Summer Hiatus

Hi all,

Just a short post to let you know I am taking a blog break over the summer.  I will still be writing, but just not for my blog.  Which is sort of why I’m taking a break.

My day job gets intense in the spring and summer, and I only have so much band width.  One of my goals is to learn to write first and edit later, but I can’t seem to break the “edit as I write” habit with my blog.  I fall into a perfectionist cycle and end up with writers block and a severe aversion to my writing room.  And writing is as important to my sanity as walking in the woods with my dogs, riding my bike, and eating cake.  Sue not writing = Ungood.

To shorten what is certain to quickly become an 800 word very boring dissertation about my life – I need to retrain my brain.  And the only way I can think of to do that is to write with abandon – without worrying about making it sound pretty right out of the gate.  And I haven’t been able to do that with my blog.  I have tried – with varying degrees of success – but I keep going back to my old habits.

I’m going to keep a journal over the summer, and I’m going to practice writing fiction and dabble in some ancestry stuff – I’m thinking a Belgian time traveling German elfin princess astronaut who uses warp speed to sling shot the sun and bring back dinosaurs while fighting off Romulans and Darth Vader, while teaming with StarLord while riding trained raptors.  You know, the usual.

Most of you who read my blog are friends with me on Facebook, so you know where to find me if you feel desperate for a stupid story to laugh about.

See you in the fall,

Sue

PS.  This may be a smokescreen excuse because I really just want to ride my new bike more.

PPS.  You’ll find out for sure this fall.

PPSS.  Unless it’s a warm fall, then you might have to wait until late fall.

PPSSS.  Feel free to eat large amounts of cake to comfort yourself in my absence.

Horrible Parenting

I think we can all agree that parenting is a crap shoot. You do the best you can with what you know and wing the rest. Chances are, you are winging it quite a bit.  Most of us want our kids to be independent thinkers – to make decisions based on their own experiences and investigation – but still expect them to hold on to our most important core values.

Dave and I raised both of our kids this way, and while they have often presented us with a laundry list of challenges, I didn’t really expect them to stab me in the back with this one.

My kids hate coffee.

I know, right?  Like, they could have been Bear fans or communists but nooooooo.

Where did I go wrong? How could I have prevented this? Am I a bad parent? What will the neighbors think? Will they realize it’s just a phase or will they gather around my door with torches and pitchforks?

I don’t know what else I could have done.  I was quite possibly the best example of what it means to have a coffee addiction in the entire universe.

Every morning I greeted my children with a hug and a coffee breath kiss. I left heart shaped coffee rings on their homework. I walked them into school with my coffee stained shirts and smiled my coffee stained smiles at their teachers and friends. On days they were late for school or dressed funny, the teachers whispered “She must have run out of coffee.”.

I seriously don’t know how they dodged this bullet. It should have been stamped into their little beverage genetic codes from conception. Coffee is the lifeblood from which my entire family functions.

Coffee for breakfast.  Coffee for lunch.  Coffee for dinner.  After dinner coffee.  Coffee with coffee cake.  Coffee with cheesecake.  Coffee with bundt cake.  Coffee with ANY cake.  Coffee with pie.  Coffee while we work.  Coffee while we pretend to work but we are really thinking “this coffee would be much better with cake”.  Coffee for road trips.  Coffee on vacation.  Coffee on coffee tables while reading coffee table books while we wait for more coffee.

But no. You know what they like to drink? They like to drink MILK.  MILK!!!

Nothing against milk – it has it’s place on top of my cereal or IN MY COFFEE(!). Maybe as a beverage if I am feeling guilty about calcium intake, but let’s be serious. We all know that’s what cheese is for. (Mmmmm….cheese…..and cake…. CHEESECAKE…mmmmmmm….)

Their dad, however, is a milk drinker. And he comes from a long line of milk drinkers. Was I NOT paying attention when I met him in art class? Was I so enamored with trying to kiss him during film strips that I forgot to ask him pertinent questions such as “What is your opinion about banjos?” “If your wife brought home several stray cats, how would you react?” and “How do you feel about coffee breath?”. But no. I had to ask things like “Do you have a car” and “Will you pick up me and my friends and take us to go buy beer?”.

So now you know. I’m a parenting failure. I gave birth to milk drinkers, who will, in turn, have more milk drinkers. My legacy is dead. I have failed.  Dave, on the other hand, is victorious.  And I am reminded of this every time I buy groceries and return home with 4 gallons of milk and only one bag of coffee.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must go drown my sorrows in Starbucks Sumatra with just a touch of cream, and a huge ass piece of Costco All American chocolate cake, after which I will enjoy a cozy football nap and then maybe have more coffee.

Until next time,

Parenting Failure Coffee Breath Sue

PS.   I found out AFTER I wrote this that my children do, in fact, drink coffee, thus making my entire post a LIE.  Well played, children.  Well played.

PPS. However, despite being a bald faced liar, with this turn of events, I can now say I am a huge parenting success. I have bestowed two more coffee drinkers unto the universe.  Dave is a milk drinking L-O-S-E-R!

PPSS. Dave would like to remind you that I’m a liar and any claims above regarding my greatness and his loser-ness should be taken with a large glass of milk, of which we have plenty because I just went grocery shopping.

PPSSS.  Dave would also like you to know that at least he will share his milk but if you try to touch my coffee, I will stab you in the back of your hand with a fork.  Not that he has any first hand experience with this.

That Escalated Quickly

Cartoon from the great Dan Piraro, as shared on FaceBook.  http://bizarro.com

Anyone else notice how we went from dead of winter to Holy-Crap-I-Just-Saw-A-Robin in less than a week? I think I even saw a rare white headed snow bird, although they usually don’t drive fly home north until April.

I was out walking the dogs a few days ago (because I’m ALWAYS walking the dogs. When I die, my tombstone will say “She really walked those dogs a lot.”) and saw my first sandhill cranes of the season fly overhead. Although I am one of those weird winter lovers, I have to admit I grinned from ear to ear when I heard them. You don’t realize how long winter is until you hear your first sandhill crane, I guess.

Saturday, the sun shone and it was 62 degrees. In Wisconsin, that’s shorts and flip flops weather. And bike riding weather. And therefore, also leg shaving weather.

I hauled my bike up from storage, threw some air in the tires, and dug out my fancy pants bike shorts. And then I took a gander at 6 months of forest growth and had to make a decision. Was it worse to scare the neighbors with sasquatch legs or to blind them with freshly-shaven, sun-deprived, neon white legs?

You’ve heard the term “Tan fat is better than pale fat” right? Well, pale fat is better than sasquatch legs. I hunted down the pruning shears and got to work. I wanted my winter white legs to look their best in my brand spankin’ new bike shorts.

I bought my new bike shorts off the internet. With justified trepidation I might add. Cycling clothes are sketchy enough to buy even when you can try them on, seeing as they seem to be made for toddlers and anorexically thin, middle-aged men. These shorts had rave reviews on Amazon, and everyone said they fit great and the sizing chart seemed legit, so I threw the dice.

I LOVE THEM. They have mesh pockets on the side for easy storage of maps, gloves, gel packs, phones – whatever us crazy bikers can think of to stick in there. I don’t usually wear the typical bike jerseys that have the pockets in the back (see above – toddlers and skinny middle-aged men do not have BUS’s (Breasts of Unusual Size)) so this is a great idea for me. I am totally geeked out about them. Plus the price was right and they actually fit without me feeling like a stuffed sausage.

And guess what? I also bought an over the shoulder doggie holder. That’s not what it’s really called, but it should be called that because I just made that up and that’s an excellent play on words.

Okay, I didn’t really make it up – I sort of stole it from the old “over the shoulder boulder holder” joke (that’s a bra for those of you who were sheltered as a child) but you have to admit, it gives a clear and concise picture in your head and is much easier to understand than the SEO title it has on Amazon. The “i’Pet® Hands-free Reversible Small Dog Cat Sling Carrier Bag Travel Tote Soft Comfortable Puppy Kitty Rabbit Double-sided Pouch Shoulder Carry Tote Handbag”.

What?

Exactly. So I tried that out today, too. One thing about spring in Wisconsin – it gets deceptively warm for about two weeks and all the birds come back and start partying, and then it snows, rains, and freezes for a month (and the birds fall for it EVERY TIME. You would think they would learn) so you have to spend as much time in the sun as you can before it disappears again.

See below – don’t I look like Paris Hilton? I could be her twin, right?

For the record, I’m not really the froo-froo girlie girl walking around with her poochy-woochy-kins type. But Lucky dog has a bad feet so long walks leave him limping with bloody toes. And when I leave him home, he howls – which is equally detrimental to his health because everyone wants to kill him then. This carrier worked perfectly, and will make for an awesome summer of dog walking.

Okay – I’ve rambled on for far too long, so those of you still reading – go have some cake.   You totally deserve it.

Sue

PS.  If you want to check out the shorts, you can do so here: Aero Tech Designs  I’m pleased enough that I will probably buy a second pair.  If you are interested in the doggie carrier, you can check that out here:  Over The Shoulder Doggie Holder

PPS.  On my bike ride on Saturday, I stopped to check out Wequiock Falls.  There was a guy there playing one of those wooden flutes you see advertised on cable or at art shows.  He played under the bridge, so when you stood on the observation deck, you could only hear him, not see him.  It was surreal but cool.  Just had to share.

 

Glamorous. Just Call Me Fergie.

Well, the pressure cooker has found a new home. I haven’t heard from her since, so I am assuming she is either madly in love with it and cooking up a storm or dead from poisoning and unable to communicate her utter loathing. Either way, I’m off the hook.

Meanwhile, here at the DeGroot house, life marches on. Specifically, it marches behind tiny yorkie butts that produce a surprising amount of poo. Most of that poo is gathered in small plastic bags and disposed of in the garbage. Please do not ask me where the garbage takes it. Probably the landfill where it can pile up with all those disposable diapers we threw in there when the kids were little. But hey, at least the poo is not in your yard or on the road or on the bottom of your foot. See? Silver linings.

Unfortunately for me, one of the bags I used Saturday morning had a hole in it. Which I didn’t notice until I pulled it out of my pocket and poop flew everywhere. It was quite the start to my day, I must tell you.

The good news is that I was outside and the poop all flew on the road. That’s pretty much all the good news. Because then I stepped in it three times while I was spinning around in confusion and the dogs were lunging at the end of their retractable leashes at an oncoming huge pickup truck. However, I did not notice the truck because A) my dogs are jerks and bark all the time and B) I was digging in my pocket for a new bag while still holding the gross holey poopy bag, while trying to hang on to both leashes, while trying not to step in more poop.

I noticed the truck finally, and started pulling the dogs in but of course I still had the defective poop bag in my hand so I’m trying not to drop that while trying not to get poop on my gloves while trying not to fling any more poop while trying to operate the retractable leashes. And now I’m sweating profusely. Truly a vision of loveliness.

I closed my eyes and stood there – mentally swearing at my father. My dad saves all of his bags that come with his newspaper and gives them to me. They make excellent dog poop bags – they are large enough for your hand to fit into them but compact enough that you hardly notice them in your pocket, unlike bulky plastic grocery bags which make me look like I have goiters on my hips. So it’s a win-win situation, except that my dad doesn’t pay attention to whether the bags have holes in them or not.

Of course, at 52, I am sure he figures his daughter has enough poop bag experience and marginal intelligence to inspect each bag prior to use. That appears to be his undoing. And mine.

So I finally get the poop off my shoe and most of it off the road and go home. I walk in the garage, I pull the new poop bag out of my pocket to throw in the garbage and see a tiny bit of yellowish snow topple to the floor. That’s when I realized that the poop may have gone other places besides all over the road. Oh boy. Do I dare stick my hand in my pocket?

Of course I do. You all know me better than that. This is a woman who will eat a strange M&M off the carpet at work. I live on the edge.

Thankfully, the only other thing in my pocket was another empty bag. But I knew there was poop juice in there because of the snow. Or perhaps, by now, it was only poop cooties. Either way, the pocket was compromised.

I got in the house and threw my coat on the bed while I dug around in the bathroom cupboard looking for the antiseptic wipes, when Dave walked in the room. He stuck his head in the bathroom and asked me what I was doing.

“Cleaning out the poop juice in my pocket”, I told him.

You wanna ruin the ambiance of the bedroom? Just mention “poop juice”.

“That’s so disturbing,” he said. “Why don’t you just wash the entire jacket?”

Oh sure. Mr. Logical. NOW you show up. At least this time I didn’t forget the poop bag in my pocket like I did when I washed my jacket last year. Silver linings, baby. Silver linings.

Sue

PS. I’m probably the only person you know that can write an entire 800 word blog post about a single incident of dog poop. I should get some kind of award for that.

Pressure Cooker For Sale

I’m selling my pressure cooker.  Ya wanna buy it?  6-quart Elite something something something – $40.  I paid $80.

I suppose you want to know WHY I am selling it.  It’s hard to admit, but I’m a pressure cooker drop out.  Except I really can’t blame the pressure cooker – it worked fine and cooked everything exactly the way it was supposed to…I think.

And there is the crux of the matter.  I am not really sure how food is supposed to look or taste when it comes out of the cooker.  I watched a few million infomercials and they just dumped all the ingredients in and assured the audience that even an idiot can make fabulous meals with it.  I must be some special kind of idiot then.

My first attempt was chicken tenderloins, and I threw in a can of cream of mushroom soup and some cut up potatoes and some butter and seasoning.  I couldn’t get it to pressurize so I added more water, JUST LIKE IT SAID TO DO IN THE TROUBLESHOOTING GUIDE.  Still wouldn’t build up pressure.  Added more water.  Do you see where this is going?  Finally, I figured out I had to push down on the top to get a good seal and I finally had pressure.  Yay!

Only by now, I no longer had chicken with potatoes and cream of mushroom soup.  I had chicken and potatoes in opaque water with tiny gross black thingies in it and some weird ass film over everything.  And the potatoes were mushy.  And the chicken looked diseased.  Family reaction?  “Oh my God….”

Although it was not visually appealing, it didn’t taste horrible.  Like, no vomiting ensued after placing a forkful in our mouths.  So, even though Dave begged me to return it, I decided to watch a few more infomercials, and give it another chance.

The 2nd attempt involved spoon steaks.  Usually, I buy the ones that are marinated in the burgundy pepper stuff and even though I know it’s probably full of chemicals, they are quite delicious.  Unfortunately, my brain was on vacation when I was at the store because I returned home with plain, non-chemical infused spoon steaks.  Boring.

But I knew from watching the last infomercial that if I just browned them on the sauté feature and added some organic chicken broth, I would have a miracle dinner in less than 15 minutes.  Liars.  But the presentation was MUCH better than the last time.  Family reaction?  “You don’t have to make this again.”

Despite my family shoving the pressure cooker back in the box, taping the receipt to the top, and sticking it in my car, I decided I just hadn’t hit on the right dish yet.  I unpacked it and snuck it back in the cupboard at midnight, and did some major pressure cooking shopping the next day.

I bought a lemon pepper pork roast.  I bought pork chops.  I bought a stuffed pork roast.  Pork was obviously on sale.  I brought my precious dinner ideas home and nestled them in the freezer until the next Sunday dinner.  This time, it was going to be perfect.

Sunday came and I decided on the lemon pepper roast.  It sounded so delicious!  I made sure it was thoroughly thawed (say that three times fast) and browned it just like I did the spoon steaks.  I added 1 cup of chicken broth, just like the spoon steaks.  I figured after all, the spoon steaks would have been much better if I had used the marinated ones, so this pork roast was going to be fantastic.

When it was finished, I pulled out the roast and set it on a plate.  It looked…grey.  It didn’t look crispy, even though I browned it.  It didn’t look like “the other white meat” like it does when I cook it on the grill or in the slow cooker.  Hmmmmm.

I cut into it, and it was definitely tender.  Still grey, though.  My daughter saw my hesitation (never let your children sense your fear in the kitchen.  One funny look from you and they won’t eat broccoli for five years), and wrinkled her nose at it.  “Is that even done?” she asked.

“Sure.  Sure it’s done,” I said.  I poked at it.  It was a little pink in the center.  Grey and pink.  Not good food colors.  I cut towards the end, pretty sure those pieces would be done at least.  I took a bite.  I smiled.  I chewed.  I smiled bravely while I chewed, and then my eyes watered and my brain screamed “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY SPIT IT OUT!”  I swallowed.

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” said Dave.

“No…it’s not..baaaaad,” I drawled.

Dave took a bite and, to his credit, actually swallowed it.  “Kinda rubbery, dontcha think?” he said.  My daughter was in the process of taking her first bite when she heard his verdict and immediately beelined it for the kitchen sink where she made her opinion known with gagging.

Not only was it rubbery (although a tender rubbery.  Like, not hard to chew but still rubbery.  Very odd sensation.) but it didn’t taste like lemon pepper or pork or a combination of lemon pepper and pork or even just lemon or just pepper or just pork.  It tasted like chemicals, only not in a good way.  More like in a “I’m eating rubberized Lysol” way.

So now, we have an entire lemon pepper pork roast bagged up in the freezer until we decide what to do with it.  I can’t throw it away because of all the starving children in China and Dave won’t let me pawn it off on our son (“Really, honey.  I think you have given him enough fodder for the therapist.”) so it will just sit in the freezer until one day Dave throws it away when I’m not looking.

Meanwhile, I have a pressure cooker for sale.  Only used three times!

Sue

PS.  I am fully aware that my experiences have more to do with the cook and not so much the cooker, so no need to point that out.

PPS.  If you DO point it out, expect some rubber pork roast on your porch.

PPSS.  This is why I eat cake.  Cake would never do this to me.

 

 

 

 

Happy Dog Butt New Year

DOG BUTTS!!

Happy 2016!

After posting this picture, I now realize some of these dog butts are anatomically correct.  Sorry about that.

I take that back.  I’m not sorry.  These magnets are hilarious.  In fact, I’m going on Amazon in about 5 minutes to go buy the cat butt version.   Photo pending.

This brings me to my New Years Resolution, which is to fill my cube at work with as many distracting toys as possible.  I’m hoping this prevents any real work being done, as my secondary goal is to get paid for doing as little as possible.  Viva La Dilbert!

I actually have a serious resolution but I’m keeping it a secret.  Well, I’ll give you a hint.  My 2016 goal is to focus on my writing skills by writing a lot and taking workshops and classes.  So..that’s pretty much the actual goal, and not really a hint.

Oh yeah, and win the Power Ball.  You know, because there’s a chance.  Although I believe the odds of being eaten by a polar bear are higher.  I don’t live in Alaska so I figure that negates the polar bear issue and increases my odds of winning.

Plus, I deserve to win the lottery because I would use it for so many awesome things like shoes and cake and books and yarn and bike parts and never use it for building a secret death ray to hold the world hostage for one billion dollars.  (Because I would already have one billion dollars. Duh.)

I really just put that last paragraph in there so I had a reason to post a photo of Dr. Evil.  And use the term “death ray” in a sentence as it was next up in my “Word of the Day” program.  See?  I’m just full of self-help and bettering myself for 2016.

Speaking of randomly quoting movies – I love to randomly quote movies and I love really bad puns and clichés.  I know these are not ideal when one wants to be considered a “good” writer, but I’m not most writers.  I’m Sue.  And I am great.

My last blog referenced several movies, which I have listed below.  If you comment below on which phrases from my blog go with each movie listed, I will split my lottery winnings with you.  You odds of winning any of my winnings are the same as me winning and you don’t have to spend any money, which is just more winning!

Here they are, as well as a link to my last blog:  It’s All About That Cake.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind

Jurassic Park (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 , 10, etc.)

Christmas Vacation

The Wolverine

Elf

The Lord of the Rings

The Perfect Storm (this one’s a gimme)

Baby Got Back (technically a song but I’m running out of movie references and it looked lame only having 7)

Hot Tub Time Machine (this one is a stretch because the anatomy is wrong but again, running into the “lame” factor.  I think I need at least 10 to not be entirely lame.)

A Christmas Story (this one is so much of a stretch as to be virtually nonexistent but I needed number 10.  Pretty much any answer you give for this one will be accepted).

As a disclaimer:  Any one making reference to this blog, blogger or quiz being “Lame” will be removed from the list of winners.  You will no longer be “winning”.  You will be “losing” which makes you a “loser” and you don’t want to be a loser now do you.  Exactly.

Okay, that’s all I got tonight, peeps.

Stay warm and snuggly-

Sue (the Great)

PS.  No tiger blood was ingested despite my not so subtle Charlie Sheen reference.

PPS.  I’m not actually a Charlie Sheen fan.

PPSS.  Even if I was a Charlie Sheen fan (which I’m not), I still would not drink tiger blood or any blood because A) That’s disgusting and B) I’m not a vampire and C) Still so disgusting and D) Ew.

It’s All About That Cake

The first time Dave and I went to Costco, we saw it. The holy grail of cakes. It was huge, even by Costco standards – a Devil’s Tower of dark chocolate shavings over creamy chocolate frosting, covering what we assumed and fervently hoped was rich chocolate cake layered with additional chocolate frosting. It was called the All American Chocolate Cake. And by golly, it was our patriotic duty to buy it.

Except…it was, as I referenced earlier, gigantic. We bent over it for a better look, mesmerized, our breath fogging the plastic dome. Wondering. Dreaming. Drooling. It was just so BIG. Glorious, yes, but who was going to eat all that cake?

Granted, we don’t normally ask that question in our house. We know who is going to eat all that cake. But just because a person CAN do something doesn’t mean they SHOULD do something. I would not normally apply this rule to cake, but in this case, even I had to make an exception.

After about 5 minutes, Dave lifted the cake. “Holy hell,” he muttered. He set it down and it was my turn. Holy hell is right. It felt like it weighed about 10 pounds. We needed a family event to justify that bad boy, patriotic duty or no.

Reluctantly, we walked away. We went and grabbed our 50 pack of toilet paper (because, as you know, we are full of shit), a 20 pack of paper towels, a 100 pound bag of potato chips, an electric fireplace, a sofa, a 10 pack of 5’ x 7’ rugs, a 20 gallon jug of olives, a 500 piece set of pots and pans, a couple of lawn chairs, and a kayak. Then we circled back to the cake.

“I don’t think we can do it,” said Dave.

“Really? I think we can.”

“Can’t.”

“Can.”

“Nobody in our house needs to eat this much cake.”

“FINE!”

About once a month, we return to Costco and re-evaluate the All American Chocolate Cake. We lift it, gaze at it’s chocolatey beauty, and say things like: “Maybe we should just buy it.” “No, that thing is huge. It will take us a week to eat it.” “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” “Wow, it really is heavy. Here, feel how heavy this is.” “Wow – yes it weighs a ton.” “You’re drooling.” “Oops – sorry.” “So, are we walking away?” “Yes.” “For sure?” “Yes – for sure.”

Over the next year, we waited patiently for an All American Chocolate Cake worthy family event. Not Easter. Not Memorial Weekend. Not the 4th. Not Labor Day. Not Thanksgiving. Not Christmas. Not when Cousin Eddy had the plate removed from his head. Not when the raptors had babies in Grandpa Hammond’s sock drawer. Not the Festival of Shirtless Jackman.

Enter November 13th, 2015. My long-lost sister would be home from Arizona, and this was the night we were planning our main get together before sending her off again. We would have 12 people there, and one of those people was my brother, who has the cake capacity of 2 sumo wrestlers. It was the perfect storm.

I was pretty excited walking into Costco and grabbing that 10 pounds of chocolatey heaven and setting it in my cart. I floated to the check out and gleefully rubbed my hands together before setting it on the belt. Finally, it was mine.

The checkout guy acted like he had never seen the All American Chocolate Cake before. “Wow, this is a big cake! It looks delicious! Did you ever have it before? It’s so BIG! Who is going to eat all that cake? Do you need any help? I love cake! Wow, I wish I could taste it. It looks so good! Are you sure you don’t need any help getting your things to the car?” Suddenly I wanted to stab that cotton-headed ninny-muggins in the hand with a fork and hiss at him to get away from My Precious, dammit.

By some miracle, the cake made it all the way to my house and then all the way to my mom’s the next day, without the top “accidentally” popping off and “Gee, as long as it’s open maybe I should test it to be sure it’s not poisoned” happening.

But then, at my mom’s – disaster struck. My brother-in-law Pete was not coming. My brother-in-law Greg was not coming. And my brother had to work and so he was not coming. I was short 3 brothers and 2 sumo wrestlers in the cake eating department. No problem, I told myself. We’re professionals. We can handle this cake.

Then my mom put out snacks. And dinner was really really good. And everyone was getting just a tiny bit full. Still no problem. When the going gets tough, the Conard’s eat cake.

My entire family loves cake – it’s not just me. My mom and my sister Celeste are probably the only two who really have any sort of “cake limit” and will usually only eat a skinny slice (this would be considered a “normal slice” to the majority of the human race) and the rest of us belly up to the cake bar for a big corner piece, preferably with a giant frosting flower, or if it’s a round cake – a 2” slice with an ice cream chaser.

I cut into the cake, and removed what I thought was a very generous piece, only to see the cake literally meld itself back together. Okay, it didn’t really do that, but wow – it barely made a difference. So I kept hacking away – everyone getting a slice of cake the size of Texas including my mom and sister, plus a scoop of ice cream. We still had 2/3’s of the cake left.

The cake was delicious, and we all ate to bursting. But here’s the kicker. When it came time to divvy up the leftovers, nobody wanted to take any cake home. Not even me. Every bite of that cake was going to add 10 immovable pounds to our hips and Lord only knew what it would do to our thighs. I mean, it was a Costco cake – it did everything big and our genetically thunderous thighs did not need any help in that department.

Dave and I brought it home, our poor, sad, unwanted All American Chocolate Cake. We did our best to give it an honorary burial-by-eating, but in the end, we weren’t up to the challenge. It lived the rest of it’s life on the counter, slowly drying to death until we finally buried it in the trash.

It was a good cake. A chocolatey cake. It was heavenly and delicious and I failed it. Apparently even I have a cake limit. It was a crushing blow to my cake confidence and a sad end to our All American Chocolate Cake dream. A sad end indeed.

It took me a week of grieving before I was able to step foot in Costco again. I walked thru the bakery section and couldn’t bear to see the new All American Chocolate Cakes just waiting for a family to love them. I turned away and my eyes fell upon…

A Costco Pumpkin Pie. And it was huge.

Pietistically yours,
Sue

PS – Can you name all of the movies I referenced in my post? It wasn’t intentional at first but I seem to love movie references as much as I love puns.

PPS.  The pie was just as delicious as the cake.

PPSS.  Mmmmmmmm….pie….cake…pie….cake…pie…cake….

Mary Did You Know?

Christmas is coming up fast, it seems. I feel like I am so far behind and totally not ready. Maybe it’s because it’s so warm yet. My brain thinks it’s still October. Anyway, I thought I would share a little exercise that I am doing with my friends from church – it is helping me practice gratitude and reminding me of the joy that came with the birth of Christ.

The holidays are busy for everyone and some of us fly south for the winter (not me, in case you were wondering – although with El Nino upon us, I’m not sure you can tell the difference between Florida and Wisconsin right now) so we are participating, via email, in prayerful reflection (lectio divine) over a single scripture.

The scripture we are reflecting on is this:  And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. Luke 2:1

Yeah, what a fun one…government and taxes.

But of course, we all know the “rest of the story..” (read in Paul Harvey’s voice for best results).  Because of this decree, Joseph and Mary have to schlep from Nazareth to Bethlehem of Judea – 80 odd miles via roadways made 2000 years ago (translation:  really crappy roads).  On foot.  For over a week.  During the rainy season.  Wearing layers of woolen cloaks.  Up and down and up and down hills.  Sleeping outside.  In the mud.  And the cold.  Carrying all of their own provisions.  With Mary 9 months pregnant (NINE MONTHS!).

Oh wait – they had a donkey.  That makes it so much better.

I just realized that Mary had the perfect labor and delivery story to use on Jesus.  “I had to walk 80 miles!  Pregnant!  In the rain!  Uphill!  And after we got there, we couldn’t find a hotel and ended up having you in a cave.  And then a bunch of smelly shepherds piled in and then those singing angels!  Oy!  The singing!  The noise!  The smell!  And the next day we had to go pay taxes.  TAXES!  You should be so lucky.  So don’t tell me you’re “too tired” to heal the sick.  I’ll give you “too tired….”

Meanwhile Jesus is rolling his eyes and picking at the food on his plate, wondering why all the OTHER kids get to go to the camel races.

I remember my ninth month with both of my pregnancies. I don’t recall it as being a “good time”. I certainly wouldn’t recommend it as a time for an 80 mile hike – with or without a donkey.  I couldn’t see my feet, which is surprising because they had grown a size and were swollen to the point that the only shoes that fit were Dave’s slippers. I had to pee every 5 minutes which meant I had to somehow negotiate the physics of sitting down and standing up without tipping over into the bathtub.

I couldn’t stand very long without my stomach muscles threatening to flee the country and when I sat down, my pelvis felt like it was burrowing it’s way to China. Laying down was marginally better, except the having to pee every 5 minutes thing and flopping around like a big ole fat fish trying to get out of the waterbed (a sight to see, mind you. And stop raising your eyebrows about the waterbed. This was the eighties. I’m old, remember?).

So the very idea of poor Mary and Joseph spending the last week of her pregnancy hiking thru the hills of Galilee and Judea gives me a new appreciation for my millennial comforts.  I think I shall go out in the garage and hug my car now, thank you very much.  And my accountant.  And my nice hospital where I gave birth to my children in my fancy birthing suite.  And that county road worker over there, laying down the new asphalt so I can drive my car on nice smooth roads.  Oh wait…he’s running away.  Why is he running?  Wow, he is fast!  Fine!  Don’t get your hug then!  Your loss, buddy!

So “it came to pass” that cars were invented and hospitals and accountants and yoga pants and cute maternity tunics and Skechers.  And women sometimes took these things for granted until they read about Mary and then became ever so grateful that God had allowed them to be born in a time that did not require 80 mile hikes and riding on donkeys and giving birth in caves in front of smelly shepherds because it was weird enough having half the nursing and intern staff staring at her nether regions.

May the peace and joy of our living Savior follow you throughout this holiday season, as we celebrate His humble birth.

Joyous-Grateful-Christmas-Tactically yours,

Sue

PS.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.  And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.  And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. – Luke 2:7-14

 

Come In Orson

It is now the end of my NaNoWriMo experiment. I did not write a novel. I did not write 50000 words. I did not pass Go. I did not collect $200. But I did write almost every day, and I tried to get at least 500 words in when I wrote. I came close enough to this goal to be happy, and to call this experiment a “win”.

As a bonus, I learned a lot about myself and about how I write.   I can tell you are all just dying to know, so in the words of the great Samuel Mo-Fo Jackson: “Hold on to your butts.”

I LIKE TO WRITE.

That seems less monumental now that I see it in print. I mean, “Duh”, right?  But I was getting to the point of dreading my time at the keyboard.  I wanted every line to be perfect and I wanted everyone to believe my writing was perfect and I wanted to fit my square-ass peg in a round-ass hole.  Over thinking and editing every line lead to slow and painful writing, and when I couldn’t keep up with what I thought my imagined pace should be, I wrote less and had less joy doing it.

NaNoWriMo, however, is all about writing without editing.  Just letting the words fly out onto the paper, all willy-nilly and higgley-piggley.  I about had a coronary the first few days.  But then I got into it.  It became fun.  Nothing made sense at first, but I didn’t care.  I was writing, and as I wrote, I found golden nuggets along the way.

My main golden nugget?  Writing is a whole lot more fun when I’m not being such an anal asshole to myself.

MY WRITING STYLE IS MESSY.

I write the same way I clean my house. I make a fantastic mess and then somehow, in between looking at old photos and reading long forgotten sales flyers, I organize it into place again. I also leave cupboard doors open while I am cooking. I don’t know if this is related, but it drives certain people in my life crazy. So if leaving cupboard doors open is a pet peeve of yours, feel free to rant about it in the comments. It won’t change anything, but I know it will make you feel better.

I am much happier and more productive when I make a big writing mess, and then go thru it all later and puzzle it into a single, flowing, beautiful, angelic document of pure bliss and perfection. It is absolutely just as time consuming as my old way of writing one sentence and then editing it to death, but I get to write a lot more and I am editing less. I believe speed and overall better writing will take place over time and if it doesn’t – who cares?  But it will. And you know why? Because of…

PRACTICE

Why am I so old before I am finally understanding the concept of practice and not perfection?

When I was a teenager, my friends and I were Steve Martin fanatics, to the point of purchasing banjos and taking banjo lessons. Serious groupie behavior. However, to play the banjo with the same skill as Steve Martin involves years of dedicated practice. YEARS. And I wanted perfection, and I wanted it yesterday. I still love Steve Martin, but I no longer own a banjo.  I sold it when I realized that I would never dedicate enough time and energy to being that good.  It was a desire, but it wasn’t a dream I was willing to fight that hard for.

Writing has been a similar experience for me – I believed I was supposed to be perfect right out of the gate. Except I wasn’t.  And my writing was all over the place.  And I kept switching my genre.  And writing became a chore.

But this WAS my dream.  And still is.  I refused to give up.  And still do.  I will be in Kristin Lamb’s 5% of 5% of 5%, even if it takes me until I’m 90.  Even if I suck.  Even if no other living human ever reads another word I write, although that would be terribly depressing.

Because my new attitude is practice.  I can’t get better if I’m not writing.  I can’t find open doors and opportunities if I am not actively learning and participating in the writing world.  And I now know that it will always be “practice” and not “perfection.  And I am so very okay with that.  Finally.

THE BLOG

Photography is a lot of fun, but it’s not my first love.  I have time to be either a really good photographer or a really good writer.  I have to pick one and commit (which also relates to genre).

So I am going to stop muddying the waters of my blog, and will be pulling away from photo challenges and instead focusing on humorous posts as they relate to day-to-day living. I will publish every two weeks. On a Monday. With a full elvish moon.  Carved into stone by Wolverine at high tide during the festival of Shirtless Jackman, while Steve Martin plays Foggy Mountain.

THE NOVEL.

I will write one. But not this year. This year, I will be focusing on practice, establishing permanent writing habits, doing a few workshops, reading books about writing – that sort of thing.  Oh yeah and maybe realize my dream of being the next Sue DeGroot.  Who is great, by the way.  In case you missed that.

Of course I will still be biking and hiking and rolling around in the dirt and picking wood ticks off the dogs and eating butt loads of cake, and then coming back here to tell you about it – humorously of course. But I think…I think it will finally all make sense.  At least to me.  You guys are probably screwed.

Writingly yours,

Sue

PS.  Thanksgiving was awesome and pie filled – it’s the one time of year pie is an acceptable alternative over cake.

PPS.  I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and that you all gained as much weight as I did.  Because I’m considerate that way.

PSS.  I would like to thank all of you who have inspired me and encouraged me to keep writing.  Some of you know who you are.  Some of you have no idea.  I was going to name names, but chances are I will forget someone significant and then feelings will be hurt and wars will rage and all of mankind will cease to exist.  So instead, here are the letters of all the initials of all of you.  A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z.  And the entire Klingon alphabet, just for good measure.

 

Mork Calling Orson

  

My hat’s off to any and all participating in the full 50k word NaNoWriMo.  You are dedicated, hardworking, inspirational…and if I may be so bold and not too horribly offensive…mentally deranged.

I tried one day to hit 1700 words (the average word count needed per day to hit a 50k goal over 30 days) and my last paragraph read something like this:  Because I’m trying to find things to write about to get all my words in so I can stop writing. Ok really don’t need to get all my words in. Need to write for 5 more minutes. This isn’t very fun. Tomorrow I will actually write something resembling a blog post. I had the idea for 50 shades of brown – poop color coded underwear that hide skid marks depending on if you picked the right shade of brown for that day. This idea sounds like a Tommy Halvelford (Parks and Rec) idea. And I think I just spelled his name wrong.

I was supposed to be writing my “story”.  However, I came into this challenge with no characters, no plot, no ideas.  Oh wait – I had one thing – the name of my protagonist.  And you know how I picked out that name?  My name spelled backwards.  Yeah, because that’s the level of skill we are dealing with here:  Bits and pieces of weird and obscure information that randomly pop into my head.

On a side note:  I have noticed lately that I write in puns.  Usually unintended, although I will often notice them when I am editing and may point it out with a “see what I did there?” in case you aren’t Belgian and didn’t notice.  I just re-read my 1700 word travesty and found this: I wonder if I should try fleshing out my character more. Like, make her fat.  Really, Sue?  This is why mommy drinks.

My subsequent writing has been a mix of blog ideas, adding more to my “story”, such as it is, and journaling.  And I am keeping to my original goal of 500 words a day, 15 minutes per day except weekends, where I try to get in an hour so I can do editing on all the garbage I wrote earlier, because I almost had a mental breakdown the first day of writing without editing.  My OCD was on FIRE.

Even taking that into consideration, this has been a very positive experience so far.  Number One – I’m writing every day and Number Two – I’m having fun.  Now, how many of you who read “Number Two” instantly thought of poop?  You are my target audience for “Fifty Shades of Brown”.  If you think I’m not writing that, you are so very wrong.  That shit’s gonna be a best seller. <—- Pun alert for you non-Belgians.

And yes, I realize that if I have to point it out, it’s probably not that funny.  But then again, I think, “What if they miss it?  It’s so funny!  I’m so funny!  Sue is great!” so I always point it out.  WHEN I NOTICE IT.  If you see any I haven’t deliberately noted, please let me know.  You will be given a large reward of Nothing, but you will have bragging rights and I will respond to your comment with “_________ is great.”  allowing you a nanosecond of being greater than the greatest person in the universe:  Me.

Poopingly yours,

Sue