Winter Cold

I do so like green eggs and ham. Thank you, thank you, Sam I am.
-- Dr. Seuss

Winter came back while I was sleeping Monday night. The bitter wind picked me up and shooed me into the office. It was mid-morning before I realized my case of the chills was actually a fever. I thought I’d prop myself up with the stash of cold meds in my desk drawer but I was far enough gone to require more drastic measures. Its been a long time since I have been bedridden with a cold.

This is my second day with the grueling schedule of fluids and rest. Being sick has made me rather grateful for small things: two pillows instead of one, cherry flavored lozenges, warm blankets, epsom salts, and hot showers. Naomi took her shoes off before she peeked in to see me last night. She was curious if I was awake and, finding my eyes open, climbed into bed to read me a book.

With enough creature comforts, and pleasant company this cold doesn't stand a chance.

Dah-Ru-Ron-Ron-Ron

Before Ron Paul drops out of the Presidential race I have a confession to make: every time I hear his name it gives me a wicked case of the giggles. I know nothing about Mr. Paul, nor his political platform. I'm not a registered Republican so I have no ability to vote for him. He isn't a front runner so I haven't really examined his candidacy which makes me about the most ignorant of commentators on the guy. Ignorance stops none of the talking heads on cable so I can't really let it stop me either.


The mark his campaign has burned into my brain is a mis-fire of my mental roladex with an image of Ru place of Ron Paul. You remember Ru right? We all remember Ru. Ru Paul is one of those distant pop cultural icons none of us want to own but we all have a crystal clear picture of in our brain.

The Ru-Ron Paul brain flub conjures an unforgetable image among presidential hopefuls. It makes me laugh every time. I imagine him at the debates, sparring with his opponents, running television ads, releasing a new music album. I must say, the image of the debates is pretty funny. Does anyone else have these anarchist synapse that refuse to fire correctly sometimes? The more I would try to get it right, the more stubbornly my brain veers in the other direction.

I was telling McKibbin about my giggle fits over the mention of Ron Paul . Brent suggested we take a look at what the Presidential candidate might look like dressed more fashionably. Its like one of those riddles: What do you get when you cross a cat with an ape? What do you get when you cross a scarecrow with a hockey puck? A couple of hours of Photoshop later McKibbin showed me what you get when you cross a cross-dresser with a conservative Presidential Candidate.

I have to say, I'd consider voting for this guy.

The Back of Her Curly Head

Naomi and I were on our weekly trip to the grocery store on Saturday. We literally bumped into Judge Vrana, the Judge who married McKibbin and me almost three years ago. Judge Vrana was quite gracious about my clumsiness with the grocery cart and allowed me re-introduce my daughter.

Moments like that shouldn’t, but always manage to, catch me by surprise. Its that sense that time folds over itself. If you live in one place long enough you’ll have moments this where you bump up against distant happenings, previous versions of yourself and its as though two moments exist at once. I'll be marching along on any given Sunday, entirely absorbed in this moment of cold, wet socks at the grocery store. Naomi and I deliberating over whether we should buy pomegranates or oranges and then the hard metal corner of my cart bumps into a memory. The sight of someone, in this case, Judge Vrana, pulls two moments together.

Naomi, aged three at the time, was present at our wedding. She hadn’t napped that day and was a little emotional. Wedding day tears aren’t generally notable, but they generally aren't inspired by the absence of a nap. After an impromtu wedding-intermission, Naomi dried her eyes and planted herself in my arms for the vows and exchange of rings. Her hot cheeks pressed against my shoulder. I had a Naomi-sized crease across the front of the white dress. She remembers the wedding a little but, given her vantage point, I wasn’t terribly surprised she didn't recognize Judge Vrana’s face.

In the grocery store a river of apologies came out of me as quickly as my mouth could form the words. I explained to Naomi who Judge Vrana was and where we had met him before. Without prompting she nuzzled into my chest this time because she felt shy. The introduction didn't go much farther. I gave a quick thank you for my Summer wedding and another long apology. If nothing else I'm sure he will remember the back of Naomi's curly head; he’s seen it twice now.

Purchasing the Obvious

So I have been looking for a car. My old one let loose this horrible grinding noise as its dying utterance in December. I’ve never been much of a car person. I prefer to avoid driving whenever possible. If StarTran ran a line out to my job-site I would have no need or desire to replace my old clunker. My workplace, however, is in close proximity to nothing but cornfields which makes the purchase of a new car necessary

My family tree is littered with purchases from the used car lot. If you have ever seen a vehicle broken down on the side of the road or wheezing its way to the repair shop, odds are there was a Landis behind the wheel. We've never been picky about the cars we purchased. That's why I was so surprised by the level of interest people took in the demise of my old station wagon only because it put me in the market to buy a new one.

McKibbin drove me around several used car lots. He kept thinking I would like a Nissan. They’re sporty, efficient, and reminiscent of arachnids which makes them easy to parallel park. (Thanks, hon!) After skirting the issue several times I had to level with him: I hold a deep vendetta against Nissan since that’s the microscopic car he drove when we were pregnant. Any car that makes me feel like a beached whale of a pregnant lady inspires all kinds of irrational feelings; none of them positive. Smartly, my husband has avoided uttering the word Nissan ever since.

My daughter wanted to weigh in on the car purchase. Who would think the product of McKibbin and myself would hold strong (if not versed) opinions on the matter?

The guys I work with also took a keen interest in my decision. Several of us were sitting around a table one morning and the group began to troubleshoot my automotive future. They had a rapid fire of questions for me: What kind of cars had I driven before? Would this be a family car? A commuter car? Stick shift or automatic? Where did my preferences lay along the horse-power v. fuel efficiency spectrum? What qualities would a good car have?

It was like I had logged on to match.com and was knee deep in a personal compatibility test for my next vehicle. After gathering my personal preference data, engaging in a colorful deliberation of options, the group unanimously suggested I purchase a Mini Cooper.

The car I ended up purchasing, a 2003 Toyota Prius, shocked absolutely no one. It’s an environmentally responsible vehicle that I could afford. No stick shift, and no drag racing. Naomi was disappointed that the color wasn’t green. There was also a moment of silence at my Monday morning staff meeting as I announced the Prius decision. Everyone stared at their shoes and thought of what might have been.

Alas I found no inner hot-rod willing to spend the money for a Mini. But the group did laugh as I mentioned that my second choice (or runner-up if the winner is unable to perform its duties...) was a Ford Focus. Its an affordable, fuel efficient vehicle I had seriously considered. Leave it to the engineers among the group to let me know the Ford Focus design team was slapped into this bad ass “third-age suit” which takes young people and makes them feel old. For the specs on how the car courts aging drivers checkout this article in Mechanical Engineering. http://www.memagazine.org/backissues/membersonly/apr03/features/grandma/grandma.html

So to sum it up: I’m not hip enough for a Mini, too scarred by beached-whale-pregnancy-flash-backs for a Nissan, unable to purchase within the proper chromatic group for my daughter, and not old enough to enjoy the finer qualities of a Ford Focus. The Prius wins by default. If you see me in my Prius broken down on the side of the road, stop and give me a lift, okay?

Creatively Cooking the Books

Let my words, like vegetables, be tender and sweet, for tomorrow I may have to eat them. (Anonymous)

Naomi has a passion for cooking. If not a practiced chef, she is an inspired one. So, Saturday night, as Brent and I were making soup for dinner I was not too surprised to glance over and find Naomi dicing the yellow pepper from the refrigerator.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked.

“Making a healthy salad,” she said with a dramatic fluffing of the back of her skirt as she enveloped the chair. Its a gesture only slightly less dramatic than that of a peacock. “I’ll eat it for dinner.” I knew this was one of those teachable moments I would later feel guilty about missing. We could use that idea of a healthy salad to talk about different types of vegetables, vitamins and nutrients. But I was busy making this soup and she was occupied pleasantly enough; so I shrugged and decided to let well enough alone.

About 15 minutes later, as Brent found the soup ladle, I looked over to assess the Naomi’s self proclaimed healthy salad. My mind had a thematic sense of what to expect based on some of her previous culinary efforts such as: Cheezit-apple salad, chocolate milk with applejacks, and peanutbutter-vegetable soup. So, like any good parent, I placed my hand over my face to mask any wincing the contents of this salad bowl might inspire. To my surprise Naomi had selected yellow pepper, carrots, raisins, and cheese for the salad. I stood in awe of whatever magic inspired my daughter to pull together a salad that was both healthy and delicious. As we sat down to dinner Brent and I were quick to echo with a “here, here” as Naomi offered up a toast to her own latest and greatest culinary creation.

Cheers.

I have this mind block when it comes to money. I don’t think of myself as a stupid person but financial matters hit some weird, dark place inside my brain. Tackling each financial decision (spending rates, mortgages, educational savings accounts, etc) on its own I can grasp the essentials. My problem arrives with the shell game bankers, investors or essentially anyone in a suit who sounds smart can convince me is a good financial idea. We’ve all heard variations on the same shell-game schpeel: borrow against your 401(k) to pay off credit cards, fund your kid’s college years with a signature loan, take the trip of a lifetime to someplace warm and tropical with your hard earned home equity, etc.

I’ve always treated my financial blind-spot as something a kin to toe-fungus. Something I would never speak of in polite company because all that embarrassment can be easily avoided by a good pair of socks.

So, why would I blog about finances or toe-fungus for that matter? My financial cluelessness has just become my claim to fame. I called Chris Farrell of National Public Radio (NPR) Marketplace Money , a weekend financial advice program, to give me the low-down on my latest money question. Chris is one of those super smart guys I listen to on a regular basis because: (a) he isn’t trying to sell me something; and (b) he can often help me navigate through financial landscapes. Marketplace Money airs each weekend and I’ll be the dippy Midwesterner with a call-in question for the Jan. 11-13 show depending on your local NPR listings. For those of us in Lincoln its on from 3-4 pm on Saturday.

Urban Rooster

Rooster today, feather-duster tomorrow
Russian Proverb

About a week ago I was sleeping in. As anyone with small children can attest sleeping in happens rarely so it's a rather memorable occasion. I rolled over and readjusted the blankets when, from a distant space, my sleepy mind thought it heard a rooster proclaim the dawn. We live in the heart of Lincoln so our house is not on the outskirts of town. My bedroom window doesn't jut up against a feed lot or anything so, at thought of a rooster caw waking me up I giggled, buried my head under the covers, and went back to sleep.

This morning I was not in such good humor as I heard the rooster caw (again) at 6:30 a.m. I laid there listening to another three or four caws, and finally nudged my husband...

"Babe, do we have a rooster living in our neighborhood?"

"Mmmmm-huh,"groaned Brent, who was still drooling into his pillow, "two doors down."

I didn't know whether to die of laughter or stew in indignation. I chose the latter and looked up the animal control regs. Whenever I'm on an angry tirade I love the internet because, somewhere there is a justification for my anger and its just a few clicks of a button away. After about twenty minutes of searching I found Chapter 6 Section 04.040 of the Lincoln Municipal Code Pigeons, Small Animal and Fowl Permit Requirements. I blinked at the screen in disbelief. Long story short: my neighbor can house as many as three roosters on his tiny square mid-town lot. I re-assessed the rage v. laughter responses to the situation. I live next to an urban rooster and I, when I'm not trying to sleep, think its pretty funny.

_____________________

Happy New Year! As Brent, Naomi and I rang in 2008 we made several new year's resolutions. Many of them are already broken but among the still feasible bunch I wanted to write more often and to keep in closer contact with my friends and family.