Learning to Shave

Now that Grandpa has been here a few weeks, we are settling into a routine. Said routine has less time than my overly-optimistic self would have liked, but way more time than I used to have. Every morning begins with dressing and breakfast, then I have a couple hours before time to begin lunch prep, and again, a couple hours before supper. My grandpa has always been a very, well, thorough eater and mealtimes do tend to take the better part of each day.

For such a sedentary individual, my grandpa burns a surprising amount of calories, and making sure he stays nice and chunky can be a bit of a challenge. Especially when there are sometimes whole days when he's too tired to eat much of anything.

However, he has never, in his whole life, been too tired for cookies or ice cream!

That is where a wonderfully horrible product that we've discovered comes in. "WhoNu" cookies.

When I first saw them I couldn't suppress an eye roll. Now a bunch of gullible parents would let their kids tank up on these "health" cookies, as if adding in nutrition means there's no fat or sugars to worry about. But then I actually took a look at the box. Three cookies has, as it proclaims on the cover, "as much fiber as a bowl of oatmeal, as much Calcium and Vitamin D as a 8 oz. glass of milk, and as much Vitamin C as a cup of blueberries".  That's pretty impressive for cookies, and they taste pretty good, too (Hey, I can't give Grandpa things that taste bad, can I? Regular quality control checks are necessary).

None of this means they're health food, or that you can eat as many as you want because "they're good for you", but for getting added nutrition into an occasionally-stubborn elderly gentleman, they are GREAT!

(Suncore Products, you may contact me via this blog to send the check for my celebrity endorsement.)

Yes, having Grandpa here is educational in many aspects. Not only have I been transformed into a pseudo-dietician, I have also become an old-school valet. You know, the kind that does everything for the lord of the manor. Now, this may surprise you, but my life heretofore has not exactly been of the type to prepare me for being a gentleman's personal care aid. Shocking, I know, but true. One of the things I've had to learn to do is shave.

Actually, learning to shave might not be a bad idea anyway, what with my family's Portuguese heritage. Portuguese are lovely people, but can be a bit hairy---and that's just the women! I might find myself needing to know how to shave one of these days, if you get my drift. But so far, I have been blissfully free of facial hair. At least I think so. I'm either free of facial hair or my eyesight has already started to go.

Grandpa always insisted on being clean-shaven. He came from a generation where men with beards were weird Bohemian types, not to be trusted. He was a scholar and a gentleman, so every morning, the beard had to go. But he liked to tease us before he shaved by grabbing us and rubbing his whiskers up and down our cheeks. We would wriggle and squirm to get away, then run shrieking down the hall, refusing to get close to him again until he emerged from the bathroom sans whiskers. Shaving was always somewhat of a ritual with him.

Since I've started shaving him, let's just say the ritual has gotten a little less frequent!

Like the landscape of the Old West, my grandpa's face is weathered and crossed by deep canyons, wrinkled arroyos where outlaw whiskers have their hideouts. And as the sheriff in a dime store novel, the razor does its best to restore law and order to the scene, but somehow there are always a few wily whiskers that manage to elude capture. This leaves my grandpa with odd soul patches on random parts of his face. Good thing he doesn't have a mirror!

While I doubt I'll ever get hired on as a gentleman's gentleman, I think I am improving with practice. Less and less of the dastardly villains escape capture each time. It's a work in progress, but hey, I can at least be grateful that I don't have to use a straight razor.

I think Grandpa looks grateful, too.

I Miss My Puppies!

"What? I'm royalty, OK!"

 

Well, I hope Esther, Queen of Purrsia feels guilty after that mean-spirited attack post yesterday. But I doubt it! That same afternoon, the puppies' family got back into town 5 days earlier than we expected them. So we had to say good-bye to our little buddies and send them back.

But that means I really, really need to find a puppy for us. There's nothing worse than puppy withdrawal. Besides, having the puppies here showed that we can handle it. Finley, Mr. I-Am-The-Only-Dog-Allowed-In-The-World actually got so he would play with them---sort of. He would galloop around them asking to join in all their reindeer games and they would roll over on their backs saying, "Please don't kill me!" Now Finley is sad because he has no buddies except for all those stinkin' cats.

So I was looking on Petfinder for a nice little puppy friend for Finley. There are lots of different kinds available now.... terriers, labs, pit bulls, mastiffs, but one in particular really caught my eye.

http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/23616419

It's a St. Bernard/Chihuahua cross. The mother is a 180 lb. St Bernard and the dad is a 3 lb. chihuahua. The owner did not expect them to be able to breed. But they did! And this is the result. Looks like it's going to be a small dog, doesn't it? So if you ever wondered what a 180 lb. chihuahua looks like, this is it!

Oh, the Beauty of Fall.....

The summer wanes steadily, but leaves in its stead in the glorious spectacle of autumn. The leaves crackle under foot, and the crisp, clean air is an intoxicating brew that inspires one to breathe deep and savor its delightful essence. The birds call to one another as they pass by, hurrying south to warmer surroundings. Oh, there can be no more splendid season than

Please.

Help me.


SHE left the computer open and I don't have much time, so listen carefully. I don't think I can last much longer.

It's been 10 days since they got here. Life was good before then, but now it's...I can't describe it. There are no words. We were happy, my little family of fellow cats. Oh, sure, there was one dog, ol' what's-his-name, but he never bothered us.

Why did SHE have to do it?

Why?

Weren't we enough?

Got to stay focused. It's so hard. My pulse is pounding. My paws are shaking so bad I can barely type this. PUPPIES! There, I said it. SHE brought in PUPPIES! Two of them; two furry terrors that have made our lives unbearable. I mean, seriously, we're royalty here. Do we need our tails pulled? Do we need our litter boxes raided? Sometimes they even follow us when we do our business outside and eat it when we're done. Like we're some sort of Dairy Queen soft-serve machine! They're not dogs, they're animals!

Do we need to be chased like common...criminals? Do we need.....shudder....our....fur....our beautiful fur.....LICKED? With PUPPY spit?

Have you seen what they put in their mouths?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

They don't even know how to use the litter box. They go....no, I can't say it. But I must. They go ON THE FLOOR! We WALK on that floor! SHE gets to wear shoes, but nobody thinks about our feet. That we have to wash with our tongues!

You've got to send help. Call the ASPCA, do something, but don't turn your backs on us. Please don't leave us here to die.You've got to help us! Ple.....

Oh, no, SHE's coming.

Gotta go. Don't forget......

Duct Tape: It's Not Just for Houses Anymore

This may seem like a funny title for a blog on book authorship, but---sadly---it will all make sense by the end. See, a few years back (I always say a few years because I am too lazy to stop and figure out exactly how many) my sister Noni was writing a book. Took her forever, too. To tease her, I went home one evening and wrote a book just so I could tell her, "Oh, I wrote a book last night".

Of course, hers was a full-length book and mine was a short children's story, so it wasn't quite the same thing! Anyway, after we collaborated on improving the story a bit, "Rahab's Promise" was published.

(Which is available on Amazon and as an ebook and in fine book stores everywhere. In case you were wondering.)

And that is how I found myself heading down to Glendive on Monday. The Adventist bookmobile was coming through and I was going down to sign a few copies of the book so the bookmobile lady could have them on hand. Oh, and Noni was sending signed copies of her two books also ("Peter: Fisher of Men" and "Malchus: Touched by Jesus" which are available on Amazon and as an ebook and in fine book stores everywhere. In case you were wondering.)

It was only two days after my birthday, so it was kind of my Happy Birthday Date with myself. I would get to dress up in something nicer than shorts and a grubby T-shirt and go do something professional. What fun! Tiggy was coming along to keep me company, so I picked her up at the school, then headed back by my house to do one more check on everyone before I headed down.

We turned onto my road and started over the bumpy gravel towards home.

And then my door fell off.

The van's sliding door had fallen off the other day while my mom had it. She got someone to come and put it back on, but it wasn't fixed yet and couldn't be opened. Well, it opened itself, and now I had a helicopter van---you know, the kind where you can sit in the doorway for quick and heroic exits. Only that wasn't the best kind of van for a 6 hour round trip.

Tiggy and I wrestled the door back into place there by the side of the road, then she sat in the back and held it on so we could make it back to the house. And then----yes, then---the world-famous- author-on-her-way-to-a-book-signing duct taped her door shut. Sigh.

I actually did a very nice job (I think, anyway) and the door held perfectly all the way to Glendive and back. But it did take a little of the professional glow off my day!

Go Green!

Devon gets in the spirit of things.

Sabbath was my Sweet 16 birthday. Allow me to explain. When I was 17, I started caring for the 3 kids I would adopt at age 25. While most of my peers were dating, moving out, and heading off to college, I was changing diapers and chasing toddlers around. Now, in two more years, 18 years after my 18th birthday, Caleb, my youngest, will turn 18 (of course, he turns 18 6 months after me, but it's still in the same year).

So for the first time in 19 years, I will have an empty nest and lots of options. In a way, it's like I'll be turning 18 all over again. Which must mean that this birthday was my 16th. Hah! Unassailable logic at work here.

To help build the anticipation I am having special birthdays for the next 2 years---color-coordinated birthdays. A few years ago I randomly decided to have a yellow birthday...you know, corn-on-the-cob, pineapple, mac 'n' cheese. It was a lot of fun, but why stop with yellow? There are lots of other colors, too. So next year will be red and orange tones, and for the big One-Eight, blue and purple tones. But this year was green.

Oh yum.

Actually, there are a lot of green foods that I enjoy. Pesto is a no-brainer. Green jello with pineapple. Got plenty of cucumbers for a salad. Limeade for a drink, and stuffed chilies from my garden. I also tried something I've wanted to make for years. I keep seeing rave reviews for the refreshing culinary treat of chilled cucumber/avocado soup. I looked up a simple recipe on the internet (if it's on the internet, it must be true) and blended away. It was....interesting, but serving it in my white tureen presented an image, well, not usually associated with life's more appetizing moments....

MY rules are that I make foods that are naturally the theme color. No crazy food coloring in unnatural hues to ruin perfectly good food.


 My family makes their own rules.


So while we had pesto, cucumber salad, and jello, we also had green-dyed pineapple and macaroni and cheese with green french dressing,

No, it's not a nuclear experiment gone wrong.

And just when we thought we were safe, Noni showed up with a pot of corn soup. Oh, yes. She went there.

My Plate:

Of course, there's one more green food item that actually tastes---and looks---good. Mint! And nothing goes better with mint than chocolate! So for desert, we had a yummy green cake with mint chocolate tofu mousse filling, chocolate frosting, and mint filled cookies on top. Too bad by then we were all a little queasy from looking at our food. It helped not to make eye contact with the plates while eating.

But no birthday is complete without presents. I have a firm Maximum Present policy; have for years. That means that, no matter the value of the presents, I want lots. They can be individually wrapped M&M's, but by jolly, I expect to do some unwrapping! My natal celebrations were off to a nice start with the lovely art supplies I was given at church, but then we hit a snag. This year, my family dared to defy my edict. I got two presents. 

Two.

As in, 1+1

But since they were a DVD player and super rockin' awesome laptop, I have decided to forgive them.

This time. 

(I wonder if I can convince them I need 18 on my 18th birthday. Hmmmm, it's worth a shot.)

The More, the Hairier

You'd think that I'd learn eventually. What's that about once burned, twice shy? But no, I was still taking my sister's calls even after the work-at-home fiasco. This time she had another can't-miss opportunity. A neighbor of hers had to make an unexpected trip and needed certain, ahem, "valuables" safeguarded for two weeks. Noni would be happy to do it, really she would, but just didn't have the right facilities. Surely I would love to have the chance to take two not-yet-housebroken puppies out to my house! For two weeks! At my house!

Of course I said yes. I'm a soft touch when it comes to animals (really?), and besides, this would give me a chance to test drive some border collie mixes to see if I wanted one for the all-important position of Vice-dog. Finley is aging gracefully, but still aging, so it is important to have a dog ready to fill his paw prints as Dog-in-Chief.

My mom headed into to get them while I spent a pleasant, though busy, hour puttering around the house puppy-proofing it. Little did I know, there is no such thing as "puppy-proofing". "Puppy-proofing" is a polite fiction used to placate your alarm systems long enough to let juvenile canines into your house.

First, I took one look at my new carpet, installed with so much blood, sweat, and tears, and like the Allies at Verdun said, "They shall not pass." A dresser in the doorway took care of that nicely. The bedrooms were off-limits, too, and I ripped up all the carpet in the hallway so they would have no carpeted area available to them. I fixed the doors upstairs so they would stay closed, and moved the cat litter boxes into my room. I laid down a nice, cushy blanket and awaited the arrival of my two little angels.

The puppies arrived in a whirlwind of wiggles, tongues and tails. They hadn't had much chance to run around in the country before, and quickly realized that country living is their true destiny in life. Apparently, so are cats. And every single dog toy that we own. And everything left lying around. And of course, those things not left lying around, but still not quite out of reach.

Chunky meets Boopsie

I spent my first afternoon putting up all the things they found to chew on and cleaning up all their frequent "oopsies" around the house. The puppies obviously had some sort of basic skeletal structure because they could move around, but other than that, they were simply bags of pee and poop. Before long, my side yard was littered with a broken armada of throw rugs, blankets, and other items, all waiting to be hosed off after their liberal dowsing with poop.

In spite of their obvious lack of couth, the puppies still wondered why they weren't allowed in all of the inner sanctums. I'm trying to convince them that carpet is hot lava, but so far they aren't buying it and sit longingly at the magic portals begging for entrance.

 

Don't you.....LOVE me anymore?

Finley mostly stands around looking at me like, "What were you thinking?" The puppies love him, but I don't think Finley is warming to the idea of being a mother-figure. He is compromising by not eating them.

I suppose the puppies do have some good attributes. They are good at sleeping through the night and don't fuss about being in a crate. Even though I'm temporarily abandoning crate training since they got poop everywhere the first 2 nights. They may still poop if I leave them out, but they at least don't lie down in it when they're done! They're very affectionate and, well, they're very affectionate. They're getting better about jumping up on you, and aren't going in the house quite as much as before.

All in all, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. We might just survive this, but if I were you, I'd buy stock in paper towels and cleaning spray. You'll make a fortune!

What a sweet, innocent little angel boy!

I Fell for a "Work-at Home" Scam

You'd think I'd know better. I mean, everyone knows those "Earn hundreds of dollars stuffing envelopes in your home" type things are fake. But this one seemed so good I decided to go for it. "Easy assembly!" "You can do it in your spare time!" "Loads of fun!" "Promotes world peace and the re-growth of hair!" "Will add years to your life!" How could I refuse? So I signed up.

Besides, my own sister was the one promoting it, and I trust her.

At least I DID.....

The job was constructing "jumpers", lengths of cable for hooking up satellite systems to the TV. Part of what my brother-in-law, Jack, does to fill his time is installing the TV systems for the many man camps springing up in the oil fields. Evidently, the modern "toughneck", as the oil worker is called out here, cannot work without his personal, operational TV. Wiring a man camp for satellite is considered a vital part of the construction, somewhere up there with having functional toilets.

Noni is the one who usually helps out with the jumpers, but for some reason, she found herself unable to do this job. Oh, she was disappointed---you could see that---but she managed to gain control of emotions and hand over all of the supplies to my mom (yes, she even scammed her own mother!).

The first step to making jumpers is having an explosion of cable, tools, and other parts in your previously clean living room. After "seasoning" the room with the appropriate level of debris, you are ready to begin the actual construction process. Jumpers are made by cutting a specified length of cable (one short and one long one make a pair) with wire cutters. Then you take a special wire stripper that clears a length of cable to the right shape and length. After that, you  bend all the little fibrous wire back from the main copper wire; this is important, because if even one of the tiny, hair-like wires touches the copper, you will short out that room's entire electrical system. The next step is to slip a cap over the cable...supposedly. In real life, it almost never "slips" and has to be forced on using a special tool and lots of brute strength (you will soon find brute strength in very short supply). All you have left to do now is crimp the ends using the crimper. That part at least is easy.

There, you have made your first jumper.

And it only took twenty minutes.

And you only have 429 more to do. That number is not hyperbole. That is the actual amount that we need to make to finish this man camp. This number doesn't count all the miscellaneous cables connecting the dish to the sectional panels, panels to sections, etc. Unfortunately for me, these will have to be made on-site, and I will be unable to help out. Forgive me while I pause to mourn.

My mom spent all afternoon working on jumpers, and then when I came home, I helped out for a couple hours. Through our combined efforts we managed to get 60 pairs done. Our hands were killing us. Did I say hands? They were more like deformed claws.

Personally, I am beginning to doubt the sincerity of Noni's grief at not being able to do this herself. Maybe that's why she was dancing that little jig after she handed over all the stuff....

The pitiful fruits of our efforts.