The Sixteenth Birthday Fiasco

I'm writing this hoping my StepDaughter will one day read it, just not this week. Or next month. Maybe not for a year or so.

Or maybe tomorrow.

Yes, this has all the elements of a good family drama in it - shock, surprise, humor, denial, grudges, battles, and of course, lots of love for a charming, witty, talented young lady I'd give the earth to if I could. And so would anybody - she's that wonderful.

A week or so ago, Hubby and I were presented with Stepdaughter's 16th birthday wish-list.

It was a wonderful list. It was short, and it was obvious from the contents that it had been carefully thought-out. There was an Mp3, and money, of course, at the top of the list. Then came a request for trips to the rock-climbing place - definitely affordable. A request to finally get her duvet-cover MADE - we'd purchased the fabric LAST year, and never made it yet. And also on the list was - are you ready for this? - a new set of bed sheets.

I could have cried. That's so MATURE! For a 16 year old girl to realize that our finances are such that a set of bed sheets, which normally would come filed under "household expenses", to be put on a birthday wish-list... Well, I was impressed. You know you're growing up when your wish lists contain linens and appliances!

Hubby and I agonized over how much money to give her. Because the budget doesn't have ANY room at all - not for $25, certainly not for $100, which was what we eventually gave her.

And Hubby signed her up for courses at the rock-climbing establishment, which you have to take before you can do any real climbing.

We briefly discussed having the florist deliver a corsage on her birthday morning with a single pink rose, for her to wear all day. We decided it would be too ostentatious. After all, lots of other kids have birthdays, and they don't get to wear corsages all day!

And I put my head down and got to work on the duvet. It took three full days work. And there's a subplot, involving StepSon.

Subplot A: Stepson's story

Stepson is (hopefully) going to start work tonight as a busboy. He's been not working since the beginning of September. Ergo - he has no money, therefore, no gift to Stepdaughter.

He was peacefully snoring his heart out at ten yesterday morning, when I couldn't find an item I needed to finish the duvet cover properly. A seam-binding with particular qualities. I know I have another roll here somewhere... but last week my shelves fell down, and I'm still digging out from under the rubble.

ANYWAY... Hubby said to give the phone to Stepson, he'd tell him to get up and go buy the stuff for me from Fabricville. I said, was that wise? Let sleeping teenagers lie, etc etc etc.

Hubby said "He's feeling guilty about not having anything to give her. It'll make him feel good."

I said "Can I quote you?"

Long story short, eventually Stepson DID get up, go to Fabricville, pick up the item, come home cheerfully and proceeded to bake his sister's birthday cake.

But here's the subpot part: I kept wondering if Stepson would remember that, for his birthday this year, he got squat. Or rather, his Dad made him a lemon-meringue pie. No card, no gifts. No money.

And his aunt & uncle also gave him squat.

That's because Stepson was in the proverbial doghouse at the time. No need to go into details. Suffice it to say, for those dear readers who don't know Stepson, he was 19 going on 6, with all the attributes that go with that particular demographic group. And he was being given a clear message: no more gifts. Nothing more for free. Get a job.

So, back to yesterday. I kept wondering how much resentment lingered in Stepson's mind, or how much was going to be built up, over his sister's 16th birthday. We were joking about a birthday card he could make for her "On your 16th birthday, Sis, I forgive you for being born!" We laughed over that one, he and I. Then he pulled an unused birthday card from off a shelf, and said "I didn't even get a card on MY birthday! Here it is!"

And, of course, because I can't think on my feet, I told him the truth. "Oh - that was for my stepmom's birthday," I said. "You're in good company - I never gave her a card, either! And you were kind of in the doghouse, dear, on your birthday this year."

Oops. The look on his face was utter shock. He immediately hid it and turned away. But up to that point, he had not realized that the omissions were, in fact, intentional. He had honestly thought we'd all just forgotten, and he'd been fine with that. But now, it hurt.

Oops. We'd meant the message to sting, but we'd meant it to sting BACK THEN - not NOW, when he was being NICE.

End of subplot A.

Okay, so there I was, frantically sewing all day. My back was aching, my neck was going into spasms, I was too stiff to stand up. The thing was beautiful. Her dad had designed it, I'd done the cutting and sewing, and she was getting a piece of artwork for her bed that was special and unique. And, for once in my life, flawless. I done good!

I was still doing good when she arrived home. I was one half-hour short of finishing it. I kept sewing, since, well I figured she'd known I was working on it anyway, and if not, well, the best place to hide things is in plain sight... So I just kept sewing. I'd wanted to finish it and have it on her bed before she came home from school, but we'd lost time looking for the seaming stuff, so there we were.

Stepdaughter and Friend arrived, breathless, excited, positively glowing. Came right into the sewing room, and plonked down in dramatic fashion, the following items.

One dozen perfect Red Roses, complete with Baby's Breath and Greens, in their Clear Plastic Wrapping with Kisses all over it.

Four helium-filled balloons - one a metallic that said "Happy 16th Birthday", tied with multi-colored ribbons to a small tin.

Four other packages containing things like makeup and gift cards, etc.

She opened the tin and said "Read this! This all came during English class!" She was radiant.

I read the note. It said "Pack your bags darling - you're going to ENGLAND!"

Subplot B: The Trip to England

Every year the school does this trip to England during March break. Stepkid had figured out a while ago that our budget just didn't have room to pay for this trip, and had not said a word to anyone.

But two weeks ago, in casual conversation with her RealMom, she let something drop. One of her frineds was going, or something like that. RealMom got the details.

End of Subplot B.

Yesterday, during the school day, RealMom's Big Surprise took place.

RealMom had arranged with the English Teacher not to tell Stepkid about the Big Surprise.

RealMom had got her friend to go to the florist, get the balloons, do all the fancy fussing-up, all those special things one can do with presents that turn a room into a rainbow of hearts and flowers. Spectacular, Unexpected, Dreamy. Special.

Said friend arrived at the door of English Class. English Teacher welcomes Friend in, who brings this rainbow of delight to Stepkid, who starts crying with joy immediately. Who opens the tin. Who finds out that she's going on the unaffordable trip after all. Who cries more. Who's cell phone rings, who's RealMom is on the phone to hear her daughter's excitement. Friend, RealMom, English Teacher and Stepkid are all crying and shrieking with delight.

Sigh. It was beautiful. I can see it, just like it was on the silver screen, perfectly timed and choreographed down to the last detail.

Then Stepkid's Friend said "Hey! Is that the duvet cover you're sewing?!"

I just looked at her. Gee, thanks, Friend.

"Oh! Ha-ha!" laughed Stpkid. "I didnt even notice!"

They went away, leaving the rainbow sitting on my sewing table. I continued to sew.

I was thinking about the other kids. The ones in the English class. The ones who aren't going to England, The one whose cancellation made a spot come available for Stepkid. The ones who had just turned 16 themselves or who were about to, and no sudden unexpected trip to England was waiting for. Or Roses, or Balloons, or strangers arriving to interrupt the class, or to whom no cell phone calls were permitted during class time.

And I know exactly how they felt, watching all this excitement over Stepkid's 16th birthday. They might not have the vocabulary for it, but it's there.

"What's so special about her that she gets to have a phone call with her mother during class time?"

" Why are my parents making me work and pay for my own trip to England, or, why are my parents making me pay half my trip to England, or, why aren't my parents letting me go at all?"

"How come I didn't get roses on my 16th birthday?"

I thought about how Hubby and I had decided that a single pink rose corsage was too ostentatious.

And I sighed, and got on with finishing the duvet cover.

I don't remember my 16th birthday. I remember my 13th, because that's when I got my first bra.

I remember my Daughter's 13th, because that's when I wrote lyrics to a popular song and sang it for her. On my Daughter;'s 16th, I didn't have any money. But I gave her the engagement ring her father had given me, and she treasures it.

Well, Stepkid's evening progressed. When she first came home, she was of course full of adrenaline and plans for the evening, even though it was a school night. She and fifteen friends were going to Starbuck's, Village, Body Shop. She had a gift card to use at Body Shop that was only good on your birthday, and you got a discount or something. They were all going roaming the wide world over. "What time's supper" she wanted to know, since she had to plan all this for herself and her friends, and timing would be critical.

"Uh... I wanted to finish this," I said.

"That's okay!" Out she bounced, higher than a kite.

I finished the duvet cover and put it on her duvet, washed my hands and went to work making supper. I was halfway through chopping when Hubby got home, exhauseted, as usual, to see the dozen roses sitting in a vase on the table. And got told the story of the English Class Surprise from RealMom. Made all the appropriate "oohing & aahing" sounds. Tiredly got up to help me with the chopping.

Once it was cooking, I went to lie down, to give my back and my neck and my knees a rest.

And after dinner, the disappointment blow was cast. I felt awful, I went to bed. I wasn't going to drive her to the body shop.

And neither was her dad. He was tired.

She could see this - you'd have had to be blind not to see how tired he was. Every night he comes home, I worry he's in the middle of having a heart attack, that's how tired he looks.

"Pleeze!" she tried on him. Smiling, cajoling, all to no avail. She'd come bump against a fact of life: we are old, tired people. She worked on both of us for over an hour. In bed, I could hear her on the phone, couldn't make out the words, but I think she was crying. Uh-oh. The Princess has been let down. Sorry kid. I'm dead. Some other birthday.

Whe Hubby came to bed, I don't know what time, we cuddled up and he let out a long sigh.

"It's a wonderful gift," I said.

"Um-hm."

"Delivered in sensational style, as usual," I said.

"Um-hm."

RealMom has Style, with a capital "S". Gotta hand it to her.

Trying to comfort Hubby, I pointed out that RealMom probably got her dad to pay for the trip.

"Um-hm."

In one masterful stroke, she had undone anything we'd done for Stepkid's celebration. Blink, and you missed it. Boy, that was fast. "What did you get for your 16th birthday?" "A trip to ENGLAND!!!" Period.

There's no way to compete with RealMom. She's a force of Nature.

Subplot C: My high-schooling

I, too, received special treatment in high school. Like Stepkid, I was bright. Actually only studied one subject, and that for one week, to coast through and get a gold medal for the highest marks in the whole school board.

Other kids had to do the assignments as they were assigned. I got let off, because I'd been writing about something else, and the teachers loved my spark, and they let me do my own thing.

I loved it at the time. Got my own way - what teenager wouldn't have loved special treatment?

But it didn't help me. I never went on to university. I went to one class. Did half a term. Failed miserably - MISERABLY.

Because I'd never learned to work hard.

Univeristy is geared to hard workers. Like life. You can't get a degree by being smart. You have to do the work.

And I didn't have any friends in high school, either. And with 20/20 hindsight, I can see why. "Teacher's Pet."

With 20/20 hindsight, I should have failed a bunch of high school courses, not been rewarded for not doing the assignments.
That might have wakened me up to reality. In time to save my education.

As it is, I woke up to reality when I was a single mom in my thirties, the day my dad said "No. You can't have any more money. You have to pay your own bills."

What - I'm responsible for my own financial security?! How come nobody told me this before?!!!

End of Subplot C.

So, the first day of Stepkid's seventeenth year was sensational, over-the-top, joyous... well, if you don't count the fact that nobody drove her out to the Body Shop...

She'll remember it all her life. It was a marvelous, magical, thrilling event. It may outshine her Graduation or her Wedding.

I remember flamboyant. I used to be flamboyant. I used to hate people who told me I was flamboyant. Over the top. Loud. Flashy. Sensational.

But that's been beaten out of me, bit by bit, step by step, since the day Daddy said "No," and I've been paying my own bills.

Now the task remains - get Stepkid through highschool, through University, with her Flair and Panache intact, while still getting her an education, teaching her to work hard, to save her money, to pay her own way. To be sensitive to the fact that not everybody around her is having as good a time as she is. To try to explain to her somehow that though the England trip is in fact a wonderful gift, the news COULD have been delivered quietly, without a big show. Her Dad could have been told of it. That the flowers are lovely and the gifts wonderful, but they could have been delivered here, not at school, not in front of her classmates, and by extension, the whole school. That there was no need to rub everybody's nose in the fact that she's a sweet kid and her RealMom loves her.

To try and somehow get it through to her that EVERY kid's mom loves them, that EVERY kid at her high school turns 16 this year, but that not every kid got this sensational treatment, that there will be resentment she won't know of or won't understand... Or won't notice.

Without spoiling her fun.

Din-Din

I'm often amazed by what happens to food between the time I see it on a grocery store shelf and when I throw out its mouldy remains from my fridge.

Take last night's dinner, for example. Hubby, who was the last-one-out-in-the-car, called me from the grocery store. "They don't have any pre-cooked chickens," he said tiredly. "I'm stumped."

"It's okay," I said. "Just buy anything that should feed five people - I've already started some fried rice."

He turned up with twelve chicken thighs, backs attached, and two jars of some Indian sauce. "These are what I bought last time, aren't they?" he asked. They weren't, last time he'd bought chicken breasts, but he was unconvinced and proceeded to try to persuade me that this was indeed the same cut of meat he'd bought last time.

Busy with my chopping, I declined the invitation to fight, and let it drop. He was, uncharacteristically, too tired to continue the argument alone. I went on chopping celery, my rice frying happily.

Then we had a phone call from an elderly neighbour I'd been concerned with earlier in the day. There's this guy, a great big hulking lout of a man, who frequents her house whenever his welfare cheque runs out, and he does yard work for her. He scares the willies out of me, and I often worry that one day he would try to force his way in... but that is not today's topic. Yesterday, Hubby held his cell phone up to my ear as I was trying to chop stuff for the fried rice, and while I was thus engaged in conversation with my friend, the rice burned.

First wrinkle in the dinner plans.

Fortunately, I'd seen it right away and removed the pan from the burner. I scooped out the worst bits and left the pan off the burner till I was finished chopping. Hubby said "Sorry," and I said only, "just leave the rest out. As soon as I've got this seasoned I'll start on the chicken."

Hubby, who was dead-tired, was not so easily deterred. Martyr complex aside, he knows that lots of noise and activity bustling around me when I'm trying to make dinner within a specific length of time often upsets me - a LOT - and he dutifully began trying to take the skin off the first piece of chicken. It didn't LOOK like that, you understand. He was massacring it - bending the bones this way and that, cutting off most of the usable meat and leaving the skin firmly attached.

"DARLING!" I shouted. The word I used was "darling," but It must have sounded like "SHITHEAD!", because that was in fact, the way I meant it...

"I'm only trying to help," he said feebly.

"Go lie down!" I ordered him. I've got this COVERED!"

"Are you sure?" his voice whined.

I was ready to explode. How many times, how many different ways, would I have to say it till this man would leave me alone and let me THINK!

He finally exited, and I could get back to my rice. Celery, carrot, broccoli, leftover chicken meat, pepper, salt, three cups of water... something was missing... I tossed in some Basil, realized that was a mistake, but no getting it out now, put the lid on, and started to heat the oven.

As I was stirring the two jars of sauce into the pot, tearing off as much excess fat from the chicken as I could without picking up a tool, it dawned on me that the rice would be ready in ten minutes, while the chicken still had an hour to run. So I turned off the burner under the rice and gave the chicken my full attention. Minutes later, with every piece thoroughly coated, I stacked them up in the corningware pot, stuck it in the oven and set the timer for 45 minutes. Washed up, and left the kitchen to go to the sewing room.

When the buzzer rang, out came the chicken, still mostly raw. I put it on a baking tray, skin side up, and spooned sauce over it. Back in the oven for 30 minutes, and I proceeded to peel some apples for a quick apple crisp. No time to look up the recipe - I winged it totally. Had time for a quick run back to the sewing room.

Twenty minutes later, my spider-senses tingling, I arrived in the kitchen just in time to see the level of fat in the shallow tray about to come spilling over the top. I found the baster, and it was thus that Hubby found me, with oven door open, bowl of fat resting on the oven door, sucking out fat with the baster and dumping it in the bowl. Wanted to know what I was doing.

What is it about men that they always need to have the obvious explained to them, anyway?

And so a few minutes later, with the chicken and rice in serving bowls and the apple crisp in the oven, all five of us sat down to dinner. (Stepson had asked his girlfriend to join us - this time I'd had an hour's notice! Whee.)

Not enough though apparently, as Girlfriend didn't eat rice.

For crying out loud - who doesn't eat RICE?

He made her eat a bit off his fork, but teenage girls will be teenage girls. She had one measly piece of chicken and swore she was full.

I dutifully picked up a forkful of my burnt, over-cooked rice, and...

I'd never tasted anything so good.

I didn't hear much of what was being said around the table, trying to remember what the heck I'd done with the rice that made it taste so good! Could it have been the small handful of raisins I'd tossed in? I'd forgotten to put in onion - usually a staple when one is trying to make something out of rice... I'd meant to toss in a bay leaf, but had become flustered when I'd put in the Basil... I'd also forgotten the soya sauce, so the rice, despite being slightly scorched, wasn't particularly brown... The chicken I'd thrown in had been the remains of a store-cooked barbecued chicken we'd had four days previously, nothing special there...

Yet it tasted like food of the gods. Got compliments from everyone (except Girlfriend, of course).

The chicken tasted like chicken, nothing special. Everyone had two or three pieces, except aforementioned girlfriend.

Later, while we were piled on the couches in front of the tv, we demolished the apple crisp, which had apples cooked to perfection that melted on the tongue, and a crunchy topping that tasted like caramel.

Best apple crisp I ever made. And damned if I can remember what I did!

Things we do under protest...

My Grandma had an annoying little rhyme. (Actually she had several, but this one is pertinent to the theme!)

"A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still," Gran used to say.

Man, I used to hate her little rhymes and sayings! Mostly because they were bang on.

I have occupants of this house here, two "men". One man, one teenager who, while being of legal age, hasn't quite caught up to himself yet. I call it "nineteen, going on six."

Neither of these men can hang up a towel.

Not just any towel, you understand.

The hand-towel in the bathroom.

Before I let Hubby into my life, Daughter and I always managed to get the towel hanging straight, back on the towel rack, where it belonged.

When Hubby first arrived on the scene with his two DNA replicants however, the towel began to reside on the floor.

Under the towel rack.

Various excuses were made. "It's too high," or "it's too slippery" or the old favourite, "It wasn't me."

Yeah, right.

I clothes-pinned the towel to itself. They'd take the clothespin off, and drop the towel on the floor, and just for good measure, drop the clothespin on top of it.

I put in safety pins. That actually worked for two whole days, before an enterprising, if uncooperative, individual unpinned them, dropped the towel on the floor, and hid the pins in the glass for rinsing after brushing.

I tried separate towels, with name labels. But one particularly uncooperative individual decided to use everybody's towel but his own, leaving his untouched on the bar, and the other three towels on the floor.

I left notes taped to the wall, pleading, cajoling, and threatening them if the towel wasn't put back properly. They seemed to find these exquisitely amusing.

But the towel stayed on the floor.

A couple of birthdays ago, the youngest agreed she was quite capable of hanging the towel back up. And we had relative peace, except when Hubby knocked it off onto the floor, by "accident."

Then StepSon returned this summer. Nineteen, going on six.

And the towel lives on the floor once again.

I'm getting desperate. There doesn't seem to be any way I can convince either Hubby or StepSon that this issue is important. At all.

If StepSon were in his seventies, we'd be trying to get him into a "home." He leaves the freezer door open. He leaves the milk out on the counter. He leaves the burner on the stove on high, with nothing on it, and goes out for the afternoon. Not to mention the myriad stacks of glasses, cups, plates, cutlery, and candy wrappers he collects under the sofa, on top of the computer, in front of the tv. Sometimes the pile is so high, we can't even see the tv. And it's a BIG tv!

I have ordered. I have begged. I have screamed. I have cried. I have explained patiently. I have explained impatiently.

I am talking to the Rocks of Gibraltar. Two very stubborn Irishmen, with one soul between the two of them. I may as well be talking to the cat.

I'm now begging you, anyone who reads this, HELP ME!!!!! I'm DESPERATE! Please give me some ideas, any ideas, as to how I can drive this point home to these two individuals (short of nailing a note into their crania, that is...).

Please help. I don't think I can hold out much longer!

Finding Passion

No, not that kind.

Well, actually, yes, that kind is involved, but I'm starting from the clean one - finding what you're passionate about in life. (With apologies to my pal R, who first used that phrase to me.)

I was talking with Stepson earlier today - in itself a minor miracle - he seemed to be interested... Explaining to him why Daddy and I aren't footing a bunch of bills for him, now that he's enrolled himself in something. "If you're passionate about it, L, you'll find a way to do it no matter what obstacles are put in your path. If it doesn't grab you, no amount of free money will get you through it." Bottom line: get a job, pay for your stuff yourself. If you pass, you'll get it back. You don't pass, this time it's your own money you wasted.

Harsh. Well, at least by comparison to how things have been done in his young life so far. Thus far, he's had a free ride, and we've now pulled that rug out. You want it, you pay for it.

Heck, he's still living rent-free and getting fed. Nowhere near a "difficult" living arrangement. But you have to start somewhere if you're ever going to help a kid grow up.

Anyway, we got into this big discussion of our passions - things that really turn our respective cranks.

Like Hubby. Works with computers all day. First thing he does when he comes home is open up his computer. He's watching tv and surfing. Hell, he's fallen asleep with the laptop open on his tummy!

Hubby is passionate about computers.

I am passionate about layout, graphics, spelling, and quilting. And a few other things not suitable to mention in a public space.

Point is, you take your life in your hands if you ask me about one of these things - in the sense that a great deal of it may pass before your eyes while I'm going on and on and on....

Because I can't stop talking about them. Can't stop thinking about them. The ideas come flooding in, too fast to catch, too many to make in one lifetime...

Ya gotta find your passion in life! Otherwise, ...

Well, otherwise, what the heck is the point?!

Ok, Grandma - You Were Right.

Many, many years ago, I chanced to voice my displeasure at being required to share the same space with my family 4 times in one week for the feasts of Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, and New Year's Day.

I was a single mom at the time, living back here in GPK. Because I wasn't part of a couple, my Grandmother considered that I didn't have anything to do on these days, that I'd be sick with loneliness, and that I'd be eternally grateful if I were invited to each of these family events.

These events always had the same people present: Grandma and Grandpa, My Cousin and her Husband and their two kids, my Auntie and her Cousin, and Auntie's Nasssty Husband. And me. Sometimes Daughter was there, sometimes she was with her father's family.

Now, don't get me wrong - I sincerely loved, and love, all these people (with the exception of Nasssty). It's just that the "Holiday Season" was anything but a holiday. I was tired. I wanted to spend Christmas Day at home. All day. With my daughter. Alone. Or with friends dropping by.

I wasn't up to doing a whole lot of cooking, and I certainly wasn't up to facing a noisy evening with plates full of food, dishes to wash dry and put away. I'd rather have watched Daughter open her gifts, watched her play with them, and gone back to bed for the day.

I didn't know anybody who went to four celebrations with the same people in one week.

When I whined a bit about this, Grandma was shocked. Well, since Grandma came from another world, admittedly, it wasn't that hard to shock her. However, she expressed disappointment that I didn't want to be with family.

I replied that I DID in fact enjoy being with family, just not four times in the same week. And that I had my own family to be with.

"What family is that?" Grandma asked in astonishment.

"Daughter and I, Grandma. We are a family."

This was apparently heresy to Grandma. Grandma had never read books like "One is a Whole Number", didn't undertand that a family could be any group of two or more people. In her world, a family consisted of a man and wife, their children, their children's spouses, their cousins. Nothing short of eight or nine people was a family in her eyes.

But Gran didn't have the mindset or vocabulary to voice this. Instead, she turned on me angrily and said "One day we'll all be dead and you can be as lonely as you like."

This, despite Grandma's history of being the supporter of her little family at the tender age of fourteen. She was working, living in an apartment with her younger brother, and protecting her little family of two alone against the world.

In other aspects of her life, Gran was astonished when I pointed out to her that she had lived in alternate living arrangements few people had opportunity to try out. Like, after the Great Depression, she was first to get a job. She worked in Sherbrooke during the week, and came home to husband and baby on the weekends. For three years.

How many families do any of you know NOW where the man is the caregiver and the woman the primary breadwinner?

To Gran, this was a simple fact of life. She saw nothing unusual in it. Couldn't understand what all the women's lib fuss was about when they talked about it on tv.

"What's all this talk I hear about glass ceilings?" she once asked me. "I don't understand what they're talking about. They keep mentioning it along with discrimination. I thought it was a good thing be a person of discriminating tastes. Are these ceilings ugly or something?"

So, patiently I sorted out the tangles for Gran, explaining that women usually had low-paying jobs compared to men, that higher-paying jobs were given to men as routine, that women, no matter how qualified, were being passed over simply because people thought men needed more money in order to support a family, whereas people thought women were already being supported, and therefore didn't need as high a salary as a man.

"And you're telling me this is common?" Gran asked in astonishment. I nodded.

Gran shook her head. "That never happend to me," she said. I pointed out to her that nobody would have DARED. Gran was what was commonly called "a force to be reckoned with."

"Then why do these women allow this sort of thing to be done to them?" she queried.

Good question, Gran. Long, long answer. But that was my Grandma. She was ahead of her time in many of the twists and turns her life took, but never saw how unusual she was, how uncommon her experiences were compared to most people's. Never saw her own power. I, in fact, hold the title as the only member of our family to EVER win an argument with her.

Be that as it may, Grandma and Grandpa departed this particular world many years ago. I made my peace with both of them, and am glad my Daughter still has memories of them.

My Father lives in Louisiana with my Stepmom. My Aunt has gone to her reward, which is namely, free at last from Mr. Nasssty, who predeceased her.

My Cousin Lives in Ottawa with her husband, her children are doing well and hold a special place in my heart. Her Brother and his Wife live in... some state. I always get it wrong. Their daughters are both married, one has a baby.

And yes, Grandma, I miss them all.

Waiting for Goddam...

I don't know about you, but I hate it when I'm stuck waiting for other people to get around to doing things.

Tonight, I've been attempting to sort through photographs. Electronic photos, to be precise. Photographs Hubby took on his XZ-1500-MACH20022-Turbo-XVIII Nikon camera.

Okay, I don't really know the exact model of the camera. But I've been an AV technician for 19 years, and I can't take a picture with that damned thing.

He's got the resolution set so high it would take passable satellite photos of my nose from space. You'd be able to see the pores.

Hubby has never heard of "photograph albums." When I ask him to print me a picture he's taken, he hands me 8x10s. The usual dozen years of laughing, crying, arguing, screaming, and tearing my hair out, have finally worn one edge of him down enough that if I ask for a print, he'll give me a 4x6 - printed smack in the center of an 8x10 page.

Hubby takes amazing pictures - not that anyone would ever know. He never prints them. Oh well, to be sure, he prints some. But the main reason nobody ever sees the pictures he takes, is that he lets the camera name them.

So I go to the big drive where the pictures are kept, and am presented, within the "Photo" folder, with a series of dated folders. Year, month, and day the pictures were downloaded from his camera onto the computer. Click on any folder, and you get a list of each picture:
DSCN2107.NEF
DSCN2108.NEF
DSCN2109.NEF
DSCN2110.NEF

Get the picture? (Pun intended.)

Even this could be manageable, were it not for the fact that Hubby is an incredibly PROLIFIC photographer! When he finds and interesting subject, say, a grouping of six or more daddy-long-legs having an orgy on our house wall, he takes about 100 pictures.When we went camping with friends this summer, Hubby took 800 pictures! And he saves each and every one. No deleting in-camera. (That's what I do. I look at it, say I like it, I keep it. I don't like it, I dump it. There and then.)

When I download pictures to the computer, I already know I want each and every one of them. Oh, and they're a "normal" size, meaning they'll print at high res as a 4x6, so they can be printed on high quality paper, trimmed, and put in a photo album.
Where I can enjoy sitting with a cup of hot cocoa on my lap and a child curled up beside me and talk about the memories those pictures evoke.

But I digress. There I was today, and I managed to make it from 2003 to 2006 in not too bad time.

But then I hit the wall. Not a single photo had been changed from the NEF format to a JPG. That means, for those of you whose first language is English, 15 minutes from clicking on "open" to seeing the f&#*g picture. Then I drop the resolution, save a copy, and go back to the large drive and delete the original.

There are ten folders of photos from 2006 on. All I'm looking for are pictures of the pets, right now. Any shots I'd like printed, whether they are pets or children, I rename into human language, like "Dog at xmas". THAT, I can understand. And I can say to Hubby "go to this folder and print anything with a human name to it. As a FOUR BY SIX, dear, remember?"

Well, now I'm stuck waiting for Hubby to go on the computer and print the fifteen pictures I managed to get through tonight, and to go through the next ten folders and change NEF to JPEG so I could open them and see what they are before - you guessed it - the second coming of christ.

Or the breaking point of my blood pressure.

To Do, or not To Do

(Warning: this particular rant could be hazardous)

So I struggled out of bed, put the coffee on, had a glass of juice, put an English muffin in the toaster, then turned to empty the dishwasher while waiting for the muffin to toast.

The dishwasher had not been run last night.

"There's only 4 plates in it," Hubby protested.

I pulled out the bottom rack. "Four plates, two cereal bowls, a cutting board, two large pots, and the cutlery tray is half-full." I pulled out the top tray. "No fewer than sixteen glasses and mugs," I said.

"I'm going to put the morning's dishes in and run it now," he complained. Yes of course, because you're actually supposed to be going to work...

I know many otherwise sane people who do not use their "conveniences" to their full advantage. To them, a dishwasher is a holding tank for every plate they own, and they won't use the thing until it's so full they actually have things that won't fit in it, which they then wash happily by hand, all the while proving their own short-sighted theory that a dishwasher can't wash everything. Others have left it so long to run the machine, they have to dump water into it to prime the pump, because it's dried out. People, people!

I have no difficulty with the theory of hand-washing dishes, but let's get real here. Nobody in THIS house is going to wash a plate, a glass, or even a knife, unless they cannot find one single available clean one, or even a reasonable substitute. People's Exhibit A: the Mason jars being used as drinking glasses. I actually did recently give a 15-minute class on "How to properly wash and dry a glass if you can't find a clean one." Yeah, good luck with that! I noticed the day after that a ziplock baggie had been used as a sippie-sack. "Uncooperative" does not even BEGIN to describe life here!

I lived with a German family shortly after I left my first husband, and learned a whole lot about good housekeeping habits during the three or four months I was there. They had four children, aged 8, 3, 2 and 2. Yes, twins. Along I came, with my 2 year old in tow. That made three children in the house still in diapers at the time. My friend B worked miracles in her kitchen, but she especially got through to me about the dishwasher.

"Vot gutt is it to have the thing sit there, not vashing dishes?" she asked me in her low voice. "I use my dishwasher. Every meal, just like vashing the dishes after every meal used to be done by hand. Odervise, you go to cook dinner, and a chopping block is still dirty, und you haff to take it out and vash it by hand. With six mouths to feed, I don't haff time to stop and do anything. So the dishes get vashed, each meal, every meal, und even more ven I'm baking!"

When it comes to cleaning, the rule has ALWAYS and WILL ALWAYS be: DO IT NOW, STUPID!

"Oh, it uses too much water," the timorous non-users complain. Hello, it comes with this little button on it that says "small load." And guess what? Today's dishwashers use way less water anyway. Plus, they kill germs much better than a half-hearted swipe with a slightly greasy and cold dishcloth that's been sitting wet on the counter for god-knows-how-many-days! And you want to talk about drying dishes with a linen tea-towel? Hey, I've done my time church basement dinners! It's fun, there, because everybody pitches in and all the towels are clean.

Here, you go to pick up a tea-towel and you stick your hand into last night's spaghetti sauce, because some twit of a teenager doesn't know the difference between a dishcloth and a tea towel......grrrrrrr DON'T GET ME STARTED!!!!!

Okay people listen up: You spill something, wipe it off, rinse the cloth till it's clean, hang it up so it can dry out and not become a growth factory.

You eat a meal, rinse and load your dishwasher and RUN the damned thing! Your dishwasher cannot get your dishes clean if you let stuff dry on them. And if you're stupid enough to actually wash your dishes before loading you dishwasher so you can wait to run it, and meanwhile have to take out half the stuff that's in it so you can wash it by hand becuase you need to use the item before the second-coming-of-Christ.......!

I do not like having to search for my utensils or pots for a meal I'm making only to find it's been sitting in the sink for three days with stuff piled on it that's gone "off" because somebody THINKS there isn't enough to make it worth while to run the dishwasher! It it ALWAYS worthwhile to run the dishwasher. Think of the savings in alimony payments alone!

Next week: the hideous truth about laundry.