Plan Ahead for Memorial Day

May 26th is Memorial Day. If you are having a get-together with family and friends, as are many of us (Phoenix temperature predicted to ONLY be in the 90s for Monday, after a possibly rainy weekend and 105 yesterday and 110 today), here is a plan-ahead list to jump start the celebration.

Today: Invite your guests and plan your menu.

• Are you going to invite friends and family? Is now a good time for a neighborhood party




• What will you serve?




• Are you going to grill?




• Will you provide all the food or have a potluck?




• What foods are 'outdoor friendly' (a cake with whipped cream frosting is, perhaps, not the best idea)? A large bowl filled with crushed ice with a smaller bowl inside will keep a mayonnaise-based salad - potato, coleslaw,etc. - a little safer outdoors. Where IS that large bowl?




• Does Aunt Opal cook the best baked macaroni and cheese you've ever had? Can your brother fix a terrific pasta salad? If you are going to make potluck requests, call ahead of time to be sure they have enough time to assemble the ingredients and make the dish.




• Do you want to mail invitations or call everyone? It might be little late to use snail mail at this point, but don't wait 'til the last minute to call, either.




• Drinks: soft, hard, or both. Remember that this is one of the holidays when many cities use checkpoints to look for drunk drivers (I know this isn't the politically correct way to say it, but the truth is the truth) so you might want to set an early cut-off point for alcoholic drinks or be ready to offer rides to those who get a little tipsy. A bowl by the front door for everyone's car keys (Make a small sign that says: "Please park your keys here.") is easier than making someone give you their keys if they can get belligerent.




• How much ice will you need? Crushed ice for the large food bowls and the daiquiris, cubes for soft drinks, separate ice cubes for the coolers, an ice ring with embedded fruit for the lemonade, punch or Koolaid bowl, etc. Or try: Counter-Top Icemaker




• Veggie trays and green salads require salad dressings and dips - have a variety of flavors.




• Desserts - what will last outdoors (I mentioned the whipped cream frosting above)? Melon balls, jello cake, fruit pies, etc.




• Go 'green' with your plates and utensils. At least look for recycled paper plates and cups.




• Put out a separate trash container labeled for aluminum cans and/or bottles.




• Will you need citronella candles around the lawn or Tiki torches?




• Do you have folding tables for the food and enough chairs for seating? Rent them or ask friends.




• Will there be swimming, volleyball, badminton, horseshoes, etc.? What needs to be prepared for those activities?




• Last, but not least, utensils, bread machine mixes and gadgets for summer grilling and cooking: The Prepared Pantry
  

And finally, from a terrific blog about planning your outdoor get-togethers, a list of things to do ahead of time:

Rich's Home Blog The stuff that’s not so fun right now but once people are over, you are glad that you accomplished it all:

1. Clean the Grill-Manufacturers recommend that you wipe the exterior of your grill with an all-purpose cleaner, such as Simple Green. And after that our friends at Kalamazoo recommend a degreaser like Goo Gone Spray Gel for any difficult parts, putting in a little extra elbow grease as needed. Don’t forget the inside and check the booklet from your manufacturer for recommendations there. For my old charcoal Weber, I just use SOS pads on the racks, and then rinse them really well. You can also burn off any old grime on the racks.



2. Find your Utensils-Look for the long tools now, my friend. Last minute does not give you time to run to the store if you can’t find one that you need.



3. Mow the Lawn/Weed the beds-No instruction necessary here, right? Don’t forget to let the kids help. Water the flowers too and clean out things from the yard that look like clutter. Don’t forget litter and dog droppings (do this again right before your gathering) too.



4. Clean the House-Especially the bathroom, gathering areas and the kitchen. Divide it up over the next several days so it’s not so daunting and again, the family can help.

This blog is also posted at: http://aznewsblog.typepad.com/az_news/phoenix_quicktime_recipes/index.html

Cause and Effect - Beware!

I went to the doctor yesterday. I've been having some rotator cuff 'issues' in my right shoulder and he volunteered to give me a cortisone shot to help the pain. It has been hurting for a while and has caused some lifting and reaching inability - specifically (I don't want to get too personal, although it is probably too late for that...) when I reach for the toilet tissue in the bathroom. It is an awkward reach to the right and behind and causes a lot of pain. (I know. I know. Waaay too much information!)

As doctors must, he had to recite all of the potential problems this shot could cause. None of them dire but one - the shot could cause some dermatological pigmentation problems. In other words, the area around the injection site may not TAN as well as the rest of me, or it may tan DARKER. Oh, no!!! Well, of course, I refused the shot immediately! What would people think? A woman of my size is acceptable, even with a bum rotator cuff, but only as long as she tans evenly. What were those silly pharmaceutical companies thinking by NOT having a cure for this?
I refuse to walk around the pool (or, however unlikely, the beach) with a spotty tan!

I now have a new cause. I will not accept uneven, unattractive tanning!

Bond with me, Women! Shout it with me: "No more Spots from Shots! No more Spots from Shots!"

In light of this revelation about cortisone shots, we must not take these shots lying down! We must stand up for ourselves. We, as well-rounded women, must not let these shots be accepted with a whimper! We must make our voices heard! Shout! Yell! Cry out!


Well, I imagine some woman really DID cause this to be an issue when she found her tan was uneven and now doctors are compelled to state this 'problem' to prevent being sued. People sue over the silliest things.

I had the shot, my shoulder is already better and I'm considering having cortisone shots for all the other pains I have (does that count for children, I wonder...?).

I am moving back to Mesa, AZ, from Sacramento, CA, next week - around the 23rd of March - so I won't be on here every day for a while. I hope someone cares and is reading these blog entries.

Please let me know, if you have a chance.

Take care, All, and I'll talk to you later...

Love, Karen B-

The Bad Hair Week, Part 2

I get in my car and find myself so distracted by my image in the rearview mirror that I can barely drive. I finally make it home to the safety of my bathroom. Thankfully, my sons aren't here to see me before I can think of an excuse.

I stare at my reflection and try to figure out whom I remind myself of. It has been nagging at me since I got in the car. I know I've seen this hair somewhere. Then, it hits me...

All I need is a tube top, spandex shorts and a doublewide trailer and I am every woman ever interviewed after a tornado. ("Marlene's trailer just up and flew away and she had my good casserole dish!") I am the poster child for 'white trash'.

I am a candidate for 'The Jerry Springer Show': "Evil Hairstylists with Mind Control! Have you been a victim? Call this number to appear as a guest..."

My sons come home and I immediately launch into a ranting explanation about my hair and the evil stylist with her hypnotic coercion. They sense I am unpredictable and on the verge of volatility. Because they value their lives and their freedom, they cautiously smile and pat my arm as they scurry to their rooms.

I call my local beauty supply store and explain what has happened. I'm told I should wait a week, but then I'll be able to tint it at home to a more natural color, something closer to my original shade.

I become a hermit for the next week, leaving home only twice, once to sit in a darkened movie theatre and the other to buy food and the hair coloring kit. I work on a savings plan - the 'Eliminate Pinky Fund'. I am determined to never use a salon coupon again.

Seven long days later, I wait till I'm alone in the house, apply the dye to my hair and sit, listening to the ticking of the timer. No more daydreaming about how I'll look - just fasting and prayer.

I rinse and apply the enclosed conditioner. I rinse again, comb, and blow-dry. I mousse and fuss till I have the right fluff and style, finally standing back to take a hard look in the mirror. At last, I look more like me.

The color is lighter than my own hair, but it is closer to my original shade and the brassy blond streaks have turned into softer highlights.

What a relief! I can have a life again. I can leave the house without a hat and dark glasses.

Once more I wait for my sons to come home. They are my best and worst judges.

When they walk in, I look at them with anticipation. They stare at me questioningly (they are males, after all).

"Notice anything?" I ask, fluffing my hair with my hand.

My fifteen-year-old looks at me a few seconds and says, "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about something."

"Ask away," I say with confidence.

He hesitates, then blurts out, "Is your hair supposed to be cut in a mullet or was that an accident?"

I stare at him in shock for a moment, then hurry down the hall to my bathroom once more. All the worrying and anguish I've had for the last week has been about the color of my hair, not the cut. Had I really been so 'blinded by the bright' that I hadn't noticed Pinky had chopped my hair into that distinctive, 1980's, 'business in the front, party in the back', mullet-style haircut?

I turn my head and angle the medicine chest mirror so I can see my hair from the side. Nooo! This can't be right! It is a mullet. That's why the 'Jerry Springer' look had seemed so familiar! The brassiness of the blond color had overshadowed the style. I had only made a dent in the problem by coloring my hair. I hadn't cured anything.

I open the cabinet drawer that holds my hair stuff and I paw through scrunchies and clippies and elastics and bows. There at the back is what I'm looking for. I pry out the five bobby pins that are stuck to the bottom.

Taking the tails of hair and twirling them tightly around my fingers, I make a 'mini bun' at the back of my head and secure it with the pins. I stare at my reflection from every side, searching for signs of mullet-ness. None. Whew! That's better.

I will have to call and get an appointment tomorrow. I know deep in my heart that I'll probably be disappointed with how it looks, but at least it won't be a mullet, and I'll just have to live with it till it grows out.

Now where did I put those salon coupons...?

The Bad Hair Week, Part 1

"How short do you want it in the back?" my young hairdresser asks my mirrored reflection as she holds the scissors above my hair. She has a zigzag part in her spiked hair. The spikes are tipped with a color just this side of neon pink. The silver rod in her pierced eyebrow catches the light as she looks at me. When she speaks, I see the glint from a tongue ring. Yikes!

"Just to the top of my collar," I answer, hoping she knows where a collar would be, since I'm not wearing one.

The scissors fly in a blur as I close my eyes, determined not to watch. I am resigned. It has been more than a decade since I've had a decent haircut. I've developed the philosophy that, whatever happens, I can live with it 'til it grows out.

There is no one to blame but myself. I am too cheap. I only get my hair cut if I have a coupon, and this severely limits my choice of fine salons.

Someday I hope to be able to go to an expensive hairdresser, sit in his chair and have him say (with a French accent), "Who cut zis mess? It is all wrong for you face. Ve need to trim here and grow here." [He sighs heavily.] "I vill see vot can be done, but I have leettle hope." And then he will perform a miracle and I will have the perfect hairstyle for my slightly heart-shaped, round-ish face, making me look 20 pounds thinner and rich. Someday...

The snickering scissors stop. 'Pinky' (as I've come to think of her) runs her fingers through what is left of my locks and says, "You know, we could frost your hair and that would camouflage all this gray and you'd never even know it's there."

Hmmm... I kind of like my gray hair. I've feel I've earned it.

"Well, I don't know..." I say.

"Really!" She exudes confidence. "It will blend right in and will make you look so much younger! Plus, there's a discount with your coupon."

If I hadn't been so intrigued by the 'look so much younger', I might have been more cautious, but she caught me off guard and then clinched it with the discount coupon.

With enthusiasm, Pinky sets out jars and tubs and a box of aluminum foil. She then starts sectioning, applying whitish goo with a paintbrush and wrapping me in foil until I look like a satellite. She chatters away the whole time about her boyfriend and the concerts they've attended.

Nodding politely at what I hope are appropriate intervals, I begin to daydream about everyone's reactions to the new, younger-looking me:

"Have you lost weight?" They'll ask. "Are you exercising?"

"Have you had a facelift?"

"Are you meditating? You seem to be at such peace."

(And, of course, that's all I really want...a little hair peace... I chuckle to myself.)

Many minutes later, I am brought back to reality as we go to the sink to rinse for five minutes.

"Don't look," she warns when we return to her booth. "Let me get it styled first."

I sit in the chair, facing away from the mirror while she combs and blow-dries and mousses and fusses.

"Okay. Here we go," she says and spins the chair with such force that I almost fly out.

For a couple of seconds, all I see are dark spots and a bright light, then my equilibrium adjusts and I gaze hopefully into the mirror. I'm shocked when I realize that the bright light I saw is my hair. Noooo. That can't be right. I shut my eyes and blink a couple of times, trying to focus. I look closely at my reflection. This is not what I had in mind.

The brassy blond streaks covering my head stupefy me. I open my mouth and realize I've lost the ability to speak. I start to giggle nervously, which Pinky takes as a great compliment.

"I knew you'd love it!"

I can only smile an idiot's smile and walk to the front to pay. I hand her a tip and she beams at me (probably reflecting the light from my head...).

"Come back in about a month and we'll touch it up!" and she waves cheerily as I leave.

To be continued tomorrow...

Reflections on the Dating Game

One of my favorite shows, as a teenager, was "The Dating Game". I would picture myself as the young, debutante-like female asking clever questions and choosing the handsomest, wittiest bachelor on the other side of the screen. (In 1967, an unknown Tom Selleck was one of the bachelors. I could have married Tom Selleck!!!)

Later, I married (and, no, he wasn't the handsomest or the wittiest or the most faithful - but I digress...) and stayed that way for 23 years. One of the reasons we stayed together for so long was because we knew there would be a custody battle:

"You take the kids."

"No. YOU take the kids."

"I'm not taking the kids!"

And so on...

In the end, I got the kids and he got the bird - a cockatiel. We had a cockatiel! I got the kids... he got, oh, never mind.

Anyway, for the last 7 years, I have been mate-less and dateless and I have learned to enjoy it immensely. I don't have to explain my comings and goings. I can stay up late and watch TV or play on the computer. I can clip my toenails in bed (not a good idea even if you sleep alone, I've realized...). I can change my hairstyle without expecting anyone to notice. I can order extra onions on anything I want, 'cause I ain't kissing nobody! It is sooo much fun!

Until today, I had only been approached by one man for a date. He was a 68-year-old widower from my neighborhood in Tooele, Utah, and he had helped install the washer and dryer in my apartment. He came back to my door about a week later and gave me a pamphlet about some miracle juice that helps with weight loss and said he felt he was supposed to ask me out. In shock, and shaking uncontrollably, I told him no, thank you, that I wasn't ready to date yet. Closing the door, I sat on the sofa and had my first anxiety attack. Not long after, I heard he married someone else in the neighborhood. Bless his fickle little heart - I hope she was thin!

My daughter-in-law wants me to find someone to marry. HER mother calls me and suggests different online dating sites, and a friend of mine called to tell me there is a Singles Conference next weekend and that I should go. I'm fine, I tell them. No thanks. I've decided that if Fate wants me to remarry, I'll open my door and there will be someone 6' 8", with a great sense of humor, hundred dollar bills hanging out of his pockets and a letter that names me personally as his bride-to-be. I'm willing to wait.

Today, I called my apartment manager and told her the commode in my bathroom had developed a leak. She sent Maintenance right up.

As the head maintenance man worked in my bathroom, he sent his partner back and forth downstairs to get tools and things. Each time his assistant was gone, he would talk to me about his life and raising two daughters on his own, and how his first four marriages hadn't worked, but he had learned that it wasn't what was on the outside of a woman that mattered (and here he looked at me meaningfully), but what was on the inside. "She has to have a good heart. And I think I'm looking right at her," he said.

Now, let me give you a visual. I am six feet...square (at least for the purpose of this analogy). This thin, little man was at least 12 inches shorter than I - when he stood on his good leg. His fingernails weren't just dirty, they were crusty. His glasses were held together with electrical tape and he had...how can I put this tactfully?...a lingering odor of 'spices' mixed with 'work'. All I could think about was how, if I fell on him, I'd crush him like a clove of garlic.

I admit it. Everyone else is right. I am wrong. If this is what Fate is going to send to my home for my consideration, I have GOT to get out more!

Now, what were the names of some of those online dating sites...?

Cliches and Seam Rippers

I read a sentence the other day that completely justified my lifestyle. Having been disorganized for most of my life, I took delight in it:

"Organized people are just too lazy to look for things."

Not that I need justification. I am an adult. I have outgrown the need for other people's approval. (Until, of course, a visitor needs to use my bathroom and I find myself trying to explain my disorganized piles of organization.)

I recently bought a pewter-colored turtleneck sweater. It is soft and cozy and it matches my gray hair perfectly. But, when I put it on, the tag at the back irritated my neck. Really irritated my neck! It was sewn on with monofilament (clear, almost invisible) thread that scratched my neck even when I didn't move. After several hours of irritation (read patient, not lazy...), and waiting for, I don't know, my body heat to soften the plastic thread, I decided it was time to cut out the tag.

I recently moved. Yes, this is March and my official move-in was November, but these things take time. ANYWAY, I still have a box of Goodwill donations and a few other unpacked boxes stacked in a dark corner of my bedroom. In one of those boxes is a sewing kit left to me by my industrious, seamstress mother, from whom I did not inherit her crafty, textile gene. I offer as proof: I once stapled the hem of my son's too-long tuxedo pants for a choir performance and hot-glued another son's Dracula cape at Halloween. In a nutshell - I do not sew.

I sat for a moment, looking at the neatly stacked, unpacked boxes, wishing I had thought to label them when I moved (Hindsight is 20/20), and trying to guess which one held that rarely-used sewing kit that I know holds a little instrument meant for cutting threads and ripping out seams. Oh, yeah, it's called a seam ripper.

I moved to the other side of my bed (where the lamp is) and thought for a moment. There on the nightstand, reflecting the light, was my makeshift letter opener - a steak knife. Inspiration struck! In a most inventive spasm of ingenuity, I retrieved from my desk an inkless Rapidograph pen. This type of pen has a very fine, almost needle-like point. I put the tip of the steak knife carefully under one of the stitches and cut it and then used the pen point to pick out the rest of them all around the label. It worked! I was very proud. More proud, even, than if I had dug through all those boxes and found that silly seam ripper.

They say that "Necessity is the mother of invention", I say, "Hey, whatever works with the least amount of effort." Same thing.

But, considering the phrase I mentioned in the beginning, "Organized people are just too lazy to look for things", it begs the question: If I'm disorganized AND too lazy to look for things, what does that make me?

Well...I prefer to think of myself as creative, innovative, and an 'outside-the-box' kind of thinker!
(Yeah, well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!)

A New Beginning

Inspiration from my new friend, Pam, has led me to believe that I am capable of blogging. Thank heaven it is nothing like jogging, or I'd have a heart attack! I am glad isn't like logging - I don't think they make flannel shirts in my size. And I am really grateful it is nothing like clogging, or there would be unexplained seismic activity in my neighborhood!

What I hope to do here is to share some of my writing and get some feedback. Most of the things I write are about myself or my family and they are based in reality. If you are an adult over, say 30, and/or a parent, hopefully you will be able to relate to these essays and find them mildly amusing. (I made the mistake of reading a couple of them to a 25-year-old friend, and, though she was polite about it, she merely smiled and said, "That's interesting." I need to understand my demographic a little better, I guess.)

So, here goes... I hope you enjoy what I have to say...

REALITY CHECK

I always wanted to be a mother. I have tried to be a good mother.
With all three of my sons I tried to nurture in them a sense of wonder and a feeling of magic in the world around them.
I thought I was succeeding.

____________________________

My youngest son, Jared, age four, lay on my bed, his cheeks flushed with fever, his body covered with chicken pox, his lips wrapped around a freezer pop. I had struggled for three days to find ways to distract him from scratching. I had run out of ideas.

I climbed on the bed beside him and turned on the television. The Disney Channel! There was always something good showing there - something I might be able to share with him to divert his attention from his itchy, warm, little body.

Oh! "Sleeping Beauty"! The live action movie with real actors, not a cartoon with silly looking characters and anthropomorphic animals. This would be great! A story of fairies and wonder and destiny!

We watched together as the good fairies bestowed gifts on Beauty and then, as the bad, angry fairy told her parents that Beauty would prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die.

We were relieved as the good fairies changed the bad fairy's curse from a death sentence to a deep sleep over the entire kingdom for one hundred years.

We heard the king order his subjects to check every room of the castle and the entire kingdom and destroy all the spinning wheels so he could protect his daughter from this fate.

Servants scurried from room to room searching for and shattering any spinning wheel they found. One such servant stepped into an empty room and looked around. Not seeing anything, he closed the door and left.

The camera slowly panned across the room. There, behind a folding screen, was a spinning wheel! The servant hadn't seen it and now Beauty might prick her finger and sleep for a hundred years!

I leaned over to Jared and said, in an awed stage whisper, "Oh, no! He didn't see that spinning wheel!"

Jared leaned over to me, eyes still on the television, and said, in the same awed whisper, "So, only the cameraman knows it's there?"

_______________________________

Some children are just too based in reality to watch The Disney Channel with their mothers.