Having Too Much Fun to Write

Art projects.  

Walks to the park.

Finding sweet treats.

Practicing counting.

Reading.

Playing.

I apologize.

I'm having too much fun to think about anything else.

Cooking Class

In Mayor Pete's up-and-coming downtown, TBG, FlapJilly and I ventured to the River Valley Farmers' Market, an indoor veggie store cum cooking class for kids.  Like almost everything we do in South Bend, it was convenient, easy to park, free, and fun.

Rebecca Miller's Goats and Gardens family provided the veggies and sweet baked treats that surrounded the cooking class.   The peppers were too beautiful to resist; we brought three of the home.

As the oldest participant, FlapJilly was assigned to cream the butter...which was, she announced, "a really hard job."

Everyone got a chance to pat the dough,

and roll it out.

Then there were the cookie cutters.

There was a turkey, an owl, and a pumpkin.

Each kid made 3 of their own choosing, which Miss Rebecca placed a baking sheet and popped in the portable oven for 8 minutes.

The chefs made the icing while the cookies cooked.

Sugar and corn syrup make a drippy and tasty treat.

With a green icing pen

and lots and lots of sprinkles, the final touches were added.

She ate all three of them before we left.

Three cookies before lunch?

After a jelly packet with breakfast and a lollipop as we left the restaurant?

Sure.

That was the warm up before frozen yogurt on the way to get Mama after work.

Grandparents don't really have rules when it comes to foodstuffs.

That's what we're for.

All Grown Up

She can count to 109.

She brushes and flosses her teeth and washes her hands and face before bed all by herself.

She chooses her clothes for the next day and lays them out on the floor all by herself.

She latches the chest strap on her car seat without any help. 

There used to be a baby in the house. Now there's a kindergartener who can spell Halloween.

She still loves her Gramma and Grampa, though. That is one thing that remains the same.

Big Boys

Getting a haircut 

makes you feel

All Grown Up!

Just like Big Cuter did, there on the left, in 3rd grade, walking out of the salon, all 3 of them feeling it.

Tidying Grandma's Garden

Look what she's wearing while she's watering the Hanging Garden.

Boots.  Jeans.  A long sleeve jacket.

Fall has come to Tucson.  It was in the 70's today, and everyone was wearing warm clothes.

Filling the pitchers requires skill and patience; it's a talent possessed by a rare few. 

Nobody was enthusiastic about getting wet today, except one kindergartener who proudly stood before me, arms spread wide, declaring "Grandma Suzi, I'm all wet!"

"Well, that's what happens when you stand in front of an open hose nozzle," I laughed and told him to go play in the sun and dry off.

There is always weeding to be done.  

Reaching is required, since there's no stepping in the Mandarin Orange tree's planting bowl. 

And, as always, there is raking.

I don't know why they love it, but they do. 

Today, we piled the detritus into neat piles

loaded it into the barrow 

wheeled it out to the garbage can where we one-two-three-lifted and dumped the dust and dirt . 

We were really strong.

Somebody wanted a picture in front of the garlic chives she planted.

Grandma Suzi was happy to oblige.

And sometimes, you just want to be alone.

Burying the new irrigation tubing was perfect for that. 

Grandma's Garden has something for everybody,

especially Grandma.

Happy Halloween

jpetersenphotography.com

Choosing Beauty

I could write about Nicolle Wallace's reaction to three Fox faces trashing the motivations of Lt. Col. Alexander Vinman (she called them Chickenshit.... yup, right there on MSNBC, in the middle of the afternoon, and she was unapologetic).

I could write about the irony of the Trump kids' annoyance at the Biden kid's job-by-nepotism.

I could write about the USPS's inability to restart my mail after I cancelled and rescheduled the Hold Mail Request on-line, received a confirmation of the cancellation and new dates, went to the Post Office itself to make the request in person (and to pick up the accumulated mail) and which has stil not resulted in my mail ending up in my mailbox today.

I could, but I won't.

The sun is out, there's not a cloud in the sky, I drove with my windows down and made every light coming home.

My Wells Fargo adviser called me up and saved me $100 a year in fees.... just like that.

I wound my way through a new-to-me neighborhood as I made a wrong turn and explored the area surrounding my friends' home before returning to MapQuest and asking the lady for help.

Sitting in our seats 15 minutes after class ended, pelting her with opinions and questions, her joy resplendent on her face, our professor declared that she loved us:  Look at you!  This makes me so happy!

A friend and I discussed birth control in Russia in the 1870's while we washed our hands, side by side, discussing the invention of the cup in France.

The Karin Slaughter book I requested has arrived at the library.

Seret called, just to talk, and I heard my phone and had time to answer.  Talking to her reminded me of one of the many pearls of wisdom she shared.  Why choose to be in an unhappy place?  Why leave something beautiful for something that will make you sad?  It's a choice.  Choose beautiful.

Just as when she advised me to consider every bite of food that entered my mouth as a choice, rather than slavishly sticking to one meal plan or another, this made perfect sense. It is also easier to implement than I imagined.  I find myself, as always, using Albert Ellis's Rational Emotive Therapy's prescription to say it out loud, with feeling.

Stop thinking about that! has come out of my mouth on more than one occasion .... in my car, in my garden, walking to get the mail.  Falling asleep at night is a perfect time for those unhappy, unpleasant, sorrowful, frightening thoughts to appear; TBG would not be amused to find himself next to a shrieking creature.  Instead, I force myself to open my eyes and reset my brain, repeating It's a choice.  Choose Beauty.

It works for me, just as quickly as Ativan.

How Can It Be Starting All Over Again?

We've spent the last 5 Halloweens with Little Cuter and her family.  No one in our neighborhood decorates.  Only Christina-Taylor came to trick or treat.  There was no reason to stick around. 

Instead, we went to a completely decorated, kid infested, flat community, where every house was welcoming costumed beggars.  I trekked with FlapJilly the first two years; after that she ran faster than I could keep up.  I stayed at the kids' house, toasting my tootsies on the portable fire pit, dispensing candy and resting my rehabbing joints.

They moved to Indiana, and we followed them there. Their new neighborhood is just as wonderful as their old one; the plan is still the same.  We were all ready to join them this year, when illness caused us to reassess the situation.

We woke up two days before the flight, feeling as if every bug we'd ever encountered had invaded our bodies.  I was 12 hours ahead of TBG in all the symptoms, and they kept coming.  The day before we were to leave, we called Little Cuter.

Do not bring that sick to my house was her succinct response.

$250 and a few computer clicks later, we were rescheduled for early November, she agreed to mail my green mylar hair in time for Halloween, and I'd gotten over my anguish over changing plans.  We spent the weekend feeling punk, until Sunday, when we actually felt quite human.

That lasted 24 hours.

This afternoon, with TBG leading the way, the symptoms have returned.  We're tired.  Our throats and glands are trying to act up.  Our heads are pounding.  He looks red and has a little fever; that's the only thing we aren't sharing.

It's only Monday.  We don't leave for 7 days.  I'm sure we'll be fine by then.

This feels like a mini-flu, like our bodies know what's attacking, like our defenses have been mobilized and are doing their best to fight the invasion.  We got our flu shots a month ago; the nurse told me that if I did get the flu it wold be a much weaker version than if I skipped the shot.

If you haven't gotten your shot yet, Go Do It Right Now.  We feel awful, and this is the mini-flu.

Seeds and an Air Quality Issue

It was busy last Wednesday in Grandma's Garden.

There was, as always, watering to be done.  The tomatoes are very satisfying to water; the leaves perk right up.

 Raking, as always, was a prized activity.  The notion of the rake as an outdoor broom, the shovel as a dustpan, and the green barrow as the trash can has established deep roots in a dedicated group of gardeners, who take great pride in their work.

The main event was refurbishing The Hanging Gardens of Prince. 

The baskets were filled with soil, and your hands and your arms and your bracelet got very very dirty and you just couldn't stop giggling because Grandma Suzi wants you to feel the soil that will nurture your seeds so being dirty was just fine.

 The seeds were very different, and had different needs. 
The hollyhocks were flat and round and black and tan and just needed a gentle push into the soil

The nasturtiuim seeds, on the other hand, were bigger and went in deeper.... 1" to be somewhat precise.  They are experienced enough to know that the seeds must be gently covered and watered in.

 Many scholars knew which tip-to-knuckle finger was exactly one inch, and Grandma Suzi was suitably impressed.
Those who lacked that particular digit used the 6" white and red plastic ruler Grandma Suzi's been carrying around since she lived in Chicago. 
"When you find a good tool, you hang on to it"  - one of the many lessons learned in the garden.

 There was rhythmic chanting coming from the other end of the garden.  It was a lovely sound, a delightful background to the distribution of seeds down at my end.   A scholar presented me with a fallen gonfreda petal.

 As I looked up to take her picture and agree that she could take it home,   I noticed a dust cloud behind her.  Someone was coming to alert me!

They were chanting DUST....DUST.....DUST......

 They were the last group of the day; there would be no further passersby to be dusted. 
The other gardeners were working on the hanging baskets, far away from the oncoming haboob. 
As far as I could see, no tools were raised above shoulders.

 ince there was no harm being done (beyond breathing the dust they were joyfully creating

 Grandma Suzi smiled and, as the dust settled and the clean-up crew took over,

took pictures of some Garden Kids.

Medicare Woes

It's the verbiage that gets me.  Coupled with the bad grammar, it's another indication of how this President has let the country devolve into stupidity and chaos.

The Medicare Part B (Medical Insurance) premium amount for 2020 wasn't available in time to include with this bill.  You're being billed the current 2019 premium rate for January 2020.  Your next bill will reflect the new rate for 2020 and any difference in the amount due for January 2020.

That was printed at the top of the insert in the billing envelope.  If there were ever a sign that the world has gone to hell in a hand-basket, that's it.  How that is possible is beyond me.  There are government employees who are supposed to be on top of this issue.  

Recognizing that, I called my Congresswoman.  The lovely young man who answered the phone thought he might be able to help me with a Medicare question, but, alas, he did not have a ready answer at the tip of his fingers.  We laughed, he put me on hold, and he went to find the Health Care person.  

A brief wait (with no Muzak!) and he returned to tell me that she was as flummoxed as we were.  She wanted to do some investigation - I wanted to know where to direct my ire - and he wondered if she might call me back later, after gathering facts.  Agreeing that facts were important and that my issue was not pressing, I left my contact information and hung up.

The bill is due on the 25th of this month.  Recognizing that the USPS might take its own sweet time in delivering the payment to St. Louis, Missouri, I went on-line to mymedicare.gov to pay it.  Signing in was easy, though the popups were annoying, and arriving at the payment page was simple, too.  Everything was going well until I scrolled to the bottom of the page where this notice awaited:

It may take 3 days to process your payment.

Three days?  Where's the float on that money during that period of time?  Why would it take 3 days for the bits and bytes to find one another and transfer the funds?  Another question I suppose Medicare will have to answer if my payment isn't processed in the next two days, before the due date and I end up protesting late fees.

And, it got worse the more I read.

Due to a processing error, a small percentage of people with Medicare who pay their Medicare premiums through Easy Pay had premiums deducted twice from their bank account. We are currently working with the Treasury Department to reverse the duplicate Medicare premium deduction and have the erroneous deduction credited back to bank accounts, as soon as possible. You can contact us at 1-800-MEDICARE (or use the Live Chat feature) with any questions you have.

Imagine living Social Security check to Social Security check, budgeting and planning so that you don't run out of money at the end of the month.  How must it feel to wait for Medicare to talk to Treasury to fix the problem?  A processing error?  Are there no checks and balances? 

These are old people we're talking about; we frighten more easily, are more vulnerable, have less resilience than we used to.  Double dipping by the government is bad in any situation.  Imagining this happening to G'ma as her mental faculties declined has given me a bellyache.

By this point, I'm really less concerned about the missing commas between January and 2020.

But wait.  There's more.  This was on the bill from TBG's last visit to his GP.

PSA SCREENING - NOT A MEDICALLY NECESSARY SERVICE

Apparently, neither AARP's Medicare Advantage plan nor Medicare itself thinks that prevention is better than treatment.  There's an Adjustment on the bill, which brings the cost down by two thirds, but there's still that pesky $20.44 to pay. 

I spoke to my insurance advisor about this; she agrees that it's ridiculous but told me that my complaints would fall on deaf ears.  Others have tried, and failed.

I'm glad he had the test. I'm glad we had the money to pay for it.  I am beyond sad that my government doesn't want to help me keep him healthy.

I did some sleuthing on the interwebs, and found this, from healthcaredive.com back in June, 2017:

HHS currently has 17 vacant positions that are important enough to require Senate confirmation, according to data from the Washington Post. .....and other rank-and-file HHS positions remain unfilled. The cause appears to be a combination of lack of experience on Trump’s transition team, a federal hiring freeze Trump has administered and his stated belief that many government positions are unnecessary.

Perhaps it was the duty of some of those unnecessary government employees to figure this stuff out.

Medicare used to be a lot easier to navigate, when I was doing it for G'ma, back when they weren't double-charging, back when they knew how much money they wanted, back when.......

As I said to the billing officer at the medical practice this morning - VOTE!

Conflicting Values

I hate it when Doing The Right Thing gets in the way of Doing What I Want.

When I wore stockings, the Gentlemen Prefer Hanes ad campaign forced me to write a sternly feminist letter to the company, forswearing their brand forever.  

Unfortunately, they were the hose that fit me most perfectly, at a price point I could afford (especially on sale at Macy's), with a look and feel that I loved.  I kept up my outward disgust while sporting the product.  I laughed at myself as I shopped.

Then, there were grapes. I was appalled that my supposedly woke sister and her friends were happily munching on anti-labor grapes.  They'd never heard of Cesar Chavez; they spit out the seeds and moved on to watermelon.  Lettuce was a little harder to enforce, because the labeling was uncertain.

I'm sure that we figured something out about the roughage, though I can't remember exactly what it was.  I know for a fact that those were the last grapes bought that summer.

Daddooooo made G'ma return the perfect wooden skirt hangers because they were made in West Germany.  His antipathy for the country apparently waned as he aged; his favorite car turned out to be a Volkswagon Rabbit.  Volkswagon.... a People's Car..... a Nazi car, a phrase I tossed at him once and once only.  He was flustered.  I was surprised that he didn't have a ready answer.  We never revisited the topic again.

That was all then.  Chocolate and the Cubbies are now.

I did some research, until I couldn't stand it any more.  Here's what the WaPo has to say about it, in a June 2019  article titled Cocoa's child laborers. 

Mars, Nestlé and Hershey pledged nearly two decades ago tI am  using cocoa harvested by children. Yet much of the chocolate you buy still starts with child labor. Behind much of the world's chocolate is the work of thousands of impoverished children on West African cocoa farms.

Not-Kathy promises to investigate ethically sourced unsweetened baking chocolate but my brownie recipe has remained unchanged - and much loved - for decades.... and it depends upon a Nestle product.  Not-Kathy's promise came right on the heels on my wondering aloud if I had to abandon making brownies in order to be a responsible human being.

After all, child labor is..... well, child labor.

Chocolate, all 4 of them replied to me in one loud voice, is CHOCOLATE!

So, I've seen where their boundaries lie.

What about sports?  Big Cuter got a Sports Divorce (predicated on facts which might change and thus result in re-establishment of the relationship) from his beloved 49'ers after they treated Colin Kaepernick so poorly, but that break up was tempered by the whole Football as America's Blood Sport meme, coupled with the concussion and CTE admissions.

I am faced with a more troubling dilemma.  

President Trump is coming to Chicago for a fundraiser with Cubs co-owner Todd Ricketts. read the headline in last week's Chicago Tribune.

I wrote to all the companies on the Ivanka's-stuff-sold-here list, refusing to shop there until they stopped being a venue helping to enrich the Trumps.  I advocated for boycotts related to Breitbart and Fox News (the Fox Sports channel is included in our basic package; I avoid the conflict by amortizing the cost and recognizing that any protest would be futile).

But my Cubs?!?!?!?  Can I give up my Cubs because their owner will use the monies he earns from their success to support that which I find insupportable?

I suppose that if I buy no more Cubs gear I can still cheer for the laundry... divorcing those who own the team from what the team means to me.

Can't I?

Probably Not What They Had In Mind......

...... or was it?

I love the jams and aiolis from Stonewall Kitchen (like Soldier Field, there's only one of them).  The fruit spreads are natural and seasonal (I'm opening the strawberry rhubarb right now).  The savory spreads are made with oil instead of mayonnaise; it feels somehow less decadent to lick the spoon clean because of that.

I could only find them at our local Breadsmith , and their selection varied.  So, swallowing my desire to shop local, I went on-line. 

It was lovely.  The site was easy to navigate, I found it simple to meet the minimum for free shipping.  I have emergency house gifts available if I need one before I need the contents myself.  I was content.

And then the package arrived.  It was filled with those problematic white poofy peanuts, the ones you never send to a young mother with a toddler and a dog, especially if they are coddling gifts wrapped in glittery tissue paper.

It also contained this set of instructions, which I'll retype below for those who don't want to enlarge the screen.

Psst...

We're good inside and out.

Not only do our products taste

 great, but they're also shipped

in eco-friendly materials, like our

packing peanuts, which are starch

based and fully dissolvable in water.

Would that that were true.

This was a big box.  There were a lot of those theoretically fully dissolvable eco-friendly peanuts in there.  Having wreaked havoc on my kitchen plumbing by pouring starch down the drain (every Thanksgiving as I peeled potatoes into the disposal and clogged the pipes until one kindly plumber showed me the folly of my ways as I watched him clear out the u-joint)  I was reluctant to up-end them into the sink itself.

Instead, I took a handful and tossed them into a big pot of water.  And I waited.  Seret and Mr DreamyCakes and TBG waited with me.  We watched as nothing much happened.  We looked back as time passed.  This is as good as it got: 

I collected the scum and tossed it in the trash.  It may be eco-friendly, and I may not be on the greatest terms with the pack rats and the javelina in the neighborhood, but I wouldn't subject them to whatever that is in the strainer.  

We watered the in-ground lantana with the remaining starchy liquid.  So far, the plant has survived..... as have the rest of those peanuts.  I'm trying to resist the temptation to pack my Brownie List with them..... and share the wealth with my friends and family.

What's wrong with crumpled brown paper?  This is more trouble than it's worth.

No Comments. I Could Write Nothing Else Tonight

I haven’t seen her in months.  Today, she arrived at the neighborhood bbq as TBG and I were making new friends.

I hesitated, but only for a moment.

I walked over as she wrote her name tag, smiling at her son as I drew near.

I hugged her, pressing my face gently into her hair as she continued to look down.

Hi, it’s good to see you, or some such banalities were exchanged and then I walked away, collected TBG and our folding chairs, and left.

It’s all I can do for her.

I can still smell her shampoo.  That has to be enough.