robot on a swing

Sweetie with his new painting

What have I been doing for the last year or so? Besides continuing to work three jobs and write and volunteer work and trying to keep the house from falling down around my ears, I've been dating this guy. 

As much as I'm a put-it-all-out-there sort of person, Sweetie would be happy to live under the radar. 

He's a great guy - thoughtful, generous, age-appropriate, and likes my parents. And as you can see from this fuzzy photo, he's handsome too. Sweetie has been working even more than I have for the last year, working to rebuild his brother's restaurant. Remind me to tell you the story of the fire that destroyed the restaurant later. I can almost tell it without blushing. 

Friday we went to a raucous event, Art vs. Art.  It involves making noise to vote and a Wheel of Death. Yep. A spin of the wheel determines the fate of the losing painting in each round. Artists gathered two weeks ago and were all given the same supplies. Through a series of judging the field of over 100 paintings is narrowed down to 16.  

Final judging involved four rounds of head-to-head competition. Two randomly selected paintings square off on stage as the audience cheers wildly for their favorite. The electronic applause meter sends the winner to the next round; the losing painting faces the threat of destruction (by chainsaw,  samurai sword, etc.) as determined by a spin of the ominous Wheel of Death. The “losing” painting can only be saved from its impending doom if someone purchases the painting for the minimum purchase price. Artists take home 70% auction price.

My contention has always been that the paintings are easy to see from the stage tend to win. It's harder to see fine art from the balcony. This year the bout ended this way: 

The final round came down to the Angry Care Bear and Robot on a Swing (my titles). Keep in mind the audience had been drinking...well, hell, even I can't defend the Care Bear audience choice. 

After each round the Wheel of Death is spun and the only way to save it is if someone purchases the painting. An professional auctioneer comes to the stage and the bidding begins - the minimum bid increasing with each round. No one was bidding on Robot on the Swing  and the auctioneer was counting down, "goooingggg once, goooinggg twice" when I saw out of the corner of my eye a hand shooting up and heard a hearty "YEP!" 

Sweetie bought the painting! I was a little shocked. As he confirmed later, it was the first piece of original art work he'd ever purchased. The painting is fun and well done and you smile when you see it - to me the true test of art that you want hanging on your wall.

Happily, after over a year of dating he still surprises me. In a good way.

where's nora?

I always feel super guilty when I've neglected this blog.

I turned 50 in May. It's not so bad really.

I've been working on the Farm to Fair project that will be exhibited during the Indiana State Fair from August 4-21.

Work at Second Helpings is good and busy.

And I've been kind of, sort of hanging out with a guy. Too early to talk about, but I came home the other day and he'd mowed my grass in the 100 degree heat. How sexy is that?

work tamped down with more work

Waitress station, Red Key
Pipe [bottom right] is a chute where returnable beer bottles used to travel to basement.
Trash can [top right] is my nemesis.*

Today was a busy day of work followed by work. I've been spoiled the last few weeks and have only worked one job on Saturdays. I've tried to be protective of my Saturday afternoons, but was happy to work at Second Helpings today. 

We had some great volunteers come in and paint our training kitchen today. I couldn't paint my way out of a paper bag. I've lived in my house for over a dozen years and it has never once occurred to me to paint my walls.

Luckily, there were lots of people who did know what they were doing. I'm a damn good wet towel fetcher and spill wiper-upper. Everyone has a talent.

I raced home to clean the house. And by clean, I mean finally taking the wrapping paper to the basement and scooping the towels off of the bathroom floor. I didn't have time to ditch the vases of pine boughs or sweep or dust or put away the piles of Christmas gifts or cards. I'm ashamed to admit that I shoved some junk under the table - and it's not like you can't see under the table, but it made me feel better. Sort of like a play pen for piles of stuff.

I was doing the panic cleaning because NYC John was flying in at midnight and spending the night at my house before making the trek to his hometown. It's not like I haven't known it for days, I just thought the cleaning fairy might think it was a good time to show up.

No luck.

The Red Key was a little nuts, I got busy later in the evening, cooking right up until 10:00. Then the joint filled up with youngsters. The Red Key is doesn't serve pitchers or fancy shots so we don't get many people in their mid-twenties and early-thirties.

One of the youngsters wanted to fix me up with his dad. Who was there. That got awkward quick.

NYC John's timing was perfect. He walked in the door just as the dad was demanding my phone number. I'd admit that I didn't explain the big hug I gave John and handing him the key to my house to the group. I let everyone drawn their own conclusions.

Between youngsters, the late night, the lack of nap, the trash dumpster being across the icy parking lot and locked, I was good and grumpy by the time I got home.

A hot shower and catching up with an old friend was exactly what I needed to erase the furrow in my brow.

Life ain't so bad after all.

*that trash can is my nemesis because it has a swinging lid top and people love to stuff it to the gills. It's hard to get the bag out of and I typically have to wrestle it to the floor at 2:00 in the morning to empty it. It is bleached out the night before and there is usually bleach water at the bottom. I've ruined more skirts and pants and tee shirts because of that damn can than anything else in my 30 year restaurant career.
Sounds petty, but I'm allowed to hate one thing about my job, right? 

cranberries

I love this time of year - cranberries are readily available. I have an unnatural affection for them. I've been to cranberry country several times and was intrigued by the idea of flooding the fields for harvest. That must save a lot of weather-related angst for cranberry farmers!

One of the best Valentine's Day cards I ever received was a giant heart covered with cranberries. How sweet is that? I can't imagine how long it took him to glue the cranberries.

Yesterday was another day off (three in a row this week!) I took the chance do some cooking.

My go-to dish for parties is Grandma Leona's cranberry salad. I imagine the great nutritional value of the cranberries is smothered in the sugar, tapioca, marshmallows and pecans. Over the years I've reduced the sugar and marshmallows and added more celery - it's still delicious.  I whipped up a batch for the Spitznogle Christmas party this afternoon.

I also made cranberry syrup!  My cousin LuAnn grew and milled buckwheat flour and I wanted to make something special with it. Buckwheat pancakes and seemed like a great way to start the new year - if not my weight loss program.

The only hitch was that I've never made pancakes. How is that possible? I researched recipes and shopped for the stuff that I didn't have on hand -  basically everything, since the ingredient list didn't include diet Pepsi, cat food or popcorn.

Before I started cooking,  I dutifully entered the ingredients into the Weight Watchers recipe builder and almost fainted when it calculated 15 points per serving (I'm allowed 29 per day), but that didn't stop me - the cat wasn't going to dine on baking soda and lemons, although he might be intrigued by the buttermilk.

They were delicious! And by making the pancakes small, I was able whittle it down to 5 points a serving, including the syrup.

I also learned some valuable pancake making lessons:  Multi-tasking is not possible. The smoke alarm is sensitive. Rubber spatulas melt. Skillet handles are hot. I have an exceptional talent for swearing.

When I first started the project, I had the notion that making pancakes would be a fun to do with someone else. Unless I find a guy that thinks batter all over the kitchen and scorched fingers are sexy, that's probably not a great idea.

In the meantime, I have ten pancakes in the freezer....

indiana state fair day 11 - 2010 edition

I was looking for a cowboy and caught the attention of the clown. Sums up the last few years of my dating life.

To read about today's adventures at the Indiana State Fair click here.

hhr

I have a new car – a Chevrolet HHR. It might be the least sexy vehicle on the market, but I’m in love. As I was showing off my key fob with the electric lock and unlock-y buttons a co-worker welcomed me to the 1990s.

As much as I loved driving the truck, I was ready for a vehicle that I could take passengers and could stow things under cover. And not worrying if the tailgate was going to fall off was a big bonus.

I had a meltdown in May. I don’t know whether it was celebrating my birthday or the twelve days in a row of rain, but I decided to start thinking about a new car.

I remember the exact minute that I emotionally broke-up with the truck. It was the Monday after my birthday. I was lugging my thrift-store bowling ball its thrift-store bowling bag through the bowling alley parking lot. As I was heaving the ball into the back of the truck, I realized it had rained and there was a puddle in the bed of the truck but it was too late, momentum and stupid gravity had their way and I splashed MYSELF when the ball dropped on to the bed of the truck.

I burst into tears.

And wondered how in the Hell I’d gotten to be 49 years-old and driving a crappy truck and crying in a bowling alley parking lot across town with my fellow bowling league-rs giving me a wide berth. I’m the one that always bowls in a dress, not to mention rental shoes and thrift-store accessories. I don’t blame them for avoiding me. Heck, I was wishing I didn’t have to be around me.

I started thinking about a new vehicle. Thinking was the key word – I had to wrap my head around the idea of a new ride. As quick as I move in day-to-day life, I’m pretty pokey in making bigger decisions. I tend to keep jobs, boyfriends, winter coats and vehicles years past the expiration date.

I’m not so good at change.

I’ve had my eye on the HHR ever since it came out. I'd sat in one the last three years at the big Chevrolet display at the State Fair.  It looks like squished SUV or a station wagon on steroids. A cross between a gangster car and a milk truck - ironically it has storage for a machine gun and six quarts of milk. Which, incidentally is more storage than I have in my house.

On Tuesday I looked online and “my dealership” – I buy all of my cars there – one a decade! I’m surprised my name isn’t on a plaque in the lobby.

Anyway, they an HHR listed online, the right color, standard transmission and the sticker price was just under $20,000.

I submitted a loan application online. I’d rather be rejected via e-mail than in person. Of course they called to see if I had anything in mind. I tipped my hand by sending the link to the car I was looking at. The nice woman on the phone asked me if I wanted to come in that night. No way! I needed to process the idea.

I floated it past Dad and the other ‘union break’ guys on Wednesday. They didn’t believe that there was a vehicle available for under $20,000. And then they went back to eating doughnuts.

The dealership called again. Apparently they like to move faster than I do. I told them that I’d come in Thursday after work. Maybe.

I asked Dad to meet me there. I was freaked-out and sweaty and cranky, but calmed down once I walked in the door. I wonder what they pipe through the air in the dealership? I found Dad sitting next to a red convertible. He looked at right at home.

We were paired with a woman salesman (I know, you can’t be a woman and a salesman, but I’m one of those equal rights chicks that doesn’t get wigged-out by terms like that. I do want to poke eyes out when I see stuff like saleswomyn or whatever crap people do to avoid using the word ‘man’ Anyway, I’ve digressed – probably more than I ever have). Dad asked in a not-so-subtle whisper how much I thought she knew about cars. Dad thought, and I’ll admit, I did too, that they assigned a woman to me since I was one too.

As it turned out, she knew a lot and had been there for almost a dozen years. I like that she didn’t try to upgrade me or talk me into a fancier car. She grabbed the keys and off we went.

I drove while she and Dad discussed XM radio and she found the Broadway Tunes and the Catholic channels, the only two stations Dad listens too. I'd hazard a guess that he's the only person in that demographic. I had to interrupt them a couple of times to ask questions.

The HHR has about a million more features than the S-10. Power locks and windows and you can adjust the mirrors remotely. Back window wipers – intermittent, even! Airbags, cup holders and a display that shows miles per hour, average speed, miles per gallon and air pressure in each of the tires.

It has XM radio and a jack to plug in my iPod. If I had an iPod. It also has OnStar and hands free calling.

I was also pleased that it was a FlexFuel vehicle - meaning that it can run on E85. Political arguments aside, this farm girl still can't believe that anything can be powered by corn! I giggle when I fill the car with fuel!

And a backseat and four doors.

I was smitten.

But not ready to buy. Or so I thought. Next thing I knew I was discussing down payments, interest rates and the trade-in value of the truck. Akkk!

When we heard what they’d offer me for the truck I offered it to a friend via text. Unbeknownst to me, Dad was selling the truck via cell phone. Yep we both sold Old Blue.

Of course they wanted me to leave with the HHR and had an answer to all of my concerns: I needed to transfer money from savings to checking for the down payment. No worries, I could use a computer there to do it electronically. I don’t have my checkbook. Don’t you have an extra check tucked in your wallet? I needed to get the code number for Dad’s GM discount. Here’s the phone number and paper and pencil. I’m not sure I’m ready. Here, have a diet Pepsi and some popcorn and take a deep breath.
Boy, did they have my number!

And it really is a good deal between Dad’s discount and the GM points I’d built up on my GM card it was just over $13,000.

As I was signing the loan paperwork the loan dude asked if I needed help getting a vehicle home. He offered to follow me home and bring me back to the dealership to pick up the HHR. I thought he was just being nice and customer service-y.

Then he asked if I wanted to go for a drink when I came back to get the new car. I joked that I probably shouldn’t drive the first miles with a beer under my belt. Then it occurred to me that he might be asking me out.

Of course, I got all blushy and weird.

He knew my age and financial situation. Heck, that’s half the battle. As we chatted I figured out that he was age appropriate and single and social. Woo hoo. He started telling me more about himself. Two kids, one grandchild (yes, that’s what age-appropriate looks like now). Ten years in the military after high school. So far so good.

He was living with his Mom. Temporarily, of course. Teeny red flag, but I ignored it.

Then he bragged about how he liked everything neat and orderly. Didn’t even like foil on things in the fridge, he liked to be able to see everything when he opened the door.

Sigh.

If you’ve ever met me, you know that I build a nest wherever I go. I like to think of it as charming, but I’m not the neat and orderly type. Everything might have its place; I just don’t always feel the need to get it there.

I might not have met Prince Charming, but I do love my new carriage.


[Loan guy did come to the Red Key to visit that next Saturday, but the initial spark had faded. Or he took one look at my waitressing station]

good bye blue

I spent Friday night cleaning out my truck.
The Chevrolet S-10 pickup truck I bought new almost nine years ago.

I know that cars and houses and shoes don’t have souls, but I do think they have personality – or at least affect my mood.

I never bonded with the truck. Partly because I didn’t like the color. Blue. How shallow is that? Light blue would have been okay. Metallic dark blue, not so much. When I got the truck I hesitated about the color but talked myself into it. I was more concerned with the features, or rather, lack of. I wanted a standard transmission, no power locks or windows. No frills. To choose another color would have added another $1500 to the purchase price and I didn’t think I cared that much.

I bought the truck after a failed experiment of driving a big old truck. I lasted about a year with the 1980-something Chevrolet 1500. I looked like a badass in it, but it was too damn big for the around town driving I was doing. I remember being more relieved to be rid of the big truck than excited about the new one.


The S-10 also had some unpleasant boy karma around it. I had a huge fight with A. centered around the new truck. I’d been to the license branch that morning to get the registration transferred but had not put the license plate on the truck yet. A. asked if he could borrow the truck for a gig. I was happy to loan it to him and told him I’d run home for the plate. It turned in to a big screaming match, for no apparent reason. I realized later that it was the beginning of the end of our relationship. Picking fights over nothing.

Anyway, it was not a great start for the truck. The first dent came when a date offered to walk me to my truck. For my safety. Ha! There was a fight in the parking lot by my truck. I asked the guys to move and they stopped, surprised -- I think being a woman didn’t hurt. Then the jackass I was with got involved and someone got slammed into the side of the truck. First dent. And the end of that relationship.

I drove the truck to Nashville twice. To see two different boys. I met up with A. one time, long after the breakup. I stopped for fuel and somehow almost knocked myself out with my own door. A sign maybe? I spent the whole trip with a splitting headache and a lovely oozy cut on my forehead. The next trip to Music City was fun, but no less awkward.

Then I got caught up in the chain-link fence next to my driveway on a snowy day. A hailstorm caused enough damage that the cost to repair it paid off the truck.

There was something psychologically comforting about having the truck paid for. At that point I didn’t care what it looked like, just that it worked. I’d make it through the winter with it. One winter turned into five and I was still driving it. Then I bought the house and not having a truck payment was critical. It didn’t make me resent it any less.

Even though I drove the truck less than 70,000 miles, it got a good workout, especially during the coffeehouse years. And I helped friends move and hauled water heaters and appliances and recycling.

Cleaning out the truck was cathartic. Going through all of the ticket stubs and papers and party favors that I cared enough to save, but not enough to take in the house was good for me. Finding directions in the glove box reminded me of fun parties. I laughed at my ‘emergency kit’ stashed behind the seat– my idea of emergency supplies includes Band-Aids, $40 and coins, tape measure, socks, sunscreen, earplugs and sunglasses. All of which have come in handy, I might add.

I found dozens of gift certificates that I’d stashed in the console. Starbucks, anyone? Who knew that I had three umbrellas? I also found sixty dollars in cash between the seats. I did not find my keys or Jimmy Hoffa. Or an old boyfriend, for that matter.

I’m ready for a new chapter – bring it on!

hi there

It always seems so awkward when I've been away for a bit but my whole life is a bit awkward, so I should be used to it, really.

So here I am. Again.

I seem to be in a topsy-turvy time right now. My house is all jumbled up. I was taking great pride in how clean my place was in December, January and February. The porch was clean, I could have opened the front door to anyone - and invited them in to the whole house. I'd gotten rid of furniture and stuff over the winter and moved my closet to the basement and gotten rid of a lot of junk.

Then I spent every free minute for four weeks helping Mom pack and move. My sister Beth was there even more. Not only was I ignoring my housework, writing, my Golden Gloves tickets and friends, I was hauling crap home - furniture, household goods and guilt. Not necessary in that order.

I was coming home around midnight each night with arms full of dishtowels, candles and books and a bellyful of McDonald's cheeseburgers, fries and resentment. There was a mess everywhere I looked - including the mirror.

I was missing writing deadlines and trying to squeeze my job into a forty-hour workweek. And trying to squeeze my ever-expanding ass into my jeans.

There was even a boy (age-appropriate, single and cute) who was showing some interest and calling. We talked on the phone for evenings in a row, always with me crouched down on Mom's porch talking in a low voice, no I couldn't come out and play.  He came to see me three Saturdays in a row at the Red Key. The fourth Saturday he brought a date.

I don't blame him really. I was a crabby mess.

You couldn't walk through my house. Two people I was really fond of died on Easter Sunday. A cousin died the next week. Another friend last week.

The tailgate fell off of my truck on the way to work. Worse, it didn't quite fall all of the way off. It was still attached by one of the cords that keeps it from slamming down.  I head an awful noise and prayed that it was not me. An even crappier truck drove up beside me an pointed for me to pull over. Fabulous. It was me. It was throwing sparks and trash bags from Mom's were spilling out.I'm too much of a goody-two-shoes not to pick up the trash. I had to bungee cord the tailgate and trash bags in the bed. Classy.Luckily I didn't have my glasses yet so I'm not exactly sure who drove by.

My water-heater conked out. I didn't wash my whole body -- just parts, for a week.

Work is a little dicey.

What do you think sent me over the edge? My freaking right turn-signal light was out. I even had the bulb and tool to change it in the glove-box but that didn't stop me from bursting into tears and pounding on the steering wheel.  

So here I am again. Trying to organize my house - like things with like things - as my friend Kim says and my life.

Write, write, write.

Look at me go!

broken dishes

I’m not a crier. With the exception of a memorable weeping jag over a breakup I generally don’t shed many tears. It feels weird at times, everyone else will be sniffly and red-eyed and I’m standing around feeling guilty for not crying. I used to think I had a cold heart for not being quick to tears, but decided that cold-hearted folks would not worry if they weren't crying.

I’ve had tears in the back of my eyes since Wednesday morning when I learned from his parents, that an old boyfriend, Ken Fisher had been killed in a motorcycle accident near his Philadelphia home. But couldn’t manage to actually cry. Yesterday another friend and neighbor was found dead in his house from a fire. It was a busy day of work – I seemed to be doing everyone’s job but my own, gave a speech at a media company and had several after-work obligations so didn't really have time to process the news.

I got done with all of the things I had to do about 11:30 last night. I stopped at my favorite music venue on the way home and heard an excellent band that played traditional country music – lots of George Straight and Hank Williams . I figured that if I wasn’t crying after three whiskeys and a pedal steel solo it wasn’t gonna happen.

I got home at 1:30, fed Pacifist Kitty, looked at the mail, started a load of laundry and washed some dishes as I made popcorn. I made a pyramid of bowls on my drying rack. One slipped and crashed in to the sink, breaking it and the dishes still in the sink.

Finally. Tears.
I sat on my kitchen floor and had a good old-fashioned messy cry.

ahhh....

I'm throughly relaxed. Seven days in the sunshine, hanging with the kiddos, reading, pedicures and going to bed early and waking up late will do that.

We went to the tree lighting and fireworks on Captiva beach Friday night. It was small town fun - it felt a little like July Fourth in Tekemah. We were joined by long-time Indiana friends, the Houston's. You might recognize Scott as The Piano Guy  from his public television series. The unexpected part of the evening was getting 'felt-up' by Santa! This photo was taken just after both of his hands were firmly on second base. You can see me pushing Santa's hand away with my right hand. Unfortunately, thats the closest I've come to having a date in years.

You can find more vacation photos here.

I left J.R. and Anna and the kids at the airport this morning and spent the day reading, downloading photos, watching Lifetime channel movies and swimming at my usual extra-day hotel spot. And I'm wearing the same pajamas I was in that post, if you're keeping score.

I know I've turned in to an interment blogger. Its a vicious circle - I don't blog for a week, then I start feeling guilty, then I feel like I need to write something spectacular and then I don't write. I also believe that if I don't have something nice to say, don't write it down - so that explains some of my silence. Nothing tragic. Work has turned in to a job, not as fun for me as it used to be. It's still an amazing organization and I believe with all of my heart that I belong there and I'm doing a good job. And I'm trying not to let work consume me.

So here's to next year - and having more of a romantic life than a frisky Santa.

cut (and let's be honest, color)

Michael cutting my hair today.

There are a lot of things I tackle on my own - mowing grass, shoveling snow, light plumbing, hand-washing things that say 'dry clean only' and computer repair.

I can live without central air-conditioning, cable and a fancy car. I'm happy to buy generic brands and shop at the Dollar Store.

I will not compromise on having my hair cut and colored professionally. I first got my hair colored before a trip to New Mexico to meet my then boyfriend's friends. Aaron is seven years younger and I was very nervous about meeting his friends and didn't want to look old. It was pre-cougar culture.

I thought my hair looked too dark and too big, but the greys were gone so I guessed it was okay. Plus I have a really hard time breaking up with people, be it the people who cut my hair, bagel or pizza. I'd sooner move then change dentist, doctor or hair dresser. Plus the woman who cut my hair bought coffee from me every day, so it would be awkward to break it off and I hate awkward.

We had another hair dresser that also came in for coffee each morning. I shyly started asking him questions: Where did he work? Did he have room for another client? How far out was he booked? I finally asked if he would cut my hair, and he said he'd been waiting for me to ask! He also coached me to write my current hairdresser a note to tell her that I was ready for a change.

Michael is great -- and he knows what I look like first thing in the morning. When I first started going to him the rotation was cut, cut, cut and color, cut, cut. Then it changed to cut, cut and color, cut. A couple of years later we moved to coloring my hair with each haircut. Sadly, now the routine is cut and color, color, cut and color, color.

I wonder at what point I should quit coloring my hair. Probably when I'm too old to have a second job to help pay for it!

hanging on my ear

I feel guilty about all of the unwritten blog posts that are floating around in my head. As I was cooking burgers at the Red Key last night, I realized that they were "hanging on my ear." Chances are they won't get written. 

I have been writing my ever-shrinking ass off (26 pounds lost - 4 to go). You can read all about the music and stuff here: QueenBeeMusic. 

I've also been working on the house. I'm trying to keep things clean and tidy. My old ways of writing in a nest of books, papers and Twizzler wrappers are gone. It is hard work to keep up! I've also sorted though all of my clothes - some to a resale shop, some to Dress for Success, some for a yard sale and some had to be pitched. I had a pretty impressive concert tee shirt collection, but years of waiteressing in them have taken its toll. I can't believe how emotional I got about tossing some of them. 

I've also vowed not to walk out of the house looking like crap. I'm obsessive about brushing my teeth, but not so much my hair. I'm working on applying makeup somewhere besides the rear view mirror.  In the last month I've worn a scarf as an accessory (not just to keep my neck warm or cover up a coffee stain), worn something besides big silver hoops in my ears and necklaces other than my beloved John Travolta (Sweathog years, not Scientology). And in the biggest fashion news: I WENT SHOE SHOPPING! 

Thanks to Kristi's Christmas generosity, I made my first trip to DSW. It was totally overwhelming. I'm glad she went with me or I'm sure I would have run screaming from the store. 

Here are the shoes that I got with the gift certificate, they are darker than they appear in this photo - a lovely brownish-ivory color. And yes, that is a leg lamp in the background. I said I was keeping the house clean, nothing about classy!

In my new found quest of self-improvement I fell for some fancy skincare creams. "Look younger! Smooth lines!" Ha! I broke out so badly that my face puffed up (yeah, that smoothed those lines right out) and I my face was covered in tiny blisters (looked like teenage acne, so yeah, younger) and had to get a prescription for magic make-things-better cream. 

I've also been making myself separate myself from work a little bit. I realized that I was at the dangerous point of wrapping my identity up with my job. I've been making myself stop on the way home from work and do something - be it a bowl of soup at the News Cafe, dinner at Yat's or a trip to the grocery store. Something to create a division between work and home. It seems to be working. 

All of this self improvement has brought some excitement too. The boys seem to be noticing. Nothing close to a date, but fun stuff. For the first time since Joey Ramone gave me a nod in 1983, a musician openly flirted with me on-stage. Lose weight, wear a mini-skirt and cowboy boots, throw a camera over your shoulder and next thing you know you're on a tour bus. 

I need to work on my technique from there. Chattering nervously about how we listened to the band while touring Ireland and that we drove through their hometown singing their songs at the top of their lungs was probably not the most impressive thing I could have done. Here is the review and photos from the show.

See you soon!

new year expectations

Lets not call them resolutions - that sounds so harsh. How about this - expectations.

Financial stability.

I spend a boatload of money last year.

Some of it on pleasure - Ireland, Austin and concerts.

Some of it necessary - new bathroom floor, waterproofing the basement.

Some of it unexpected - property taxes, truck repairs.

A big chunk of it went on to a credit card. After The Incident people asked if the bad guys were able to use my credit card. Truth is, they couldn't have gotten very far. I'm committing to paying cash as much as possible. And saving up if I need to purchase something. I felt downright naked with out my camera. I picked up extra shifts at the Red Key, more writing gigs at NUVO and sold some clothes at the resale shop to buy a new camera. I'm the proud owner of a Canon Rebel XS. Not that I have any idea of how to use it. I'm back to taking accidental vs. deliberate photos of my feet.

Continuing to shop locally.

I've been shopping locally even before it was cool. I know that money spent in my community stays in my community and employs my friends and neighbors. I bought the camera here. Not only did I get to hold the camera and make a hands-on decision, but they threw in another lens. And I know they're available for help. I ran in the other day with the camera to ask a question and got an immediate answer.

Get my junk under control.

I did lots of work last year. Cleaned out the basement and the storage space. I've been going through clothes and taking them to the consignment place. Who needs a dozen sparkly skirts? I've been giving away furniture and other household things. I'm coming to grips with the fact that I live in a 750 square foot living space. The trip to Ireland helped me put things in to perspective. I don't need a separate place to write. I sit on the sofa most of the time anyway. I was able to ditch the desk and a filing cabinet. I still have lots to do -- get the CDs under control and figure out a better plan for the stack of books on the floor (notice I didn't say I'd get rid of the books). I've been pleased with my progress so far. I'll never be a minimalist, but it is nice to be able to move with out the fear of knocking stuff over.

Maintain the weight loss.

I don't measure or weigh my portions, from years in the foodservice industry I have a pretty good eye for weights and measures, but I do record absolutely everything I eat or drink. Some times it is painful to record. Last week's bat capture and release incident at Tammy's led to a stop at the Red Key on the way home. And to this on-line entry: Two whiskeys and two bags of Cheez-its. I've learned that I made really bad decisions when I drink -- potato chips and fast food drive-thru visits.

I look forward to walking and riding my bike again.

Leaving work earlier.

I was in the horrible habit of working way too late. My work day is so crazy and full of interruptions that I'd gotten in the habit of staying a few extra hours a night to catch up on paperwork and phone calls. After The Incident I started leaving work on time -- and it was revolutionary! I have time to work in the house, read, visit friends, eat soup at the Newsstand and go out to dinner. And I'm more productive during the work day (and I've learned to shut my office door if I need to).

Not scheduling my day so tightly.

I now have downtime and can be spontaneous. Time to help my friend, Liz with her bookstore move - which has been great fun. Time to go to MCL for dinner, time to sit on my ass and read. Time to recycle and keep the house clean. Time to just be me.

Social life.

And when I say social life I mean dating. I've put up a lot of barriers to dating in the last couple of years. I was using my weight as an excuse, I was still too emotionally tied to AVS and plain old just not ready. So world, here I am....it is a new year.

banns

John Spitznogle and Mary Ellen Grememspacher Spitznogle

are thrilled to announce the engagement of their daughter

Miss Nora Leona Spitznogle

to her long-time friend

Mr. Sofa Davenport

Miss Spitznogle and Mr. Davenport have become especially close lately, Miss Spitznogle barely able to leave Mr. Davenport's side in the last week.

Mr. Davenport is a long time family friend. He has been a part of Miss Spitznogle's paternal family for generations. He first came to live with the Bauer family in the 1930s, occupying a place of honor in the living room. He was host to several parties, baptisms and was even present when family members were "laid out" in the front room. He there when young Nora Bauer Spitznogle brought her nine children (including Miss Spitznogle's father, John) to visit their aunts and uncles. 

In the 1970s, Mr. Davenport was moved to the basement and covered with blankets. He was a mighty port in storms and and electrical outages and provided a cozy spot for resting between washing and ironing chores.

Miss Spitznogle began admiring Mr. Davenport in the late 1990s, but didn't want to come across as too forward. She heard the Mr. Davenport was being auctioned off with other household goods in 2003. She began saving her tip money in order to secure Mr. Davenport's release.

Miss Spitznogle's father was present the day the auctioneer came to move the contents of the house. His cousin Rosemary Bauer in conference with the auctioneer decided to burn Mr. Davenport. Mr. Spitznogle jumped in just in time to stop Mr. Davenport from certain death.

Mr. Davenport has resided at Miss Spitznogle's home for the last five years, making himself available to countless touring musicians and guests. Mr. Davenport was recently portrayed in a very realistic cartoon here.

Miss Spitznogle and Mr. Davenport have not set a date yet, they are enjoying their engagement in the mean time. 

basement.

I joke that I bought the house I've lived in for twelve years to avoid moving. That is not not far from the truth.

My basement is perpetually damp. Turning on the garden hose starts a stream of water down the wall. The rain this summer created a pond on the floor.

I didn't help matters by having never-unpacked boxes on the floor and heaps of other junk that accumulated over the years. I only have one closet in the house so I'm constantly rotating clothes by season and weight fluctuation.

There were stacks of holiday things, yard sale stuff, boxes of books, piles of papers and the random bags of God-knows-what-possessed me to save that heaped in every corner.

I'd avoided the whole mess for years, only darting down there to do laundry or grab something. But more often to toss something in to the fray. I couldn't leave clean clothes down there too long or they'd start smelling like a wet diaper.

And avoiding it made it even worse. Soon there was just a path to get to front to back. And that path was often risky. When Hostel John, my dear friend/neighbor/can fix anything re-tiled my bathroom he had to see my basement. Couldn't be avoided when the bathroom sub floor was removed.

Last month he gently suggested that it was time to do something about the basement. He was right. There was no more avoiding it.

And unfortunately I had to be there for the humiliation. I took a day off last week to tackle my part. By the time John and one of his teenage sons arrived I'd filled the steps with trash bags.

There is nothing like a 15 year old boy staring at you to help make decisions. I was amazed by the stuff that I was coming across.

I would have sworn under the threat of taking my computer away that we did not have year books in junior high school. There they were, big as life. The eighth grade one had a page long letter from my friend Ann Herr. Written in purple marker -Donny Osmond's favorite color, you know. We were headed to different high schools and our 14 year old selves thought that we'd never see each other again. Ann signed the note "Nancy" as in Drew, our hero. I wish I could say that, 33 years later, we've outgrown our dorkiness, but I don't think so.

Speaking of not growing emotionally I ran across letters and cards from guys I've dated. I always say that I have not dated much, but in 25 years of dating a few men have floated through my life. Apparently I have not matured much. I found letters from three different guys, all with the same theme: You need to open your heart to someone, you need to trust, you need share your emotions, blah blah blah.

Until AVS, I always broke up with a guy when there was any kind of disagreement. I couldn't be bothered with fighting or trying to figure it out.

Fight equaled breakup.

Finished.

Done.

The first time A and I had a big fight I said, "I guess that's it. We're done." He said, "just because I don't like you very much right now, doesn't mean that I don't love you."

That blew my mind. Seriously.

So with the dust and mold I was stirring up some emotions. Good thing there was a teenage boy there to keep me in check.

I tossed and recycled five truck loads of junk. A lot of it was boxes of stuff that just plain old melted. I always wondered what I needed with a scoop shovel in town, it finally came in handy. I just had to close my eyes and throw a lot of it away.

I photographed some stuff that I wanted to remember, but didn't need to save. Like my prom dress.....

And my favorite jeans....

And my childhood jewelry box (note the missing ballerina)....

I also found a folder from high school that I just thought was the coolest thing ever (remember, it was the 1970s - late in the 70s, mind you).

It had people and places to write captions. As you can see, I was all about pollution. And this proves that Al Gore didn't invent global warming - I did.

One of my witticisms really cracked me up...

My loopy writing is pretty funny also. I gave the folder a proper burial in a paper recycling bin.

I have an unnatrual affection for cranberries. Here is a card that a college friend made me.





Here is what the basement looks like at the end of the day. You can see the moldy floor and walls. The orange thing in the back was pushed up against the wall and I was using it for shelves. Who knew that I had a bar in the basement? Not that I can imagine anyone entertaining down there.

Getting rid of all of the trash was tricky. Luckily I have a zillion jobs and know about a few dumpsters in town. I took a few things out to the farm to burn on Sunday and just couldn't quite bring myself to throw this trophy in the fire.

1974 Reserve Grand Champion in Home Furnishings. I still have the table that I refinished in my living room. The Boone County Fair was going on just a few miles from the farm, and I was tempted to drive over and stick it near some kids project. If the name plate would not have been engraved, it would have been a done deal.

hello....anyone home?

Hi, long time no see. 

I had lots of posts written in my head, but I've been pretty darn crabby and who wants to read that - unless Crabbydad is writing, of course

 

I'm in a 'what the Hell I'm a doing with my life ?, why am I single ?, blah blah blah' mood. It was triggered by lots of factors and ended with me sitting on the floor sobbing over a relationship that ended 25 years ago. I opened a Pandora's box of old letters on Tuesday evening.

What was I thinking then? Ugggh. I just have to keep telling myself that if it didn't feel right at the time, it wasn't right. 

I'm working on stuff the boxes and my emotions back into the cabinet and getting back to my present life. 

Speaking of work, my next big home project is dealing with my basement. My basement has always been damp and with all of the rain lately it has been a lake down there. Lots of boxes are soaked and stuff is ruined. I only have one closet, so the basement is full of out-of-season clothes, holiday decorations and just plain old junk. Wet moldy junk. 

This morning I hung tons of things on the line to air them out and went to the pool for the first time this season. You guessed it: RAIN!

I now have clothes hanging all over the house. It ain't easy being green. 

Okay, enough of the pity party. I'm off to bed. 

age is just a number. ha!

I don't know if it was because he was a younger man, or the fact that he's a Republican that got everyone so excited about the boy in the last post. I always joke that I'm either very hip and cool or horribly immature since most of my friends are at least ten years younger.

I'm rushing around getting ready for the trip and wrapping up some projects and I'm feeling a little 'written out' so I'll leave you with the advice column that my friend David sent me. The writer sounds suspiciously like me....maybe I'll meet a nice sheep farmer in Ireland.

Ask Lynn

By Lynn Harris

Dear Lynn,
I am a 46-year-old woman; I take care of myself, but I do look my age. "Cute" might best describe me. My question? I simply cannot attract a man my age. They're either 10-20 years older or 10 years younger.

This has been happening since I was old enough to date. Why is it that a man my age won't have anything to do with me? My self-esteem has taken a huge blow and now I'm afraid I've become obsessed with this. I scan the wedding announcements regularly and find several couples my age getting married. I can't help but notice that they all look close in age. I realize the midlife crisis thing might be going on (both for me and for the guys), but that's not what I see on the streets. What I see is, couples — close in age — enjoying each other's company.

What's wrong with me?

– Feeling Rejected


Dear Feeling Rejected,

Some of what you are experiencing may in part be a function of your demographic, or — to use a word that really should never be used at all — your psychographic. That is: It's common at midlife to want to feel young, and a common way of attempting to preserve one's youth is to date someone younger. So the fellas who are your age are looking for younger women, and the fellas 20 years older than you looking for… you. At the other end of the spectrum, well… here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

Of course, there are plenty of people in their 40s who find people their own age, so what gives? And how do we explain your observation that this age weirdness has, for you, been happening all along?

I know you're going to argue with me here, but it's partly your perception. You know the red car phenomenon: When you are thinking about buying a red car, you start to see red cars everywhere, though in reality you're just noticing them more.

I'm guessing that's what you've been doing since you were a teenager—noticing the guys not your age even more than the ones who are your age.

I'm not saying there isn't a pattern, but it's possible that you may have made choices, even unconsciously, that keep this pattern consistent. Like, not flirted with someone your age because you were too busy noticing that someone twice your age was flirting with you.

Let me ask you one question: Why does a potential mate have to be your age in the first place? Yes, I know: so that you two feel that you're at the same stage of life together. But you know what? There are plenty of, say, divorced 36-year-olds well-established in their careers and identities, and there are plenty of never-married 56-year-olds who are still casting about. Age tells just part of the story. I'd give some of these guys a chance. Consider which attributes you're looking for in someone "your age." Stability? Lack of game-playing? Well-traveled? Then allow yourself to see them in someone else.

Also, though I do believe you didn't invent this pattern out of the clear blue, I would like to suggest that it serves you—if only to "explain" why you're still single. My hunch is that what you're really asking is not "Where the heck are all the men my age?" but rather, "Why the heck am I still single?" I know that can be a terribly vexing, self-esteem-challenging, and lonely-feeling question to be asking, year after year, and I wish all single people could avoid that.

So don't make it about meeting people your age. Make it about meeting people, period. People who share your interests and sensitivities, not your birth year. I'm not saying meet people who are not your age, I'm just saying to make it not about numbers, but about feelings, flirting and fun. You might be surprised at the number of men who do turn up.

Lynn Harris is co-creator, with Chris Kalb, of the award-winning website, BreakupGirl.net and author of the new comic novel Death By Chick Lit. A journalist and essayist, Lynn also writes about gender, dating, and culture high and low for Salon, Glamour, The New York Times, and others. In her spare time, she enjoys being married.

knee deep in cleaning products

I'm preparing for my annual Saint Valentine's Day celebration- the 25th! I hosted my first one when I was a young thing of 21.

I was dating my college boyfriend at the time.
Both sets of parents were expecting an engagement announcement.
Only Greg and I knew that there was a ring tucked in my dresser drawer.
He asked, I said not yet. Which turned in to no when he married his neighbor (it wasn't that simple, but twenty-five years later that is the best way to tell it). I have to stop myself from staring at his wife's wedding ring.

I've mentioned before that I'm not the best housekeeper in the land. I'm not dirty, but I sure am messy. Piles of books, papers and notepads are strewn everywhere. I think I've almost got it under control.

And candlelight is very forgiving.

rainy night

Dating has been on my mind more than ever lately. 

Maybe it's because Valentine's Day is around the corner, maybe because it's winter or maybe because I went to a Guild meeting today in a jewelry store and everyone got their wedding rings cleaned but me- because I don't have one. Maybe it's because I'm 46 and never been married. And not getting any younger. 

Or maybe it's because I'm tired of doing things by myself. 

Not the usual things that most women won't do alone. 

I'm perfectly happy going to concerts, eating out, buying a house and picking out my own jewelry. 

I want someone to help me to re-light the water heater. Have you ever tried to light one by yourself?  Pushing and holding down on one knob while holding back the little metal door to get to the pilot light, jugging a flashlight and a lit match. Kneeling on the concrete floor of a dark basement? Usually while wearing a bathrobe because you didn't know the water heater was out until you jumped in the shower. Praying that you don't blow up or catch your hair on fire when you strike the match by holding the match book between your teeth. 

I want to jump in my truck and find the tank full. Not because I can't pump my own gas or pay for it. Because I've put almost every drop of gas in that vehicle for the last six years. For the last 5200 miles. What a treat it would be to drive past the station with out stopping every 300 miles or so. 

I want to open the refrigerator and find something besides cat food, diet Pepsi and take-out containers. Not that I can't by groceries or cook. Eating alone is a challenge. Buying a loaf of bread is a commitment. A commitment to 16 grilled cheese sandwiches. A commitment to 32 pieces of toast. A commitment to feeding the birds. 

I want to have plans on a Friday night. Not because I sit home on Fridays. But because I'd love to have a date. 

That's all, really. 

blue jacket fashion

I was headed out the door to pick up Bad Influence Girl to hear Cara's band play. I was wearing jeans and a sweater. I remembered that an interesting age-appropriate man was going to be there. I turned on my heel, changed in to a clingy top and black skirt, slapped on some makeup and five minutes later was headed back out the door.

The weather was nice (50s) so I didn't need my winter coat (which still smelled a bit like the MLK party- heavy on the fry oil and fish). So what did I top my 'dressed-up' outfit with?

A vintage FFA blue corduroy jacket.

I've always been fascinated by the FFA kids (I was in 4-H). At the National FFA Convention kick-off luncheon I sat next to the man who's company embroiderers the jackets. I started searching eBay for an Indiana FFA jacket, but never found one. I finally bought this 1974 Iowa version.

When I picked Tammy up, I apologized for being late explaining that I've changed clothes in an attempt to look 'hot.' And apparently that included an FFA jacket.

It didn't seem to impress age-appropriate man, but this too-young boy was very interested.

I spent way too long explaining why 19 years is too big of an age difference.

I hate it that my most desired quality I'm looking for in a date is "age appropriate."