a garish flowered cover that I clearly remember getting for my birthday from my grandmother when I was about 11. It has tabbed sections for various types of recipes, with an introductory page about each category (“appetizer means appetite teaser”). I remember being enamored of it, and my mom’s puzzlement at my fascination. I actually put only a few recipes in it; they include cookies and brownies. (In retrospect, I’m sure my grandmother either got it on clearance or at a garage sale—she wasn’t the type to buy new gifts.) And yet, it somehow followed me around through three states, two marriages, and at least eight moves since college. It was clear there was only one thing to do with it—I gave it to The Girl.

Decision, decisions

The best decisions I ever made:
1. Deciding to marry D. when we found out I was pregnant with The Girl.
2. Having The Boy.
3. Buying the farm where we live now.
4. Jumping off the career ladder for a while (ok, I was pushed, but I CHOSE not to climb right back on).
5. De-emphasizing TV.
6. Committing to carrying as little debt as possible.
7. Desiring a good, ongoing relationship with my parents, siblings, and in-laws.
8. Inculcating a love of reading in the kids.

Not on the list: homeschooling (it’s been fine, but The Girl would thrive in just about any educational environment). Getting my MBA: an ok decision, but not one that’s paid off yet. Relationship with God; that’s an entire other post or four. You could argue that 6, 7, and 8 are ways of living, not actual discrete decisions like the others. Too bad, it’s my list.

Of course, you can’t contemplate this without also thinking about
The worst decisions:
1. Marrying husband #1/college boyfriend/guy who was gay (all one person).
2. Choosing the liberal arts college and major (math) that I did; in retrospect, I should have been encouraged to pursue a more technical career, e.g., industrial engineering, at a different college, probably a state university.
3. Related to #2, as long as I did complete the major in math, I should have, in my first post-college job, taken the actuarial exams more seriously, and put a lot more effort into studying for them. As a full-fledged actuary, you can pretty much write your own (job) ticket.
4. Thinking it was a good idea to try to start a relationship with someone I worked with. Long ago, but still a big mistake.

Decisions, of course, work in combination. If I had become an actuary, I wouldn’t have been in the place (geographically and mentally) that I was when I met D. In fact, the wrong marriage also had a lot to do with making me who I am. But it was still a mistake, compounded by staying in it long after I realized that. Erasing debt makes some of the other decisions (2, 3, 4) more achievable.