Cell Phones

Cell phones, without a doubt, rank as one of society’s greatest technological wonders. This might sound strange to those who were born after 1980 as it is difficult to imagine a time without the handheld, go anywhere gadget. It will come as no surprise that those of us born before 1980 (way before) are still amazed at the blessings provided by the cell phone. Any blessing, however, can walk a thin line with its cousin, the curse.

As I followed a young couple into a local store today, I was struck by how naturally the gentleman yapped away on his cell phone while his partner walked silently by his side. When I exited the store, I saw the same couple in a car, both madly texting, seemingly unaware of the world around them. I never saw a spoken word pass between the two of them. Perhaps, they were texting each other.

Whenever I attend a venue where folks are asked to turn off their cell phones, I am curiously entertained at the behavior of many people as they leave the event. Like Pavlovian dogs, the suppressed attendees frantically grab their hand held devices and begin ringing, talking, texting, twitting and facebooking while walking toward their mode of transportation. I can’t help but wonder what all the chatter is about. What impending doom awaits those who do not stay at the beck and call of all friends, family and other entities? What am I missing?

I’m going to pull the old lady card and wax and wane a bit about the olden days. Despite some speculation, I did have a phone when I was growing up. It was a standard issue, black beast with a curly cue cord connecting the talking part to the base. The phone was positioned in the middle of all family life so conversations were public entertainment. Not only was it entertainment for the family, but it was also fair game for the neighbors. We had a party line which meant that our phone line was shared by several families. Each household had a designated ring that signaled a call for a specific family. In theory, one only picked up the phone if you heard your ring sequence (two long, one short). In reality, we learned quite quickly that it was best not to say anything over the phone that you wouldn’t share with all your neighbors. The party line concept faded away during my teen years, but we were still tethered to a base. The greatest invention for my sisters (don’t remember if my brothers cared) was an extra long cord on the phone. We were then able to stretch the cord to a distance that allowed us to sneak behind a door and have a semi-private conversation with our latest beau.

Life without a cell phone meant planning ahead and being prepared to problem solve. It was an era of  communicating your destination times in advance, keeping your car supplied with emergency gear and hoping your neighbors recognized your vehicle just in case a white knuckle snowstorm journey ended in the ditch.  Without a cell phone, my little brother needed to be able to find his way to Aunt R.’s house in town, just in case he was forgotten at church someday (sorry about that, little bro).  No cell phone demanded that teenagers scurry home before the curfew bell was ready to toll as there was little chance of being near a land line for a quick excuse.

Life without a cell phone meant talking to people, face to face. It meant that one could talk to someone without fear of being interrupted by a Star Wars ringtone. It meant that the checker in the grocery store could ask the customer if all was well rather than just watch the customer chatter into a pink metal rectangle. It meant processing context rather than icons. It meant making pictures out of clouds rather than playing with an app while waiting for your mom to pick you up.

I don’t know where the world of cell phonology will take us. I’ve experienced a world with and without. I only hope that we won’t forget that sometimes the person standing next to us needs a kind word rather than the latest news feed.

Back To School

Just as geese flying south is a harbinger of autumn’s arrival, store ads filled with notebooks and laptops signal the end of summer vacation. Scenes of little midgelings splashing around in the local pools will soon be replaced by toes reaching for the sky on the swings of school playgrounds. The lazy hazy days of summertime will be sharpening into a crisper, more structured schedule with the coolness of a new season. 

I would be lying if I said I was completely ready to embrace my back to school schedule. I will certainly miss the undulating sweetness of a slower summer pace. I will miss the time spent catching up with family and friends. I will miss the delightful moments spent leisurely browsing and selecting new books each week at the library. My garden will lose its daily tending and will be left to the laws of nature. The dust bunnies will roam free again as I look the other way in their presence. My husband will miss the regular meals and a shorter to-do list.

But, alas, it is time to get back in the saddle and herd a few cats, a.k.a. middle schoolers. My job is not for the faint of heart. It takes nerves of steel and a strong sense of humor. Hormones course through the halls with a vengeance. Growth spurts change voices and clothing sizes overnight. Parents have a deer in the headlights look as they navigate their way through the obstacle course called early adolescence. Mothers bewilderingly watch their sweet, once dependent children, walk quickly ahead of them, now afraid to be seen with a doting parental unit. Girls whisper secrets and boys punch and jostle about. The cafeteria is a little bit of lunch served with a large helping of pent up energy.

So, why do I teach middle school? One word: anticipation. Each day greets me with an abundance of hope. Despite the ongoing angst and insecurities inherent within the life of an adolescent, there is always an underlying optimism that things will get better. Diamonds emerge from chunks of rock. Butterflies emerge from ugly cocoons. Nourishing rivers come from snow encased mountains. Productive adults come from gangly, apprehensive teenagers.

Each new school year tells me it is time to put on my rose colored glasses and don my Pollyanna cap.  Time to breathe the air of amazement. Time to step back onto the hamster wheel of doing.

Time to teach.

Plumcots

The checker at my local supermarket rolled the fruit around, looking for a sticker so she could punch in the correct code. Then she looked at me and asked, “What are these?”

“They are plumcots,” I replied.

“What?”

“Plumcots,” I once again stated.

Her puzzled stare indicated that this was a new food item in her repertoire. Being always on the ready to educate the masses, I further explained that two years ago they were called pluots and last year they were called dinosaur eggs, morphing into plumcots this year.

At this point, the checker is on customer overload and wondering when her next break is coming so I curbed my enthusiasm and simply stated that, “They are delicious. You should try them.” (don’t think she will, but she’s up to speed for the next time the orbs of deliciousness cross her moving runway.)

If you are curious about what a plumcot/pluot/dinosaur egg is, look no further. They are a hybrid cross between a plum and an apricot. Not sure who thought that that was a good idea, but it worked. They are the shape and size of a plum. They have a dappling of apricot orange color splashing across their skin, giving them a dusky, unripe look. Their interior flesh is a jeweled purple color and their flavor is dazzling with juicy goodness. (salivating now)

What has intrigued me most about this fruit is the obvious quest for an appropriate name for the little guy. I admit that he doesn’t exactly have looks going for him, so perhaps a proper christening will improve his marketing value.

Here is my evaluation of the names so far:

1)     Pluot—This moniker has the proper combination of his parental names (plum and apricot). Unfortunately, the “uo” blend is not very common in the English language. Do you emphasize the “u” or do you blend it with the “o”? Is it pronounced with two syllables or do you roll the word into one? A struggle with pronunciation in the produce aisle is probably more than the average shopper can tolerate which will most likely wear down any attempt to try a new food adventure, thus, no pluot in the cart.

2)     Dinosaur eggs—For Pete’s sake, who thought that one up? Perhaps, it was a marketing strategy geared toward the wee ones who are very good at wearing down their parental units when they want an object of desire. However, my experience as a former grocery store clerk, tells me that very few tantrums begin in the produce aisle. The big Mt. Vesuvius meltdowns are saved for the candy and cereal aisles. As for me, I’m not so sure I want to think about a reptilian egg when I’m selecting juicy fruit. I almost boycotted them under the ovum title, but I just couldn’t resist their siren song of lusciousness.

3)     Plumcot—This name solves some of the pronunciation issues and clearly indicates a plum/apricot heritage; however, I’m afraid the new name has not solved its identity crisis. The plums nouveau are still huddled in a small corner of the produce aisle, never more than a dozen at a time. Not sure the new name is going to save it from going the way of the dinosaur.

As for me, the little plumcot is a mascot for the fact that sometimes a less than stellar name and a not so perfect exterior can produce a great treasure within.

Style

I just returned from my biannual trip to our local shopping mall, empty-handed. I’m also experiencing heart palpitations and an overwhelming desire to curl up into the fetal position. I might as well come clean with you right away. I don’t know how to shop.

Growing up on an isolated Midwestern farm where the largest retail center was at least an hour away, my experiences in the world of clothing selections were limited, at best. My mother was a gifted seamstress and sewed most of my clothing until I was in my mid-teens (thanks, mom!). My clothing decisions were more likely to involve selecting a pattern and a bolt of cloth. I did not need to scan endless racks of clothing options and start the daunting process of finding something that fits.

Now that I am on my own for wardrobe decisions, I’m not only still struggling, but I think I’m getting worse. Stacy and Clinton of What Not to Wear would certainly have their hands full with me. If I was asked about my fashion point of view, I would have to admit that it’s no more grand than just wearing something that isn’t repulsive. If that blouse passes the sniff test in the morning and the stains are less than obvious, it’s good to go for another day.  My signature style is wearing clothing that has been baptized by a coffee spill or two.

I’m also amazed at how long it can take to find something that actually fits. Frankly, I’m not so sure I’ve found anything that qualifies as an exact fit. My body type is what those in polite circles would call “curvy.” That’s code speak for hippy, and not in a flower child sort of way. There is no litheness or willowyness in my body structure. I am sturdily built, able to withstand strong prairie winds. If I actually find a pair of jeans that fit, I buy multiple copies--no use going through additional trauma looking for variety. If that blouse doesn’t tug too tightly over the bosom and has no horizontal stripes, buy it. If my blood sugar starts plunging, grab a package of underwear and call it a day.

So, who really determines style? No surprise that the media is a large player in this process. Yes, princess Kate is a stylin’ diva, whether it’s Old Navy or Prada. But, what about those of us without a castle’s worth of money and unlimited preening opportunities?

I am reminded of a true story I read several years ago. I’ve forgotten many of the details, but the essence of it is this. A contest was held by a company that was in search of a beautiful, “everyday” woman to sponsor one of their products. Hundreds of people sent in nomination letters describing the beautiful women in their lives.  As the selection committee worked its way through the mountain of letters, they were struck by a letter written by a young boy.

“My neighbor lady is the most beautiful lady in the world. She plays games with me. She doesn’t yell at me if my puppy digs in her garden. She likes butterflies. She gives me a band-aid if I need one. She doesn’t make me play with my little sister if I don’t want to. And she bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. I think you should pick her as the winner for your contest.”

After reading the letter, the selection committee took a look at the picture of the little boy’s friend. They were immediately struck by how plain and homely the elderly lady was. This was certainly not the woman they had pictured in their minds as they read the letter. But, to the young lad, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Would that we all had that kind of style.

Zucchini

It is the time of year for the annual invasion of the zucchini. This wild and wooly plant of the garden is certainly a sight to behold and experience. One plant can yield enough good eats for an entire Midwestern small town. One day you have three or four zucchini, each the size of your little finger and the next day, they have multiplied and are bigger than your femur. Some folks plant zucchini for the joy of growing something that will grow in our rather harsh climate and some folks never plant it again, succumbing to ZFS--zucchini fatigue syndrome.

I happen to love the emerald green monsterling. Any plant that can abundantly produce in less than ideal conditions is certainly a keeper in my book. I also like to eat zucchini. Certainly, the most popular way to eat zucchini is to grate it and add it to quick breads and cakes for a moist baked goodie. I, however, prefer to eat zucchini straight up. Boiled with a little salt, pepper and butter. Yummo.

Over the years, I have amassed a cache of go-to zucchini recipes. One of my favorites is a stuffed zucchini, filled with ground beef, garlic, basil, rosemary and parmesan cheese. Delish.

Another tasty squash recipe is one I scrawled on a recipe card when I was a kid (no need to do the math, please) on the farm. It is simply called “Mixed Veg Bake”. It has potatoes, tomatoes, garlic, celery, onions, and of course, the star of the show, zucchini. It is a forgiving dish in that you can toss in whatever veggie is taking over your life at the moment. Green beans, peppers, corn, your uncle Jimmy.

All this talk of vegetables has me feeling an analogy coming on. If I were a vegetable, what would I be? Here is a personality analysis of a few of my garden denizens.

1)     Tomato—showy, plush and a bit of a tease. We baby the plants along, watching little green globes slowly emerge into bright, juicy bursts of succulence. Too little water, the fruit stalls out. Too much water, blight sets in. Uneven watering, the skin cracks. She is high maintenance, indeed, but the tomato will tell you, she’s worth the wait.

2)     Cucumber—crisp, unadorned and subject to wild growth spurts. Cukes are low maintenance and rather humble. Their usefulness is one-noted with pickles being their number one claim to fame. They pair well with vinegar so they know how to play nice with acidic personalities.

3)     Asparagus—finicky and bossy. She needs soil that is just right and demands at least three years of tending before making a commitment. There is no middle ground for this diva. You either love her or hate her. If you happen to love her, move quickly. She’s a springtime babe and you’ll have to wait another year if you let her pass by.

4)     Arugula—spicy and dominant. She takes off like a rocket in the spring and adds a peppery kick to the dull and listless. She is a bit fickle and prefers short term relationships.

5)     Zucchini—not so glitzy and rather bossy. She needs a little salt or sugar to make her palatable and thrives in the Midwest. She is best in small doses and left unattended, bad things happen.

No secret which veggie is my analogical buddy.

I guess I know why I like zucchini.

(p.s. Check out my new recipe box for a few zucchini recipes. Enjoy.)

The DMV

I live in a state where a law was recently passed that makes it painful, if not impossible, for one to renew one’s driver’s license. A two-page letter is sent to you, outlining the documents you will need to prove that you are the person you claim to be. Apparently, this is quite necessary due to the threat of terrorism or something. Never mind that our nearest international neighbor is Canada.

I needed to start with a valid birth certificate. The shadowy copy in my files from the 1950’s was long on nostalgia but looked a little short on validity. Rather than risk it, I went straight to the Register of Deeds in the county courthouse and plunked down my $15.00, cash only. A beautifully embossed document was in my hands within minutes. So far, so good.

Now, off to the Department of Motor Vehicles on the second floor. The drill is this.

1)     Stand in an unmarked, I-think-this-is-the right-line in front of a nondescript table.

2)     Proceed slowly to the table manned by Gatekeeper #1 (heretofore, known as G1). She is a cheerful, but resolute, woman awaiting the public’s reams of documents, lame excuses and general unpleasantness. You will need your birth certificate, authentic (emphasis on authentic) documentation of your social security number, two pieces of mail verifying your name and address, marriage license(s) and a partridge in a pear tree. If you are one of the lucky ones, G1 will issue you a number so you know when it’s your turn to visit Gatekeeper #2 (G2). I was one of the lucky ones, despite the fact that my last name is spelled differently on my marriage license compared to my birth certificate. Either, it was not noticed by G1 or she decided that I am a low risk terrorist.

3)     Find a seat in the crowded, stuffy waiting room. All chairs face a blaring TV monitor with three “shows” running for our entertainment: a detailed description of the documents you need to have to get your license renewed, scenes from car accidents, and hospital pleas for organ donations. All worthy programming, I’m sure, but I’m feeling a bit queasy at this point.

4)     Wait. Now calling #31. I’m #48

5)     Wait. Now calling #32. Ugh

6)     Wait. Guess I’ll watch the drama at G1’s table.

Quotes from G1:

“No, I’m sorry we can’t use that cross-stitched framed keepsake of your marriage license as authentic documentation.” (Believe it or not, there was quite the tussle with this one.)

“No, I’m sorry that curled up stub of a paper with your social security number on it will not count. Only the little blue card with the pillars on it is accepted. Here’s the address for the Social Security office.”

“Let me help you. Dig in your purse and see if you have anything at all that has your address on it.” (I guess last week’s grocery list and the wadded up tissues weren’t enough.)

“Do you speak English?”

7)     Wait. Now calling #34. Feeling blood sugar plunge. Found a Mento in the bottom of my purse without too much lint on it.

8)     Wait. Now calling #35. Time to watch what’s going down with G2. His job is to double check your documentation, test your eyes, take your money and (drum roll) issue you a new license.

Quotes from G2:

“Look into the eye machine and read line one.” Pause. “Try line number two.” Pause. “Can you see the big letters in the corner?”

“Do you think you dropped your money while you were waiting?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to issue you a new license due to your outstanding speeding ticket.” (This was resoundingly contested, but to no avail. The poor dear had to give up her spot at G2’s counter after waiting for 90 minutes and mumbling, “But I’m sure I paid that.”)

9)     Wait. Now serving #48. Yippee.

10)  Move to G2’s counter. I passed the eye test, barely, but good enough. I paid my money. Only one step left. My documentation needed to be double-checked. And that’s when the unthinkable happened. G2’s eyes looked at my birth certificate and then back to my documentation and announced, “Your last name is different on your birth certificate compared to the name you listed on your application form.” Pause. Heart pounding. And then I watched the miracle unfold. G2 took his pencil and made the necessary adjustment to my name on the application form. Simple as that.

11)  Mug shot taken. License issued.

I learned two things at the DMV. First, I must not look like a national security threat and secondly, whatever they are paying G1 and G2 is not nearly enough.

Bucket List

It seems the fashionable thing to do these days is to create a well thought out bucket list. At my age, there is almost a sense of urgency as we are reminded that it is never too late to “live a little.”  “Grab life with gusto.”

So I guess it is time to put together that ultimate bucket list and let the games begin. I’ve studied a few lists and here are some items often found on the things-to-do-before-I-slip-on-the-final-banana-peel inventory:

1)     Swim with dolphins

2)     Trek up you-name-it mountain

3)     Have lunch in Paris

4)     Go sky-diving

I can already sense the wry grins on the faces of my closest relatives. They will be all too happy to point out that there is not a single item on the aforementioned list that might be a personal goal of mine. I am the ultimate worrier. Fret is my middle name and I conjure up danger where none ever existed.

Case in point. I have yet to pass a swimming class. My final attempt (in college, no less) ended with the swimming instructor telling me that I should probably look into therapy instead of another swimming class. It seems I’m afraid of water and multiple exposures have not deadened my sense of fear, ergo, there will be no swimming with dolphins.

Mountains are another formidable obstacle for me. I would prefer not to have a Sherpa haul my oxygen tanks to the top of a Nepalian peak, waiting for me to plant a flag or something. I’m not too crazy about mountains below the tree line, either. You may see idyllic mountain trails, I see precipices with sheer drop-offs. Hence, there will be no trekking adventures.

What could one possibly fear from a lunch in Paris? Well, here’s the deal. I’m not a fan of air travel. Just the thought of a physics equation gone bad while I’m in the air is enough to make me hesitant to climb aboard a large metal tube destined for turbulence. I’m best off eating a little escargot on this side of the pond.

Do I even need to address sky-diving?

So, do I forgo a bucket list due to my ever increasing phobic issues? Or are there less daunting alternatives? Being rather high on the dull-o-meter, here goes.

1)     Get a passport—I think the process alone will be enough excitement for me. And who knows, I might want to go somewhere, like, maybe Canada.

2)     Attend a Prairie Home Companion show at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, MN. It’s climate controlled and relatively bug-free.

3)     Score a long word with the letters Q and Z on the red triple score corner of Scrabble. The letter X is heart-poundingly acceptable, as well.

All this pondering has me thinking about how my grandmother might have responded if I asked her what was on her bucket list. I’m pretty sure that she would have chuckled a little and replied in her slightly Dutchy accent, “A little oats, a little corn or maybe just a bucket of milk for our supper.” That was grabbing life with gusto for my grandma. Each day was about survival and practicality.

I wonder if we sometimes spend too much time focusing on what we are missing out on, rather than what is blessing us each day. Is it possible that obsessing on climbing the mountains of adventure makes us less tolerant of the speed bumps of daily living? Maybe it’s okay to simply finish an honest day’s work and do good unto others. I’m quite sure our bucket would be a little less empty if we found delight in the daily.

As for me, I must admit that I am quite content to punctuate my days with a hot cup of tea, a sharp pencil geared up for the daily crossword puzzle and my husband snoring away in the easy chair next to me.

Cravings

“Your body craves motion,” chirps the all too perky exercise instructor. Clad in her pink and black active wear, I think she actually believes her statement as she looks me in the eye, via my DVD player. Five mornings a week, I roll myself out of bed with a groan and a feeling of ominous dread as I blindly pull on a pair of ancient, work out pants and a stretched out T-shirt, not fit for public eye.

Ugh. My body craves many things, but I can assure you, motion isn’t one of them. I crave chocolate. I crave coffee. I crave good books. I crave vacations. I crave Scrabble games. But, I never, no never, have experienced a craving for motion.

It has been said that exercise releases endorphins in the body for a natural high. Well, that would be another never, no never for me. Try as I might, I can honestly say I have yet to enjoy any semblance of a buzz from a body in motion.

What have I experienced? I know about the pain, the sweat, the grunting and the self induced fatigue. And did I mention the boredom?  Mind numbing, I-wish-I-was-doing-anything-but-this kind of boredom.

In defense of myself, I have climbed on just about every exercise wagon possible in an attempt to find something that I might actually like. I’ve tried Jazzercise, work out stations, aerobic classes, biking, hiking, jogging (sort of), walking, and weights. With a friend, without a friend and in a group. I have an extensive DVD collection of various get-fit-at-home prophets. I’ve worked out in the morning, after work, later in the evening. You name it. I’ve probably tried it (except for water aerobics. I draw the line at adding a swimsuit to the mix.)

I’ve been puzzled at the studies that suggest that exercising relieves stress. Exercise is always the first on the have-you-tried-this list. Well, I’m here to tell you that one of the top stressors in my life is, without a doubt, exercise. I’ve been known to shovel down half a bag of cheese curls as I geared up for another round of leg lifts and tummy tucks. I greet the day with dread until my “yoga fit” DVD is finished pushing me to be the best that I can be.

Frankly, I am a little suspicious of how delightful exercise is supposed to be when I have yet to encounter a fitness instructor who isn’t a fount of encouraging statements.  I’ve never seen or heard someone say, “Eat that chocolate. You know you can do it” or “Push through that cup of coffee. When you hit the wall, drink another cup.” Does that not suggest that there is pain, discomfort and minimal amounts of joy involved in exercising?

Newton’s first law of motion states that an object in motion stays in motion and an object at rest stays at rest. I clearly am clinging to the second half of that statement.  I am insulted when I am told (and I quote from DVD #12) “you know you’ll just get hooked on it anyway.” I do not believe that I will ever get hooked on moving my body. I do not go around implying to others that there might be something wrong with them if they don’t get an endorphin rush from reading a good book or building the perfect word on a triple points square in a Scrabble game. So do not suggest to me that all I need to do is put the muscles in motion so that I can experience a movement induced thrill. Sorry, it’s not going to happen.

Yes, I am bitter and crabby about workouts. No, I don’t believe I will ever come close to craving or looking forward to another yoga session. Despite all the hard feelings and adamant resistance, however, I continue moving. Some part of me believes that I cannot give up totally and that my muscles do deserve some attention. Perhaps, cravings really are only skin deep.