Offering Some Perspective (And A New Cooking Show Idea?) For 2019

The Long-Suffering Zydrunas

One of the last conversations I had in 2018, via telephone with my eldest, Jared.

Jared: Ma. Got any ideas for a killer sauce or something for salmon? Decided to stay in tonight for New Year's Eve, so she's bringing stuff over and we're making salmon for dinner.

Nance: Ugh. You know I detest all fish, and salmon tops the list. But I have a teriyaki glaze recipe for it from back when I thought you all liked it.

Jared: I've always liked it. You know that. I can do an Asian thing. I don't need a recipe.

Nance: You could do a traditional lemon-dill-butter thing.

Jared: Yeah, that sounds good, too. The pressure's on. I've never cooked for her before.

Nance: Well, then the two of you could just cook together. That way, there's no pressure, and it's more of a fun situation.

Jared: Here's the second problem: I usually cook with my shirt off. You know, I put on some music, take off my shirt, and dance around, throwing shit together. Then, when I sit down to dinner, I complain to the dog when I find a hair in my food.

Nance: Oh, Jared.

Jared: I hold up the forkful or the hair or whatever, and I look him straight in the eye. I say, "Zydrunas, this is unacceptable. I've found a hair in my food. I expect better quality from this establishment."

Nance: What does he say?

Jared: The usual. He huffs and rolls his eyes. He's so tired of all my bullshit.


Happy New Year, everyone.  We might all be Tired Of The Bullshit, but let's have some Laughs!

It's Called "Eclectic" If Anyone Asks

Perhaps you're looking to spruce things up a bit At Home. Or, now that Autumn is here, you are feeling that Nesting Instinct--the desire to prepare your cold-weather cocoon. Lucky for you, I can assist you with that.

And it doesn't even matter if you're redoing say, your bathroom, and it might look like this one:

or if you're finally remodeling your entire kitchen, and your taste is more along the lines of, say, this:

Let's imagine, even, that you are redecorating your bedroom (or guest room) and have opted for a style more in keeping with this:

Did you pack off the last tyke to college or into a home of his/her own? Are you finally getting the living room of your dreams, one For Guests Only?

I have just the little accessory for any of those scenarios. It will slide right in seamlessly and add not only functionality, but the stylish finishing touch you will appreciate. It says so right on the package. Here, let me show you:

  

Hey.  You're welcome.

(All images via apartmenttherapy.com, except living room from decoholic.com; bass switchplate via Amazon, mine.)

Poor, Dear, Silly Spring, Preparing Her Annual Surprise!--Wallace Stevens

It is with great pleasure that I am able to say Spring Is Here In NEO. Rick takes full responsibility for the brief return to Winter a while back, caused by him putting all the snow shovels away despite my warnings. (It was that night that the snow fell, too!) Yesterday, Easter, was full of sunshine, warm breeze, birdsong, and lots of trash talk during the front-yard wiffle ball and kickball games at my sister Patti's house. All eleventy thousand of us were there, and St. Patsy was in her glory.

On Saturday Rick and I had spent part of that Springy day evaluating the yard. My chives are up, along with my French tarragon, spicy oregano, and sage. The thyme, which had sprawled out into half of the plot, had not fared as well. I pulled it all up but a softball-sized clump which looked sickly and sad. I guess we'll see what happens. Both pond fish, Frigidaire-Ziploc and Tina, had managed to survive the winter and were sluggishly moving about in the cold, brackish water. "I know just how you feel," I told them.

It makes me feel silly and a little ashamed to say that this was a tough winter for me. After all, what did I have to do but wake up, eventually get dressed, and putter around, occasionally running some errands? Did I have to go to work every single day, brave the cold, shovel the snow, wrangle little kids to daycare, worry about anything, really? No. Honestly, I didn't. I had the life of A Kept Woman, by and large, and I could stay at home in the warmth and drink warm things and keep things tidy and cuddle the cats and read and wait for Rick to come home. How tough is that?

But as soon as Spring began its slow approach, I felt restless. It was almost instinctive, inborn, a genetic urge that made me feel a slight irritation. A sort of undercurrent, a thrumming, started in my nerves. I felt trapped and cornered. I wanted to drive, get away, go away, see something, do something. I needed to travel, to jaunt away for a bit. You know how if you have an old plant that starts doing poorly for no reason, you give the bottom of the pot a good knock and it shakes it up a bit, and it snaps to? That's what a road trip can do for me. It gets me snapped out of my post-winter funk.

So, I'm headed out tomorrow to see a friend in Maryland. It has been a million years since we've spent time together, but I have a feeling that we'll be able to pick up right where we left off. That's the great thing about friendships. Like herbs in a garden, the strongest ones can lie fallow under the worst conditions, but be vibrant and alive when the sun shines warmly again.

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It Happened One Night: I Reach A Milestone In My Development

I may, finally and at long last, be Growing Up.

Look, I'm sorry to drop that on you without any sort of skid-greasing or fluffing-up, but with things like this, I feel it's better to do it with all alacrity and speed.  Like removing a Bandaid--real quick, all in one motion, right off.  You go ahead, however, and take as much time as you need.  There, there.

(And don't let the fact that I'm writing this while wearing my adult-sized blanket sleeper change this New Reality.  I forgot to do my laundry, and all my grown-up pajamas were in that load.  When I finally remembered to put it in the washer/dryer, it was awfully late to go down to the freezing cold basement to retrieve it.  I was actually being quite Maturely Resourceful when I put on my footie pj's.)

But I digress.

Several clues led me to the conclusion that I was truly Growing Up.  The Major one involved this:

This is my kitchen.  Or, I should say, it was my kitchen.  Not anymore.  Rick and I discovered quite some time ago that the red and white tiles were damaged.  Some were cracked and some had deep pits and dents in them, mostly near the counter where you see the round cutting board, in front of the sink, and across from there in front of the stove.  The culprits were my high heels, which I wore for thirty years in that kitchen, coming home from school and immediately prepping for dinner, starting something in the oven or on the stovetop.  The red laminate countertop is faded and dulled in spots where we tried several different potions to take out wine stains, permanent marker, and various skidmarks made by dragging small appliances across it.  When the kitchen was first complete, St. Patsy walked in and covered her eyes.  "Oh, Nance!" she exclaimed.  "How in the world can you cook in here with all this red?"

My kitchen now looks like a war zone, and those of you who have had kitchen remods can sympathize.  I'm not going into details except to say that some strange Grownup Nance took over and said, "I'd like to go all the way down to the original hardwood floors in here.  I don't care if they're not perfect.  I want a sort of rustic, homey, farm kitchen kind of look."  And so we are.  We have to wait until March for the floor guy we want, and at present the floor looks like this:

but it's okay.  That's solid oak, and in March it will be lovely.  Most of what you see will be sanded and buffed away.  Any imperfections left will add character and warmth.  My house was built in the late twenties or early thirties.  That floor has earned its marks.

Our other improvement would be new countertops.  This was a real heart-tugger for me because if I gave up my red on the floor, I couldn't bear to give it up on the countertops.  As it happened, our choice of stone for the job did come in a true red.  I was so torn.  We left the showroom having given instructions to the salesman to figure the cost for both the red and a simple white with a subtle vein of very light grey.  We stopped for dinner on the way home, and over sandwiches and drinks in the bar (the warmest spot in the place), we discussed our options.  (I had fish tacos, by the way, but the menu allowed a no-upcharge sub of shrimp for fish. How lovely and sensible.  I told someone else this, and she asked me why I didn't like fish.  "And don't say 'because it tastes fishy'," she said to me.  "What do you expect fish to taste like?"  It's not that I don't expect it to taste like fish.  The taste of fish is precisely what I don't like.  If bananas tasted fishy, I wouldn't like them, either! Most people hate liver.  Why? Because of its taste.  Just because they don't say, 'because it tastes livery' doesn't get them off the hook, metaphorically speaking.)

But I digress.

Anyway, we talked about the countertops, and Rick maintained that I should get what I wanted, meaning the red.  Strange Grownup Nance (who didn't complain that her martini olive was alone and without a toothpick) said, "But red is awfully specific.  It's going to detract from the saleability of our house.  Even if we don't sell until ten years from now, some potential buyers might look at that red and be very put off.  I can still have my red drawer and cabinet pulls and use red as an accent.  The white will brighten up the kitchen.  It will be okay."  So the new white countertops are being installed in a couple of weeks.  I am surprisingly okay with it.

You know, I can remember when the boys were much, much younger and the days were full and going by at breakneck speed.  I was teaching and stressed; Rick was working at a job where his day consisted of doing nothing but solving problems and soothing clients and putting out metaphorical fires.  There were times when he or I would turn to the other and say, "Please--can you be the grownup today?  I just cannot do it."  Thank goodness one of us would suck it up and put on the Grownup Pants and get through it.

Being The Grownup is Hard!  That's why it has taken me so long to become one.  Oh sure, I have been a Pseudo-Grownup for years, but the difference between the two is this:  Resentment.  Once you can let go of resentment and a sort of over-arching need for Revenge, you are a Real Grownup.  Here are some recent examples:

Blizzard Conditions Forecast:  The Old Nance becomes incensed.  She crabs to everyone.  She does a blogpost about shitty Ohio weather.  Hurls profane tirades at all weather forecasters during their news segments.  New Grownup Nance:  Makes a run to the pie shop, drops off the ski band she knitted for her sister, keeps hydrated to stave off headaches, plans pork roast for Sunday.

Garnier Fructis Discontinues Another Product:  As I predicted back in August, Garnier has discontinued its HiRise Root Lifter spray, a hairstyling product I adored and used daily.  The Old Nance would have written a lengthy missive to Garnier/L'Oreal.  In it would be statistics regarding the popularity of voluminous hairstyles, blowouts, and women who want thicker, fuller hair.  It would also include the market share growth, or lack thereof, of Garnier since they discontinued the various Body Boost products I loved.  I would also have immediately driven to every store in a 10-mile radius to hopefully buy any remaining product.  New Grownup Nance:  I went to Sally Beauty Supply and asked for a similar product that has been popular with local customers.

My Fantasy Basketball Team Sucks:  Due to being in the championship last year, my team (renamed The PuppyCats) had a lousy draft and is plagued by injury.  I am currently holding down 6th place...out of  ten teams.  Ugh.  Old Nance would be researching players, jiggering lineups, wheedling trades, and grumping around like a troll.  New Grownup Nance is Waiting For Next Year.

I'm not embarrassed to say that I am a Slow Learner in the area of Growing Up.  Some of us acquire grace later in life, when we have more time to recognize the need.  Some of us needed to be able to focus on our own development, not on others'.  And still others of us finally took a look around and found a few people who showed us a thing or two.  Or more.  Better late than never, right?

So, what about you Grownups or GrowingUps?  How's that going for you?  Or, at the very least, what do you think of my kitchen plans?

(Oh, and the pies were one large pecan, and two "personal" pies, a lemon and a coconut cream.  We're well-stocked for winter weather now!)

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The Name Game

This news item caught my attention on our local news recently. First of all, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to ever harbor a snake that is 24 feet long and "as thick as a telephone pole." This monster, a reticulated python, should be killed immediately. If not sooner. The Columbus Zoo is asking for trouble placing it on permanent display while it is still alive. This thing eats "two huge rabbits a week." May I remind everyone that"rabbits" means "bunnies."
Allow me to provide a visual aid:

Perhaps the Columbus Zoo hopes to soften the blow when it displays the snake's name. For this vicious bunny-eating slitherer goes by...Fluffy. Yes. Fluffy the Reticulated Python.

I'll admit it. The name is fantastic. If I were going to have a 24-foot long reticulated python, I'd consider naming it Fluffy, for it is the very antithesis of all things snaky. But when it comes to naming pets, I usually opt for people names. There's something very dignified and familial about having a dog or cat or guinea pig with a person name. I just like it. And I like the name to be literary, usually, unless the animal in question has so much overt personality that the name is just apparent.

As many readers of the Dept. know, my most recent pets are Emily and Travis, two cats. Sadly, Travis is no longer with us, but Emily still dodders around, toothless, half-blind, and arthritic. There were no silly kitty-witty names even considered for either feline. Never once were names like Mittens, Whiskers, Scratch, or Mr. Freckles even brought up. Or any boring, dumb names like Brownie, Patches, or the uninspired Kitty.

And please, please, please spare me "Boo Boo Kitty."

I could vomit. A lot. On myself.

My friend Roger thinks everyone should test pet names by going to the front door and yelling for the prospective pet, loudly, several times. If you feel stupid or it sounds just plain idiotic, then it's not a good name. He has a huge Labrador. Its name is Newman, after the lackadaisical mailman on Seinfeld. Roger says that the name has become a self-fulfilling prophecy since Newman now does very little except sigh and loll around a lot. This summer, he may get Newman a pet puppy and see if that turns things around a bit.

Jared, my eldest son, thinks that "Pushbutton" would be a great name for a bunny. I would have to see the bunny in order to decide. I like the name "Robert" for a small, brown boy bunny. I have yet to meet any small, brown boy bunny that did not look like a "Robert."

My pet peeve with zoos is that they get all carried away with naming baby animals in the language of their native country. Then we get stuck with all these terrible names that are sometimes hard to pronounce and get attached to. Also, the names really don't suit the baby animals. One exception to this is Knut, the baby polar bear from the Berlin Zoo.

He looks like a Knut, and it's not hard to pronounce.

Now there's a brand new baby polar bear at the Nuremberg Zoo who was rescued from her mom who zookeepers feared might try to eat her (!), and a naming contest is already underway. Naturally, a bunch of loser names have already been submitted: Franka, Lina, Snowwhite, Yuki Chan. I like "Elinor." I have already watched video of this baby polar bear and looked at photos. This is an "Elinor" if I've ever seen one. Trust me.

I have a backyard fishpond and I have several fish in it. Every summer, I end up having to replace at least one fish due to a predator, the harsh winter, or the fact that someone just can't get with the program and keeps ending up in the skimmer/filter. So, I have to come up with at least one new name each year. One year, I briefly flirted with the idea of naming a fish after a national monument, just for the hell of it. But I couldn't find a fish that looked like one. Current pond residents are: Iron Chef, Johnny Depp, Nancy Grace, Garbo, Ziploc, and Tupperware. Those last two names do bear some explaining, I realize. See, they were leftover table decorations from a school dance, the theme of which was "Under the Sea." Leftover fish...get it? I am still in mourning over the death of Barnabas, the black fantail who kept ending up in the skimmer. I think the weight of his head, due to his huge popeyes, just kept pulling him in with the current. What a way to go. But he had the coolest name.

Update: After receiving more than 30,000 emails with more than 50,000 suggestions, the baby polar bear's name is..."Flocke", which is German for "Flake." What a loser name. This kid is now destined to be a flake--an eccentric screwball, someone who is pretty much on the fringes of civilized society, like Phil Spector or Dennis Kucinich or Sandra Lee, the Semi-Homemade chick on the Food Network. Whatever. "Flocke" will always be "Elinor" to me.