Who ya gonna call?

Home from work. Find myself phoneless. Panic kicks in, narrowing the sidewalk for reason.

Not in the car, under the seat, down in the crevice.

Not in the trunk, but glad my "new" car has a light in the trunk.

Not in my purse.  Dump everything out.  Try again. Still not in my purse, or the car, or the trunk.

Would anyone still be at work? Would they check email before leaving?

That's the trouble with living alone with just a cellphone.  No way to call myself!

Where did I go today? Rode in Janie's car. She lives way out in the country, and I won't see her for five days. Went to Fadi's for lunch, and sat in that goofy booth. Too tall cushion, too close to the pillar. Easy place for a phone to fall out, but be sure to get the cauliflower*.

Loaded stuff into the trunk--a big bag of pinecones.  Phone on the street where I parked?

Not hyperventilating, but getting close.  Go check the mail kiosk and near the recycling cart. It is NOT yet time for dumpster diving!

Did I flush it? Is it on vibrate? Is it out of juice? We're talking a disaster of Biblical proportions.

The last paranormal removal specialists at work received the email, and called my number. They wandered the library listening, listening.

How do I spell relief? G-H-O-S-T-B-U-S-T-E-R-S! Deep down behind a cushion in the back office a little blue phone was playing that song. The phone was found, and even brought to my condo.





I just wanna thank Egon, Ray, Venkman, and Zeddemore, plus Sharon and Pam. And since I can't figure out how to change it, my ringtone will probably remain the Ghostbusters theme song forever. And yes, I still miss those old card catalogs. Also the funny little Ghostbusters who lived in my house.

*Cauliflower--Stewed in its own juices with lemon juice and spices, then fried with zero trans fat oil. 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Cocoa, Cinque Terre, and the Corner Bakery combo

Again this year I did not kiss Billy Crystal at midnight, although I'm sad that Nora Ephron left us in 2012. Instead I piled on the quilts, drank cocoa, and stayed up late reading Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins, way past eight p.m.  I drifted away in a happy dream where iridescent hummingbirds towed congressional representatives and senators to happy rainbow compromise with pink satin ribbons.  It seemed so real!

Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins also seems so real and wonderful. I loved being sucked into all the story lines and movie pitches. And when the iridescent hummingbirds bring me a Very Big Check, I will go to Cinque Terre to hike and write my memoirs. I will stay at the Hotel Adequate View for sure.

Had lunch with long-time friends at Corner Bakery.  My walking buddy claims this is our annual New Year's tradition.  I'm embarrassed to admit if it is our tradition I don't recall. Read back through my blog entries from a year ago, and found no Corner Bakery New Year's.

There's something profoundly anchoring about a tradition so unblogworthy. I rely heavily on that friendship, that comfort of the known, that hesitationless panini combo. The routine is so consistent that the only decision is whether to start walking from her home or mine.

Two years ago my sister and I brought Dad to live out his days in Plano, Texas. One year ago, Dad was entering his final downhill slide. Eight years ago my mother was being transported to Mayo Clinic. I did not know I'd just seen her for the last time.

January is a tough month.  I look to the ceiling and see cobwebs that date back to the dawn of the modern era. The hummingbirds fly in with ribbons, not cobwebs.

There was about a year and a half after Mom died when Dad still had most of his wits.  He followed my interests in photography and hummingbirds and spiders.  He could still connect those interests with our family tradition of exchanging Christmas tree ornaments. He was not yet in the toddler self-centered dementia. He could still plan ahead.

I cherish the cloisonne hummingbird ornaments he ordered from a museum catalog that year knowing how much I would like them.  The wonderful spider pin he gave me has a broken clasp, but there's a silken web leading to an alert mind and a man with whom I'd shared every birthday.

Yes, January is a rough month. Good friends are the ribbons and webs that keep me together. And I recommend the poblano fresco sandwich with roast beef.


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Bourbon applesauce cake, bubonic plague, and buddies

My blogging friend Kathleen at Wait! I Have a Blog?! is always showing fabulous food art.  My blog buddy Kim at Hummus Anonymous is on the lookout for recipes.  I am on the lookout for rats, alas.

This photo shows the gorgeous bourbon applesauce cake sent me in lieu of tea and sympathy by my college friend Mary of Ohio. Yikes. Mary and I have been friends for thirty-seven years which is totally impossible!

The cake arrived today, but I'm a bit afraid to dive into it. Mary used my old recipe and I am not an elephant. Bourbon applesauce one-bowl cake is something I used to make as a newlywed. I remember enormous men eating a piece and then saying slowly, "That didn't just have applesauce in it, did it?"  Then they would fall to the floor like elephants shot with tranquilizer guns.

D.U.E. first offense

The cake smells so earthy and wholesome, what with the wheat germ.  I'll have an observer in my art classes tomorrow while we are doing printmaking.  The observer is a parent of a student as well as a student teacher, so it would be a VBT if I fell over on the floor.



The bubonic plague will kill me first. The squirrel sat on the patio fence trying to use ESP to convince me to refill the bird-feeder. When the squirrel took a break, the ring-necked dove stood in the same place on the fence trying to guilt-trip me. I ignored them, so they called in the big guns.

Yes, the begging, pleading, cute-as-a-button junco!  I am no match for the CAABJ.  Your very wish is my command!

So I fill up the bird-feeder and the junco collects a paycheck.  The ring-neck dove pigs out.  Then the squirrel.  Then, alas, the rat.

By refilling the feeder I resumed my enabling behavior.  No little pink ears or tiny toes will make me feel better. Being a rat is a bad job, but I don't want to make it easier. Being a squirrel is just diurnal rat-being.

How are members of Congress and Presidential candidates any different than my fence-beggers?  I'm just asking...

This is the recipe for Knock Over Elephants Bourbon Applesauce Cake aka KOEBAC (and I will eat some tomorrow, Mary!):

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Private parts / Further resolutions

I'm missing something here.  My walking buddy and I walk side by side.  In my neighborhood we walk a clockwise route, and I am usually on the left.  In her neighborhood we walk a counterclockwise route, and I am often on the right.  

We do not walk abreast.  We do not walk a-boob.  Sometimes we walk a-earmuffs.  While we walk clad in stylish t-shirts, or fleece jackets we discuss current events.  This has been a good year, as my buddy finally quit wearing her blood donor t-shirt.  It was more info than necessary, and all too familiar.

Definition of AU COURANT

1.  a : fully informed : up-to-date

     b : fashionable, stylish

2.     : fully familiar : conversant

We are fully conversant the whole time we walk, sometimes even three times around the neighborhood.  Often we have leftover conversants and have to go for brunch at Corner Bakery to finish getting up-to-date and completely vented.  It's healthy and perky and almost Katie Couric-esque, which would be au couric. 

In the middle of a toasty panini combo lunch my walking/brunching bud announces she is becoming a bra pusher!  Where are the cops when you need them?  You think you know somebody.  You assume you have walked alongside long enough to attain a certain awareness, and then your best buddy goes underwire-less! 




Resolution #5  : To keep my household expenditure journal up to date.  


Resolution #6 : To change the vacuum bag, actually vacuum the condo, and maybe attack those cobwebs hanging low wobbling to and fro. 


And after these resolutions I visit my dad and find him again askew in bed and busy ripping off his diaper.  Avert mine eyes, Ms. Couric.  Sheesh!  I'm descended from a fruitcake nudist who slaps me away when I try to feed him supper.

Sending you uplifting thoughts that allegedly won't cut into your shoulders.

Definition of A-BREAST    [uh-brest]  

adverb, adjective

1.  side by side : beside each other in a line : They walked two abreast down the street.

2.  equal to or alongside in progress, attainment, or awareness (usually followed by of  or with) : to keep abreast of scientific developments; keeping abreast with the times.

Two's company.

Three's a crowd.

Four on the sidewalk

is never allowed.

Do they wobble to and fro?

Can you tie them in a knot?

Can you tie them in a bow?

Can you throw them o'er your shoulder

like a continental soldier?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Resolution #3

You may wonder what happened to 2. It is in the comments to Resolution #1, and the bean soup is on the stove.

Resolution #3 is to sew some placemats that coordinate with  my new plates and the dining area "graph paper" wallpaper.  I am so excited to have a real set of turquoise Fiesta Ware.

"You must be a grown-up," said my longtime walking buddy.  "You have plates that match."  When she said it I knew she must be a friend.  She would probably sew a button on my overalls, just like Lisa did for Corduroy.

"I like you the way you are," she said "but you'll be more comfortable with your shoulder strap fastened." "You must be a friend," said Corduroy, "I've always wanted a friend." "Me too!" said Lisa, and she gave him a big hug.

I have a few cups and saucers in very old Fiesta Ware colors.  They won't commune with the new place-settings except for historic occasions.

Sending all of you a big New Year's hug. Wishing that everyone everywhere had nutritious food, clean water, adequate sewage disposal, and the opportunity to grow up and find sustaining work.  Is it so much to wish that every child born on Earth could be loved, read aloud to, and learn to read?




© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

A very fine day two of the three-day weekend

After using my Saturday off to get a grip on life maintenance tasks, I slept the clock around.  Must have needed the dream time, as I sure felt better, mentally sorted and filed.

Took Dad a cup of coffee, and convinced him to get one arm out of the blanket to hold it.  He was having a non-talking day, but I held the phone so he could listen to my brother's voice.  By the time I convinced Dad to get his other arm out to hold the phone, my brother had said goodbye.  I sympathize, as these one-sided conversations can be draining.  My sister is the only one who can really keep the monologue patter going nonstop.

Dad's become accustomed to holding his arms in the King Tut pose under the blankets.  It's probably bad form to compare ones parent to a sarcophagus, but the description fits.  Dad's pose is partly due to poor circulation and cold hands, so I started thinking about ways to make or get a muff.  When I worked at the hospital (just after the Civil War) there were lots of fuzzy pads and booties.  Then Danger Baby had a fleece to sleep on when he was little.  Don't know what happened to it.  Maybe he took it to the dorm!

So just a warning here, gentle readers.  Should you want to Google for sheepskin muffs, use the alternate word "fleece".  Otherwise you will get a million hits for lambskin condoms!  For now, Dad will have to keep his arms crossed under the comforter.  Indeed, I may shop for a crook and flail instead.

Next a lovely, long catch-up visit and vent with my walking buddy.  What a delight to be friends so long we know each other's backstory, share our temporary rants and long-term frustrations. We don't offer fixes, just unconditional support.

It seemed silly to want a nap, so I headed to the free Basically Beethoven concert by the Fine Arts Chamber Players at Texas Discovery Gardens. Spent an hour in the Butterfly House, and finally got photos of a blue morpho butterfly.  I saw an owl butterfly in flight, another first.  The photos aren't good, but I sure understand  the owl experience.  The butterfly in flight is almost as big as my two hands (not under the comforter), and whooshes by like a bird, or a stealth bomber!

An hour with brass Sousa and Karl King marches, armed forces salutes, and young families learning how to behave at a concert brought back good parenting memories.  I tried to be a good example for a new generation, but like the little kids I joined most of the adults riding Silver through the William Tell overture.

Then an hour spent in the the native plant, butterfly garden, and demonstration gardens with other concertgoers speaking an amazing number of languages.  We all ooh and ah about the same.

 

Happy Independence Day!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder