Susanne is so gracious to host Friday's Fave Five each week. I love her blog and I love that little bird in her banner. It makes me smile, Susanne, every time the page loads.
So, on to my favorites of this week.
1. Memorial Day- I love all things patriotic. I like to wear red, white and blue with a flag lapel pin and all things Uncle Sam. I love to celebrate everything that is good about this country like freedom and courage and hot dogs. It's an honor to remember the people who have literally paid the price for it all- something I never want to take for granted.
2. Sleeping in- My old physics teacher never had it this good. Ahhhh... summer.
3. A sense of humor in the midst of people who literally crack me up- Daughter and I were at the grocery store the other day where we saw not one, but TWO men with plumber's pants. One was bending over trying to fix the freezer and the other was walking out of the store. Let's just say his red suspenders were not effective. I may add that this is the first time I have seen someone with plumber's pants who was walking UPRIGHT.
And notice that I said plumber's "pants" and not the other word which rhymes with mutt because I try my best to make my mama proud.
4. Anniversaries- It's just nice to take an entire day to love someone. Not that you don't love them the other 364 days.
5. The Glenn Beck segment on Friday's O'Reilly Factor. Glenn Beck is funny. I think we sat near each other in psych 101. If we didn't, we should have.
I would like to add that it took me all day to write this pitiful list. Every time I turned on the computer I was interrupted by something like people needing nourishment, the phone, a rude cat or just life in general.
This could be a good thing. Without all of that, I'd have no material.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Love is patient and kind, especially with crackers and grits.
Fifteen years ago I woke up nervous, excited, and scared. Nervous that I'd say the wrong thing, excited about what was about to happen, and scared that my hair would go flat.
It was the day I got married.
Planning a wedding is a lot of work.
You work for months planning the wedding, thumbing through magazines. What will the bridesmaids wear? Who will be your maid of honor? Where will you have the reception? How are you going to fix your hair?
Here's the thing. Whether you are rolling your hair or using the straightening iron, the work has just begun.
There are bills and jobs, adjustments and disagreements, misunderstandings and forgiveness, and woven through it all is love and, if you're lucky, a lot of laughter.
Marriage is work, but it's the kind of work that makes you want to get up early the next day and put in extra hours. This is the kind of work that requires all of you and sometimes more than all of you.
Fifteen years ago I had a lot to learn. Still do.
My husband has taught me more than he knows. He has taught me how to dream, how to see the world differently, and how to make some of the best cookies in the world. (He's still trying to teach me how to properly open a box of crackers; I always open the wrong end.)
I've taught him more Southern sayings and words than he ever wanted to know. I've taught him that it's useless to make a biscuit without good flour and that it always takes longer to cook grits than the instructions read on the box.
Fifteen years from now, I'll remember (scratching my head) all the things I did the morning of our wedding. Rolling my hair. Knowing where to stand. Talking about the flowers and the dress.
I pray, with the grace of God, that I can remember another fifteen years of love and commitment. I hope I can still quote lines from Seinfeld and that we will both always remember to laugh.
But I'll still worry about my hair.
Happy Anniversary, Hubs.
Here's to fifteen more years of eating Triscuits from the wrong end of the box.
It was the day I got married.
Planning a wedding is a lot of work.
You work for months planning the wedding, thumbing through magazines. What will the bridesmaids wear? Who will be your maid of honor? Where will you have the reception? How are you going to fix your hair?
Here's the thing. Whether you are rolling your hair or using the straightening iron, the work has just begun.
There are bills and jobs, adjustments and disagreements, misunderstandings and forgiveness, and woven through it all is love and, if you're lucky, a lot of laughter.
Marriage is work, but it's the kind of work that makes you want to get up early the next day and put in extra hours. This is the kind of work that requires all of you and sometimes more than all of you.
Fifteen years ago I had a lot to learn. Still do.
My husband has taught me more than he knows. He has taught me how to dream, how to see the world differently, and how to make some of the best cookies in the world. (He's still trying to teach me how to properly open a box of crackers; I always open the wrong end.)
I've taught him more Southern sayings and words than he ever wanted to know. I've taught him that it's useless to make a biscuit without good flour and that it always takes longer to cook grits than the instructions read on the box.
Fifteen years from now, I'll remember (scratching my head) all the things I did the morning of our wedding. Rolling my hair. Knowing where to stand. Talking about the flowers and the dress.
I pray, with the grace of God, that I can remember another fifteen years of love and commitment. I hope I can still quote lines from Seinfeld and that we will both always remember to laugh.
But I'll still worry about my hair.
Happy Anniversary, Hubs.
Here's to fifteen more years of eating Triscuits from the wrong end of the box.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Why my cat could inspire the Republican Party
Spring brings me all sorts of things. The need to cut the grass, a stuffy nose, and the daunting task of teaching Maggie manners.
Really, it's pointless. The grass grows again anyway and Maggie is a cat. Cats are the far-left liberals of the animal world. It's all about them and it's all about RIGHT NOW.
Oh, how that could segue into a whole 'nother topic of cats and dogs and red states and blue states.
Back to my little liberal.
Maggie likes to go outside. Not on the grass or the dirt. Just outside on the concrete patio (the covered concrete patio) where she can feel the wind in her fur but not the earth on her paws. It is a lot like those cheesy hiking tours where people like Paris Hilton can wear their new hiking boots and feel like they're roughing it while staying on the trail and eating a granola bar.
So, Maggie cries at the back door, peeking out the door's window, until we let her out. If the temperature is between 70 and 71 degrees, she stays outside. If not, she cries to come back in.
If the temperature drops too low, she doesn't even bother to stick her head out, but looks at me like,"Hello? Are you kidding me? The arctic temps are bad for my epidermis."
I'm not even sure cats have an epidermis.
Now that the temps have maintained within her comfort zone, Maggie wants to go out all the time. This is when she met her nemesis.
A frightening, furry, big-eyed bunny.
Makes me shudder to think of it.
I noticed the cute little creature a few months ago. He sneaks in the yard under an opening in the fence, hops across, then squeezes under another opening at the opposite end of the yard.
Really, it's pointless. The grass grows again anyway and Maggie is a cat. Cats are the far-left liberals of the animal world. It's all about them and it's all about RIGHT NOW.
Oh, how that could segue into a whole 'nother topic of cats and dogs and red states and blue states.
Back to my little liberal.
Maggie likes to go outside. Not on the grass or the dirt. Just outside on the concrete patio (the covered concrete patio) where she can feel the wind in her fur but not the earth on her paws. It is a lot like those cheesy hiking tours where people like Paris Hilton can wear their new hiking boots and feel like they're roughing it while staying on the trail and eating a granola bar.
So, Maggie cries at the back door, peeking out the door's window, until we let her out. If the temperature is between 70 and 71 degrees, she stays outside. If not, she cries to come back in.
If the temperature drops too low, she doesn't even bother to stick her head out, but looks at me like,"Hello? Are you kidding me? The arctic temps are bad for my epidermis."
I'm not even sure cats have an epidermis.
Now that the temps have maintained within her comfort zone, Maggie wants to go out all the time. This is when she met her nemesis.
A frightening, furry, big-eyed bunny.
Makes me shudder to think of it.
I noticed the cute little creature a few months ago. He sneaks in the yard under an opening in the fence, hops across, then squeezes under another opening at the opposite end of the yard.
We have no flowers or carrots or Mr. MacGregor's garden-type vegetation for him to eat, so I wasn't sure why he stops (or hops!) in.
Now, I think I know.
Take a look at this.
That's Maggie and the bunny in a stare down through a window in desperate need of some Windex. Cue the Western music.
The two of them sat like this, in their animal stare contest. The bunny won. Maggie got bored, slowly walked over to the tile, and plopped into an instant nap. The bunny hopped away to his exit and high-fived his friends on the other side of our fence.
A lone crusader with new ideas, bold tactics and secret supporters behind the scenes. I'm thinking he may be a libertarian.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Of Levers and Lazy Days
School was officially over yesterday which means I don't have to get up early anymore. Yes, I'm nine.
Whenever you ask a kid what is the best part of summer, they start with, "I get to sleep in."
I believe this says something about the school day schedule because at nine, "sleeping in" should not rank above things like "no homework" or "looking at Mrs. Higginbottom's mole during math class."
Not that I ever had a teacher named Mrs. Higginbottom, but if I did, I wouldn't want to look at her mole all day.
I did, however, have Mr. S.
Mr. S, bless his heart, was my high school physics teacher. Those students on the college track took either physics or chemistry. Like all good students, we chose wisely.
The chemistry teacher is tough.
The physics teacher is not.
Take physics.
Critical thinking is a strong point of high schoolers.
I already had Mr. S for Algebra 2 and did not learn a thing. (Except to get my best friend to share her homework with me.) Clearly, my high school years were the pinnacle of my education.
Besides the fact that Mr. S wasn't tough, there was something odd about him. He sat at his desk and read from the physics teacher's edition and fell asleep. In the middle of the sentence. Of course, we'd all giggle and talk, then drop something and watch him wake up.
Guess who would do the dropping.
In addition to my fine education, my high school years were the pinnacle of my growth as a compassionate human being.
Mr. S would wake up from the noise, look around through squinted eyes, slurp in the drool, and continue to read something about a lever or a fulcrum or a pulley. This would go on for the entire hour until the bell rang and we'd all run off to AP English.
I later realized that Mr. S. could have suffered from narcolepsy, which is both sad and shocking. I mean, didn't the principal notice the math and science teacher nodding off? Wow. Those are tax dollars well spent.
Or it could be that Mr. S. was just like the rest of us, waiting for summer so that he could sleep in.
Dreaming of levers and fulcrums and pulleys, the three things I learned in high school physics.
Whenever you ask a kid what is the best part of summer, they start with, "I get to sleep in."
I believe this says something about the school day schedule because at nine, "sleeping in" should not rank above things like "no homework" or "looking at Mrs. Higginbottom's mole during math class."
Not that I ever had a teacher named Mrs. Higginbottom, but if I did, I wouldn't want to look at her mole all day.
I did, however, have Mr. S.
Mr. S, bless his heart, was my high school physics teacher. Those students on the college track took either physics or chemistry. Like all good students, we chose wisely.
The chemistry teacher is tough.
The physics teacher is not.
Take physics.
Critical thinking is a strong point of high schoolers.
I already had Mr. S for Algebra 2 and did not learn a thing. (Except to get my best friend to share her homework with me.) Clearly, my high school years were the pinnacle of my education.
Besides the fact that Mr. S wasn't tough, there was something odd about him. He sat at his desk and read from the physics teacher's edition and fell asleep. In the middle of the sentence. Of course, we'd all giggle and talk, then drop something and watch him wake up.
Guess who would do the dropping.
In addition to my fine education, my high school years were the pinnacle of my growth as a compassionate human being.
Mr. S would wake up from the noise, look around through squinted eyes, slurp in the drool, and continue to read something about a lever or a fulcrum or a pulley. This would go on for the entire hour until the bell rang and we'd all run off to AP English.
I later realized that Mr. S. could have suffered from narcolepsy, which is both sad and shocking. I mean, didn't the principal notice the math and science teacher nodding off? Wow. Those are tax dollars well spent.
Or it could be that Mr. S. was just like the rest of us, waiting for summer so that he could sleep in.
Dreaming of levers and fulcrums and pulleys, the three things I learned in high school physics.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Weekend. In list form. It's the best I can do.
So, it's Monday morning and time for the weekend recap. We're an exciting bunch here at our house, so no need to get a snack while reading this post.
1. Saturday morning Hubs and daughter ran in a "run" which is different from a "race." This is good because my daughter would have beaten Hubs in race. Since it was a "run" they ran together, side by side. I could segue into an analogy of family bonding, but it's Monday morning.
Notice who did NOT run? The only time I run is when something is chasing me.
2. The rest of Saturday was spent working in the yard, planting bedding plants, edging. Thank goodness we have sprinklers or the poor little petunias may die. I am terrible with plants. If something doesn't cry, whine, or meow, I forget to feed it. Sad, but true.
3. Horseback riding. Not me. Daughter. She is learning with a friend and loves it. I am learning with her and love it. I'm not riding, but I have to know all there is to know about saddles and bridles and these really heavy things called hooves that can hit you in the leg or the head or whatever is in the way because you didn't listen to the teacher.
I want to listen to the teacher. I like my cranium.
4. Which leads me to a quote I've been saying lately. I've managed to work it into several conversations and it is starting to become my Seinfeld "Hellooooo."
Know where this quote is from?
"He'll be crying himself to sleep tonight on his huge pillow."
Leave the answer in the comments.
Sorry, no prize. This is a low budget blog.
I do have a friend who kind of knows Amy Grant. Oh, Linda. Will you make me cool?
Edited to add: Kudos to TexasRed for being the first correct commenter on my quirky quote. The quote is from "So I Married An Axe Murderer."
Here's the clip, also known as the Heid Speech, which is better than Hate Speech.
1. Saturday morning Hubs and daughter ran in a "run" which is different from a "race." This is good because my daughter would have beaten Hubs in race. Since it was a "run" they ran together, side by side. I could segue into an analogy of family bonding, but it's Monday morning.
Notice who did NOT run? The only time I run is when something is chasing me.
2. The rest of Saturday was spent working in the yard, planting bedding plants, edging. Thank goodness we have sprinklers or the poor little petunias may die. I am terrible with plants. If something doesn't cry, whine, or meow, I forget to feed it. Sad, but true.
3. Horseback riding. Not me. Daughter. She is learning with a friend and loves it. I am learning with her and love it. I'm not riding, but I have to know all there is to know about saddles and bridles and these really heavy things called hooves that can hit you in the leg or the head or whatever is in the way because you didn't listen to the teacher.
I want to listen to the teacher. I like my cranium.
4. Which leads me to a quote I've been saying lately. I've managed to work it into several conversations and it is starting to become my Seinfeld "Hellooooo."
Know where this quote is from?
"He'll be crying himself to sleep tonight on his huge pillow."
Leave the answer in the comments.
Sorry, no prize. This is a low budget blog.
I do have a friend who kind of knows Amy Grant. Oh, Linda. Will you make me cool?
Edited to add: Kudos to TexasRed for being the first correct commenter on my quirky quote. The quote is from "So I Married An Axe Murderer."
Here's the clip, also known as the Heid Speech, which is better than Hate Speech.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Amazing Race
Today I am over at the cafe writing about one of my favorite shows on television, The Amazing Race.
Did you realize that you are part of an amazing race?
Put on your running shoes and join me at the cafe!
Did you realize that you are part of an amazing race?
Put on your running shoes and join me at the cafe!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Interpretation of Dreams
This morning at breakfast the three of us discovered that we all had nightmares the night before.
My daughter dreamt that we had mean turkeys in our house. One was "guarding the fireplace."
When I asked her why she dreamed about turkeys, she said,"I don't know. It's not even November."
I had a dream that there were bears running loose in the field behind our fence. I called the authorities and they told me that the construction crew had to handle it. Well, I knew that wasn't going to happen. So, in my dream I drove around trying to find the bears while calling the park service on my cell phone.
I managed to find a huge grizzly. He got away. Drat.
Hubs had a dream that he was deep in the thick bamboo of an unknown location when suddenly a friend yelled, "ATTACK!" A helicopter flew over and nearly killed them all.
I'm guessing I shouldn't serve spaghetti for dinner anymore. What do you think?
My daughter dreamt that we had mean turkeys in our house. One was "guarding the fireplace."
When I asked her why she dreamed about turkeys, she said,"I don't know. It's not even November."
I had a dream that there were bears running loose in the field behind our fence. I called the authorities and they told me that the construction crew had to handle it. Well, I knew that wasn't going to happen. So, in my dream I drove around trying to find the bears while calling the park service on my cell phone.
I managed to find a huge grizzly. He got away. Drat.
Hubs had a dream that he was deep in the thick bamboo of an unknown location when suddenly a friend yelled, "ATTACK!" A helicopter flew over and nearly killed them all.
I'm guessing I shouldn't serve spaghetti for dinner anymore. What do you think?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Plagiarism makes me a bit cranky.
As you may have noticed, I've posted a Copyscape warning on my blog. Unfortunately, I have been forced to do so.
There are serious legal and ethical ramifications for those who plagiarize. Plagiarism is different from linking to a post you like or to referencing another blogger. When a blogger links to something I've written, I am flattered. When a blogger copies everything I've written and claims it as their own material, I'm not so flattered.
Plagiarism in the blogosphere involves cutting and pasting all or part of another blogger's material, posting it on your blog with no reference to the original author, thereby claiming the material as your own.
It is illegal. It is serious.
If you're a blogger, beware of those who plagiarize. Several bloggers are talking about this issue right now.
If you are a reader and/or blogger who finds a post you would like to share, please link to the original author.
Blogging is fun. Most of us blog to share our lives and maybe even share some thought-provoking ideas. The blog community is almost always friendly, but when plagiarism is involved, well, that's no fun at all.
More on this topic in a later post.
There are serious legal and ethical ramifications for those who plagiarize. Plagiarism is different from linking to a post you like or to referencing another blogger. When a blogger links to something I've written, I am flattered. When a blogger copies everything I've written and claims it as their own material, I'm not so flattered.
Plagiarism in the blogosphere involves cutting and pasting all or part of another blogger's material, posting it on your blog with no reference to the original author, thereby claiming the material as your own.
It is illegal. It is serious.
If you're a blogger, beware of those who plagiarize. Several bloggers are talking about this issue right now.
If you are a reader and/or blogger who finds a post you would like to share, please link to the original author.
Blogging is fun. Most of us blog to share our lives and maybe even share some thought-provoking ideas. The blog community is almost always friendly, but when plagiarism is involved, well, that's no fun at all.
More on this topic in a later post.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
A day at the Post Office
Yesterday I came to a fork in the proverbial road. I had a box to ship in time for Mother's Day and I had two choices.
The road less traveled (The Post Office) or UPS.
I chose the road less traveled.
Since moving to New Mexico, I have learned that Newman, ironically, gets packages to my family on the east coast much faster than the man in brown. Plus, the local UPS store guy gives me the heebie jeebies. I am sure he is perfectly nice and that his mama loves him, but there is something about him that I just can't figure out.
Most of the time Hubs makes the trips to the post office. Yesterday was different. He was busy and I was forced to go or else my mama may not get her cute little gift bag on time.
As I stood in line in the post office, a little old man in Wrangler jeans approached the counter.
"I want to talk to the Postmaster."
"What do you need, sir?" the postal worker asked.
"I need to talk to someone about the person who is delivering my mail."
I could tell from the man's tone that he was not about to offer any commendations or recommendations of a promotion for his mail carrier. I couldn't help but snicker to myself. I love this guy.
"You need the supervisor," the lady behind the counter replied.
She quickly darted into a secret passage which leads to bins of mail and postal workers on break, the place in the back where insufficient postage stamped mail goes to die.
"I'll wait. It'll be at least thirty minutes," the disgruntled man said.
Again, a snicker from me.
In less than thirty minutes, a man in a uniform emerged from the secret passage and approached the upset customer.
I stood there paying for my mama's package to be mailed and minding my own business, ahem, when I overheard the upset, old cowboy loudly share his grievances.
"I want to know who delivers mail to this address," he said, pointing to his own mail.
He continued, "Is it a woman or a man? If it's a woman I don't want to say anything but if it's a man, I am going to chew him out!"
He hates the postal service and he's a gentleman. Double love this guy.
"It's a man, " said Official Grievance Taker Worker.
"Well, he refuses to pick up my mail and I had to drive all over town to pay my bills..." the man went on.
I paid my postage and the lady at the counter wished me a nice day. We both grinned and gave each other a wink. The old cowboy continued his complaints.
I walked out and found a dog sitting outside the post office. Thinking that the dog belonged to a postal customer, I waited. People filed out of the building, pet the dog, and walked away.
Within a few minutes, the old cowboy emerged. We stood there together with the dog, looking at the tag and committed to finding its owner before leaving.
"I got a kick out of your story in there," I told him, "the post office is one of my least favorite places on earth."
He chuckled and explained his postal problems in grim detail. We stood there chatting and petting a stray dog.
The owner finally came out of the post office, scolded the dog and informed us that the dog was supposed to stay in her truck. (Tip to owner: next time, don't roll the window down so far.)
The cowboy and I said goodbye to each other and I couldn't help but snicker again. If I had known how entertaining the post office could be, I just may visit more often. (Okay, maybe not.)
And that's the day that I bonded with an old cowboy in Wrangler jeans in desperate need of a shave and a better mail carrier (or man, as it were.)
The road less traveled (The Post Office) or UPS.
I chose the road less traveled.
Since moving to New Mexico, I have learned that Newman, ironically, gets packages to my family on the east coast much faster than the man in brown. Plus, the local UPS store guy gives me the heebie jeebies. I am sure he is perfectly nice and that his mama loves him, but there is something about him that I just can't figure out.
Most of the time Hubs makes the trips to the post office. Yesterday was different. He was busy and I was forced to go or else my mama may not get her cute little gift bag on time.
As I stood in line in the post office, a little old man in Wrangler jeans approached the counter.
"I want to talk to the Postmaster."
"What do you need, sir?" the postal worker asked.
"I need to talk to someone about the person who is delivering my mail."
I could tell from the man's tone that he was not about to offer any commendations or recommendations of a promotion for his mail carrier. I couldn't help but snicker to myself. I love this guy.
"You need the supervisor," the lady behind the counter replied.
She quickly darted into a secret passage which leads to bins of mail and postal workers on break, the place in the back where insufficient postage stamped mail goes to die.
"I'll wait. It'll be at least thirty minutes," the disgruntled man said.
Again, a snicker from me.
In less than thirty minutes, a man in a uniform emerged from the secret passage and approached the upset customer.
I stood there paying for my mama's package to be mailed and minding my own business, ahem, when I overheard the upset, old cowboy loudly share his grievances.
"I want to know who delivers mail to this address," he said, pointing to his own mail.
He continued, "Is it a woman or a man? If it's a woman I don't want to say anything but if it's a man, I am going to chew him out!"
He hates the postal service and he's a gentleman. Double love this guy.
"It's a man, " said Official Grievance Taker Worker.
"Well, he refuses to pick up my mail and I had to drive all over town to pay my bills..." the man went on.
I paid my postage and the lady at the counter wished me a nice day. We both grinned and gave each other a wink. The old cowboy continued his complaints.
I walked out and found a dog sitting outside the post office. Thinking that the dog belonged to a postal customer, I waited. People filed out of the building, pet the dog, and walked away.
Within a few minutes, the old cowboy emerged. We stood there together with the dog, looking at the tag and committed to finding its owner before leaving.
"I got a kick out of your story in there," I told him, "the post office is one of my least favorite places on earth."
He chuckled and explained his postal problems in grim detail. We stood there chatting and petting a stray dog.
The owner finally came out of the post office, scolded the dog and informed us that the dog was supposed to stay in her truck. (Tip to owner: next time, don't roll the window down so far.)
The cowboy and I said goodbye to each other and I couldn't help but snicker again. If I had known how entertaining the post office could be, I just may visit more often. (Okay, maybe not.)
And that's the day that I bonded with an old cowboy in Wrangler jeans in desperate need of a shave and a better mail carrier (or man, as it were.)
Monday, May 04, 2009
It's the little things. And sometimes the big things.
It is amazing what an evening away from the mundane can do for you.
We decided to take an overnight trip this weekend to a town that has stores with merchandise and stuff.
I KNOW. I'm living on the edge.
Our first stop after checking in the hotel was Barnes and Noble, my favorite bookstore. If anyone from the Library Powers That Be is reading this, please take note. I spent a long time in B & N because it is inviting, it has shelves clearly labeled and employees who smile and make eye contact. Plus, no mildew smell.
You know, this has nothing to do with anything, but wouldn't it be the creepiest movie ever if someone merged the public library with the post office in a sick and twisted plot about dusty books and unclaimed mail?
No? You mean it's just me?
Drat. I thought I had a bestseller there.
So, anyway.
After our trip to the bookstore, we went to Old Navy and found some cute clothes for my daughter. She also found some jellies that she has been asking for. I had flashbacks of 6th grade right there next to the Old Navy mannequins. I warned her about the whole sweating phenom, so she has been officially informed.
It was about time for some dinner, so we browsed the GPS and took a chance on a Thai place we had never heard of nor seen. We pulled up to the place and I got out to take a peek inside. As soon as I smelled the aroma of basil fried rice and saw the crowd inside, I turned to Hubs and gave the thumbs up.
In a word. Yum.
Then we were off to Target, the new Target, where I got a Starbucks and took my time browsing the aisles. It was like heaven without all the singing.
(The Target Deprivation is Palpable.)
After a restful night, we were soon headed back home, but not until I decided to go the other Target in town, the old Target. Yes, two Targets. There is a difference. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.
We loaded the car and headed home for real this time. After a quick run through a Krispy Kreme drive thru, we were set.
A quick trip away with Starbucks coffee, good Thai food, two Target trips, good books and a taste of the South in a fried pastry.
I'd say "Priceless" if it were not over done.
Instead, I'll say "Thanks, I needed that."
We decided to take an overnight trip this weekend to a town that has stores with merchandise and stuff.
I KNOW. I'm living on the edge.
Our first stop after checking in the hotel was Barnes and Noble, my favorite bookstore. If anyone from the Library Powers That Be is reading this, please take note. I spent a long time in B & N because it is inviting, it has shelves clearly labeled and employees who smile and make eye contact. Plus, no mildew smell.
You know, this has nothing to do with anything, but wouldn't it be the creepiest movie ever if someone merged the public library with the post office in a sick and twisted plot about dusty books and unclaimed mail?
No? You mean it's just me?
Drat. I thought I had a bestseller there.
So, anyway.
After our trip to the bookstore, we went to Old Navy and found some cute clothes for my daughter. She also found some jellies that she has been asking for. I had flashbacks of 6th grade right there next to the Old Navy mannequins. I warned her about the whole sweating phenom, so she has been officially informed.
It was about time for some dinner, so we browsed the GPS and took a chance on a Thai place we had never heard of nor seen. We pulled up to the place and I got out to take a peek inside. As soon as I smelled the aroma of basil fried rice and saw the crowd inside, I turned to Hubs and gave the thumbs up.
In a word. Yum.
Then we were off to Target, the new Target, where I got a Starbucks and took my time browsing the aisles. It was like heaven without all the singing.
(The Target Deprivation is Palpable.)
After a restful night, we were soon headed back home, but not until I decided to go the other Target in town, the old Target. Yes, two Targets. There is a difference. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.
We loaded the car and headed home for real this time. After a quick run through a Krispy Kreme drive thru, we were set.
A quick trip away with Starbucks coffee, good Thai food, two Target trips, good books and a taste of the South in a fried pastry.
I'd say "Priceless" if it were not over done.
Instead, I'll say "Thanks, I needed that."
Friday, May 01, 2009
Compassion India
Instead of listing a Fave Five today, I want to direct you to the Compassion Bloggers who have been in India all week.
I've been following the Compassion Bloggers since the Uganda trip. Each time I have learned something new about the poor, the lost and about myself. If you are sponsoring a child or not, I encourage you to read their posts from this week.
Yes, it can be a difficult read but I promise, you'll be blessed.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do...
I've been following the Compassion Bloggers since the Uganda trip. Each time I have learned something new about the poor, the lost and about myself. If you are sponsoring a child or not, I encourage you to read their posts from this week.
Yes, it can be a difficult read but I promise, you'll be blessed.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do...
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Staples of Southern Food: Pyrex dishes and third helpings
Through the years, I've learned a few things about my people. First of all, I call them my people. Not everyone does that.
My people taught me a lot. Some taught me through example and others taught me through direct instruction. (Thank you, Mama and Granny.)
Most of what they taught me involves food. No big surprise there.
Here are a few things I have learned.
1. A rule in our family is that no one can ever leave hungry.
They don't necessarily have to arrive hungry. This means that anyone who arrives on the property and sits down for more than 15 minutes must be offered a drink, then some food. If they come for a meal it is mandatory to prepare at least twice as much than can be consumed.
2. This should have been number one. A Southern woman's number one fear is to run out of food. Some people could blame this on The War or The Depression. Who really knows.
I can tell you this, the only thing worse thing than running out of food is not looking natural at your funeral. This makes sense because most Southern women would rather die than suffer from the humiliation of company not having a third helping of broccoli casserole.
3. Southern women are not allowed to sit down while people are visiting. Once the meal is on the table, it is proper to sit long enough to share in the blessing, but the Southern woman must be in a seat close to the kitchen. In every Southern woman's chair is a hidden spring that makes her hop up and down and fetch tea and more rolls for everyone.
And butter, of course.
4. Southern women love to make things in Pyrex dishes. We give them as wedding gifts in sets of various sizes. After many years of keeping (no kidding) about 8 Pyrex dishes, I decided I didn't need them all. Even if a person has two ovens, there is a limit to the number of casseroles I can bake all at once.
I kept a few of them and donated the rest. Somewhere in a Goodwill store there is a Southern woman blowing the dust off a 9 x 11 and saying to herself, "Jackpot!"
5. All Southern women have at least 2 recipes for broccoli casserole. Some of us prefer Cheese Whiz and others prefer shredded cheddar. You can see us at the church potluck sitting on opposite sides of the fellowship hall.
6. We also like to make a 7 layer salad. Salad is a misleading name because layered salad includes mayonnaise, bacon and sugar. If we could put butter on it and keep the iceberg lettuce from wilting we would.
7. You could make the layered salad in a 9 x 11 or in a nice trifle bowl, another common wedding gift for the Southern bride.
And that, my friend, is just a taste of the many food rules of my people.
In case you're wondering, I prefer shredded cheddar. Medium, not mild or too sharp, and freshly grated.
(Edited to add: I don't have two ovens. If I did, I would have kept all of my Pyrex dishes.)
My people taught me a lot. Some taught me through example and others taught me through direct instruction. (Thank you, Mama and Granny.)
Most of what they taught me involves food. No big surprise there.
Here are a few things I have learned.
1. A rule in our family is that no one can ever leave hungry.
They don't necessarily have to arrive hungry. This means that anyone who arrives on the property and sits down for more than 15 minutes must be offered a drink, then some food. If they come for a meal it is mandatory to prepare at least twice as much than can be consumed.
2. This should have been number one. A Southern woman's number one fear is to run out of food. Some people could blame this on The War or The Depression. Who really knows.
I can tell you this, the only thing worse thing than running out of food is not looking natural at your funeral. This makes sense because most Southern women would rather die than suffer from the humiliation of company not having a third helping of broccoli casserole.
3. Southern women are not allowed to sit down while people are visiting. Once the meal is on the table, it is proper to sit long enough to share in the blessing, but the Southern woman must be in a seat close to the kitchen. In every Southern woman's chair is a hidden spring that makes her hop up and down and fetch tea and more rolls for everyone.
And butter, of course.
4. Southern women love to make things in Pyrex dishes. We give them as wedding gifts in sets of various sizes. After many years of keeping (no kidding) about 8 Pyrex dishes, I decided I didn't need them all. Even if a person has two ovens, there is a limit to the number of casseroles I can bake all at once.
I kept a few of them and donated the rest. Somewhere in a Goodwill store there is a Southern woman blowing the dust off a 9 x 11 and saying to herself, "Jackpot!"
5. All Southern women have at least 2 recipes for broccoli casserole. Some of us prefer Cheese Whiz and others prefer shredded cheddar. You can see us at the church potluck sitting on opposite sides of the fellowship hall.
6. We also like to make a 7 layer salad. Salad is a misleading name because layered salad includes mayonnaise, bacon and sugar. If we could put butter on it and keep the iceberg lettuce from wilting we would.
7. You could make the layered salad in a 9 x 11 or in a nice trifle bowl, another common wedding gift for the Southern bride.
And that, my friend, is just a taste of the many food rules of my people.
In case you're wondering, I prefer shredded cheddar. Medium, not mild or too sharp, and freshly grated.
(Edited to add: I don't have two ovens. If I did, I would have kept all of my Pyrex dishes.)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Politically Incorrect Recipes: Ribs and Beans
I've vowed to make something different for dinner around here, trying new recipes and pulling out the old ones from my recipe box. My poor family is getting tired of pot roast and baked chicken.
Planning dinner should be stress free. Goodness knows I've got enough to worry about with the swine flu.
Now the government says that I'm not supposed to call it the swine flu because people are afraid to eat pork. Those poor pig farmers are feeling the pain of the swine phobia even though the professionals tell us we can't get the swine flu from consuming pork.
So we are supposed to refer to the Swine Flu as the Mexican Flu which means now I'm just afraid to eat tacos.
Don't start emailing me, Sensitive Reader. That last phrase is known as sarcasm and, unlike pork, it is served up quite regularly here at This Ain't New York.
Here are a few recipes I made last week that were delish. Depending on the relationship you have with your butcher, they are Virus Free.
Jalapeno Ribs with Baked Beans
AKA "Support The Frightened Pig Farmer While Contributing to Global Warming Dinner"
Sweet Jalapeno Ribs (Crock pot Recipe)
3 pounds country-style pork ribs, trimmed
1 medium onion, chopped
salt, pepper, garlic powder (or your favorite seasonings)
1 (10 oz) jar red pepper jelly
1 cup A-1 steak sauce
Sprinkle ribs with equal amounts of salt, pepper and garlic powder. Rub in seasonings all over ribs. Place ribs under broiler 18-20 minutes with oven door partially open. Turn once. (Watch them carefully so they do not burn.)
Meanwhile,combine jelly and A-1 on med heat in a saucepan. Stir until just blended and jelly is melted.
Place browned ribs and onion in crock pot. Pour jelly/A-1 sauce over ribs. Cook on high for 5-6 hours or on low for 9-10 hours, or until ribs are fork tender.
Once ribs are done, begin cooking beans.
Baked Beans
2 (16 oz) cans pinto beans, drained
4 slices bacon, cut up in bite size pieces
1 small onion, chopped
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup ketchup
1 Tbs. mustard
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
rib meat
Cook bacon and onions together until onions are soft. (It is easier if you cut up the bacon before cooking.) Pour off excess grease. Mix in remaining ingredients, along with 1/4 cup of cooked, shredded rib meat. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes, or until bubbly.
Serve with ribs and a huge piece of cornbread.
Suey!
Planning dinner should be stress free. Goodness knows I've got enough to worry about with the swine flu.
Now the government says that I'm not supposed to call it the swine flu because people are afraid to eat pork. Those poor pig farmers are feeling the pain of the swine phobia even though the professionals tell us we can't get the swine flu from consuming pork.
So we are supposed to refer to the Swine Flu as the Mexican Flu which means now I'm just afraid to eat tacos.
Don't start emailing me, Sensitive Reader. That last phrase is known as sarcasm and, unlike pork, it is served up quite regularly here at This Ain't New York.
Here are a few recipes I made last week that were delish. Depending on the relationship you have with your butcher, they are Virus Free.
Jalapeno Ribs with Baked Beans
AKA "Support The Frightened Pig Farmer While Contributing to Global Warming Dinner"
Sweet Jalapeno Ribs (Crock pot Recipe)
3 pounds country-style pork ribs, trimmed
1 medium onion, chopped
salt, pepper, garlic powder (or your favorite seasonings)
1 (10 oz) jar red pepper jelly
1 cup A-1 steak sauce
Sprinkle ribs with equal amounts of salt, pepper and garlic powder. Rub in seasonings all over ribs. Place ribs under broiler 18-20 minutes with oven door partially open. Turn once. (Watch them carefully so they do not burn.)
Meanwhile,combine jelly and A-1 on med heat in a saucepan. Stir until just blended and jelly is melted.
Place browned ribs and onion in crock pot. Pour jelly/A-1 sauce over ribs. Cook on high for 5-6 hours or on low for 9-10 hours, or until ribs are fork tender.
Once ribs are done, begin cooking beans.
Baked Beans
2 (16 oz) cans pinto beans, drained
4 slices bacon, cut up in bite size pieces
1 small onion, chopped
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup ketchup
1 Tbs. mustard
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
rib meat
Cook bacon and onions together until onions are soft. (It is easier if you cut up the bacon before cooking.) Pour off excess grease. Mix in remaining ingredients, along with 1/4 cup of cooked, shredded rib meat. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes, or until bubbly.
Serve with ribs and a huge piece of cornbread.
Suey!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Hi from the edge of the earth.
Well. This little writer's block has turned into a full blown bloggy break. I just wanted to check in and let y'all know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.
And, by the way, why do we still say that? We've known for...like hundreds of years that the earth isn't flat and that it isn't possible to actually fall of of the planet. Maybe it's time to update the phrase.
I'm just sayin.'
Of course, I'm not the one who will be coming up with a new phrase anytime soon, what with all the writer's block and all.
And y'all, my neck has been sore and stiff for a whole day. I woke up with it yesterday and thought it was just one of those weird sleep things. But it won't go away and now I think I might have the swine flu. Which is not a good thing because the thought of catching something from a hog just sends shivers up my spine.
And that would mean I have both aches and chills. So there you go. I'm just waiting for the fever to spike and you'll see me sporting one of those surgical masks.
Since I have thrown good segues off the edge of the earth, let me go ahead and say this. It irks me to see people wearing those surgical masks incorrectly.
Hello! Mr. Businessman on the subway! It is supposed to cover your nose, too. This isn't an episode of ER where you just kick in the door and hold the mask loosely up to your face so that you can yell at the med student.
There. I feel better.
Except for this crick in my neck.
I'll see y'all tomorrow...
And, by the way, why do we still say that? We've known for...like hundreds of years that the earth isn't flat and that it isn't possible to actually fall of of the planet. Maybe it's time to update the phrase.
I'm just sayin.'
Of course, I'm not the one who will be coming up with a new phrase anytime soon, what with all the writer's block and all.
And y'all, my neck has been sore and stiff for a whole day. I woke up with it yesterday and thought it was just one of those weird sleep things. But it won't go away and now I think I might have the swine flu. Which is not a good thing because the thought of catching something from a hog just sends shivers up my spine.
And that would mean I have both aches and chills. So there you go. I'm just waiting for the fever to spike and you'll see me sporting one of those surgical masks.
Since I have thrown good segues off the edge of the earth, let me go ahead and say this. It irks me to see people wearing those surgical masks incorrectly.
Hello! Mr. Businessman on the subway! It is supposed to cover your nose, too. This isn't an episode of ER where you just kick in the door and hold the mask loosely up to your face so that you can yell at the med student.
There. I feel better.
Except for this crick in my neck.
I'll see y'all tomorrow...
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Compassion Bloggers: India
All this week you can read about what the Compassion Blog Team is doing in India. Be sure to check their main page to read all of their posts.
Please pray for the bloggers. Pray for their safe travel and health.
Pray for their hearts. The poverty in India is difficult to even imagine. They are witnessing it firsthand and that can be a hard task indeed. What they will see is unfathomable.
Most of all, pray for the children they will meet and for the many more who will be sponsored through the words and images these bloggers will share.
Please pray for the bloggers. Pray for their safe travel and health.
Pray for their hearts. The poverty in India is difficult to even imagine. They are witnessing it firsthand and that can be a hard task indeed. What they will see is unfathomable.
Most of all, pray for the children they will meet and for the many more who will be sponsored through the words and images these bloggers will share.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Look! At Post!
Don't get too excited.
I sat down at the computer several times this week to write something. I got nothin.' Really.
Unless you want to hear me rant on somethingorother or hear about how I made Rachael Ray's shish kabobs but not really the shish because I used beef and shish is lamb. (I learned that from Rachael. I thought it was all the same.)
I guess I could post the recipe for the beef kabobs but then that would be even less exciting. I'll save that for another day. I have a few recipes I'd like to share with you and I'll just post them all at once.
It'll be like a little bloggy cookbooklet.
It has been a long week, even though nothing really exciting has happened. Then again, that's how life is. Living. Sometimes something funny happens which (for us) immediately becomes blog fodder or sometimes we learn a lesson that we'd like to share.
Most of the time, however, life is just living. Taking the kids to school, going to work, shopping for groceries, buying birthday gifts, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and yes, scooping the litter box.
If I ever resort to blogging about the litter box, please email me a message begging me to stop.
I do have one little thing to add to this otherwise snoozeville post. I am lovin' 24 and I am hatin' that Tony totally betrayed me.
Tony, if you're out there, you can just talk to the hand- the one that scoops the litter box.
Y'all have a great weekend!
I sat down at the computer several times this week to write something. I got nothin.' Really.
Unless you want to hear me rant on somethingorother or hear about how I made Rachael Ray's shish kabobs but not really the shish because I used beef and shish is lamb. (I learned that from Rachael. I thought it was all the same.)
I guess I could post the recipe for the beef kabobs but then that would be even less exciting. I'll save that for another day. I have a few recipes I'd like to share with you and I'll just post them all at once.
It'll be like a little bloggy cookbooklet.
It has been a long week, even though nothing really exciting has happened. Then again, that's how life is. Living. Sometimes something funny happens which (for us) immediately becomes blog fodder or sometimes we learn a lesson that we'd like to share.
Most of the time, however, life is just living. Taking the kids to school, going to work, shopping for groceries, buying birthday gifts, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and yes, scooping the litter box.
If I ever resort to blogging about the litter box, please email me a message begging me to stop.
I do have one little thing to add to this otherwise snoozeville post. I am lovin' 24 and I am hatin' that Tony totally betrayed me.
Tony, if you're out there, you can just talk to the hand- the one that scoops the litter box.
Y'all have a great weekend!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Because this is my Father's world.
This post was originally published April 18, 2008.
For you people who did not attend or do not plan to attend some kind of Earth Day or Arbor Day or Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo (do not have children in elementary school), um... can I come live with you?
Daughter's class had a field trip to A Combo today and I agreed to go along. You see, my field trip attendance streak is something akin to Seinfeld's vomit streak and I do not want to mess it up. I have not missed a single field trip since she was the tender age of three thankyouverymuch.
I've been to aquariums, museums, the pumpkin patch, the rodeo, McDonald's, the theatre, and many, many playgrounds with lots of sand.
Oh, and the rodeo and McDonald's was a combo of its own; the McDonald's visit included a drug bust.
Try being a chaperon on that trip and explaining to the moms who were at work or at the spa or wherever they were why we had to literally form a human wall between barefoot children playing in the human gerbil play equipment and guys from the hood being patted down by the Police.
And yelling, "LEAVE your Keds in the shoe cubbies, kids! Someone might start shooting!"
Or why you chose to sit in the booth because it provided more bullet protection.
Big Kindergarten Fun.
A field trip is like going through rush in a sorority that no one wants to pledge.
By now, I should be a Kappa Delta Mama Jama.
Here's the thing. I love spending time with my child, but I am also paranoid. I can always picture that some creepy person is out there. They are lurking in the shadows or behind the slide and I am going to be there to protect my child. Therefore, I must go to help the poor teacher who has obviously lost her mind.
Plus, you never know when you need to form a Human Wall.
So, today was no exception. I joined the class, along with several other parents, as we toured the Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo and learned how to care for the Earth.
You might be surprised, but I could be considered a crunchy conservative. I believe in God and I vote conservatively, but I still want to protect wildlife and take care of the planet because I believe in the God Who created it.
I'm just sayin.'
The exhibits today were excellent. I learned a lot. Daughter learned a lot. It was a lot of fun and no one was arrested. At least, not to my knowledge.
After all of the instruction on saving the birds from balloons and how to measure the diameter of a tree, I made sure daughter was lined up for the bus and I left to get ready for Girl Scouts.
We had our own little Combo event to take care of; we planted flowers at school.
The girls were so sweet and it was all going well until our little smart third grader found a baby bird, fallen from the nest. Everyone rushed to comfort him and we watched as he opened his tiny bird mouth, gasping for air.
We wrapped him in a pillowcase to keep him warm, thanks to the quick response of our other troop leader. She also phoned a local wildlife rescue agent who was ready to take the baby. His nest was on the edge of the roof, too high for us to return him.
So, we watched. His breaths became more labored and the girls peered over him. The grown-ups there just glanced at each other, knowing what was about to happen. And then it did. The little bird stopped breathing completely.
The girls had been playing and planting their seedlings. I didn't want to upset them right then and there, so I ushered them over to another activity and promised to watch over the bird.
I quietly took him to the car, still wrapped, planning to bury him when we got home.
I did finally tell the Scouts what happened. Most of them handled it very well. I assured them that they did help the little bird. They were with him when he died.
We came home and daughter watched as I dug a deep hole in the back yard. Her two friends next door joined us, and we buried the tiny baby bird. One by one they gingerly placed small stones in the fresh dirt and we stood over the spot in respect for a tiny, precious life.
It was surreal. Watching the end of a life given by The Creator after spending the day celebrating His Creation.
A day of celebrating His Creation with booths run by people wearing flip flops and hoping that they know The One who created the planet they are desperately trying to save.
And that through His Creation they will see that they are the ones He is so desperately trying and wanting to save.
Yeah, I'd say it was A Combo kind of day.
For you people who did not attend or do not plan to attend some kind of Earth Day or Arbor Day or Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo (do not have children in elementary school), um... can I come live with you?
Daughter's class had a field trip to A Combo today and I agreed to go along. You see, my field trip attendance streak is something akin to Seinfeld's vomit streak and I do not want to mess it up. I have not missed a single field trip since she was the tender age of three thankyouverymuch.
I've been to aquariums, museums, the pumpkin patch, the rodeo, McDonald's, the theatre, and many, many playgrounds with lots of sand.
Oh, and the rodeo and McDonald's was a combo of its own; the McDonald's visit included a drug bust.
Try being a chaperon on that trip and explaining to the moms who were at work or at the spa or wherever they were why we had to literally form a human wall between barefoot children playing in the human gerbil play equipment and guys from the hood being patted down by the Police.
And yelling, "LEAVE your Keds in the shoe cubbies, kids! Someone might start shooting!"
Or why you chose to sit in the booth because it provided more bullet protection.
Big Kindergarten Fun.
A field trip is like going through rush in a sorority that no one wants to pledge.
By now, I should be a Kappa Delta Mama Jama.
Here's the thing. I love spending time with my child, but I am also paranoid. I can always picture that some creepy person is out there. They are lurking in the shadows or behind the slide and I am going to be there to protect my child. Therefore, I must go to help the poor teacher who has obviously lost her mind.
Plus, you never know when you need to form a Human Wall.
So, today was no exception. I joined the class, along with several other parents, as we toured the Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo and learned how to care for the Earth.
You might be surprised, but I could be considered a crunchy conservative. I believe in God and I vote conservatively, but I still want to protect wildlife and take care of the planet because I believe in the God Who created it.
I'm just sayin.'
The exhibits today were excellent. I learned a lot. Daughter learned a lot. It was a lot of fun and no one was arrested. At least, not to my knowledge.
After all of the instruction on saving the birds from balloons and how to measure the diameter of a tree, I made sure daughter was lined up for the bus and I left to get ready for Girl Scouts.
We had our own little Combo event to take care of; we planted flowers at school.
The girls were so sweet and it was all going well until our little smart third grader found a baby bird, fallen from the nest. Everyone rushed to comfort him and we watched as he opened his tiny bird mouth, gasping for air.
We wrapped him in a pillowcase to keep him warm, thanks to the quick response of our other troop leader. She also phoned a local wildlife rescue agent who was ready to take the baby. His nest was on the edge of the roof, too high for us to return him.
So, we watched. His breaths became more labored and the girls peered over him. The grown-ups there just glanced at each other, knowing what was about to happen. And then it did. The little bird stopped breathing completely.
The girls had been playing and planting their seedlings. I didn't want to upset them right then and there, so I ushered them over to another activity and promised to watch over the bird.
I quietly took him to the car, still wrapped, planning to bury him when we got home.
I did finally tell the Scouts what happened. Most of them handled it very well. I assured them that they did help the little bird. They were with him when he died.
We came home and daughter watched as I dug a deep hole in the back yard. Her two friends next door joined us, and we buried the tiny baby bird. One by one they gingerly placed small stones in the fresh dirt and we stood over the spot in respect for a tiny, precious life.
It was surreal. Watching the end of a life given by The Creator after spending the day celebrating His Creation.
A day of celebrating His Creation with booths run by people wearing flip flops and hoping that they know The One who created the planet they are desperately trying to save.
And that through His Creation they will see that they are the ones He is so desperately trying and wanting to save.
Yeah, I'd say it was A Combo kind of day.
Works For Me: Eleven Times Table Trick
You're at the right blog, in case you thought you were lost. This is still me. The I Don't Do Math me.
But I have to share this little gem of math trickery with you! It is gold.
Gold.
Your kids will love you for this one.
Here's how to multiply 11 by a two digit number without your old Trig calculator.
Sample Problem- 11 x 23
Take the original number (23) and imagine a space between the two digits.
23
2_3
Now add the two numbers together and put them in the middle:
2_(2+3)_3
That is it - you have the answer:
253
If the numbers in the middle add up to a 2 digit number, just insert the second number and add 1 to the first: (This sounds more complicated, but will make sense once you try it.)
Sample problem- 11 x 99
9_(9+9)_9
(9+1)_8_9
Answer: 1089
Sample Problem 2- 11 x 89
8_(8+9)_9
(8+1)_7_9
Answer: 979
Math without math. What's next?
I'll still stick with English but, my word, this is cool. Even for a grammar geek.
Check out more tips over at We Are THAT Family.
But I have to share this little gem of math trickery with you! It is gold.
Gold.
Your kids will love you for this one.
Here's how to multiply 11 by a two digit number without your old Trig calculator.
Sample Problem- 11 x 23
Take the original number (23) and imagine a space between the two digits.
23
2_3
Now add the two numbers together and put them in the middle:
2_(2+3)_3
That is it - you have the answer:
253
If the numbers in the middle add up to a 2 digit number, just insert the second number and add 1 to the first: (This sounds more complicated, but will make sense once you try it.)
Sample problem- 11 x 99
9_(9+9)_9
(9+1)_8_9
Answer: 1089
Sample Problem 2- 11 x 89
8_(8+9)_9
(8+1)_7_9
Answer: 979
Math without math. What's next?
I'll still stick with English but, my word, this is cool. Even for a grammar geek.
Check out more tips over at We Are THAT Family.
Monday, April 20, 2009
You could say "Copy That" if only you weren't surrounded by all that copyrighted material.
The strangest epiphanies can happen over some good chips and salsa.
My daughter and I were out for dinner with Nancy and her sweet girl. The four of us were munching on tamales and sopapillas when the subject of the library came up.
"My Mom would never take me to the library," my poor, neglected child said with a sigh and a giggle.
So I asked Nancy to pay the check and then I ran to the car and sobbed.
Not really. They hadn't brought us the check yet.
I answered the pitiful comment, "I really need to get over that... besides, I still like the bookstore."
My child's reading skills are where they should be so she is obviously getting some good reading material from somewhere. The somewhere is the library from which Hubs checks out the books.
Let me tell you something about Hubs. He is quite comfortable in the library which is more than I can say about his feelings concerning buffet lines. In fact, he used to work there.
I married a librarian.
He is going to run in here screaming if I don't go ahead and set this straight. Technically, he was a college grad awaiting another job who worked at the library. Temporarily. For a full year.
As you can see, my aversion to libraries is ironic considering who I married. Let me add here that Hubs never once worked for the post office although he was allowed to go in the back, behind the counter and find a letter he had just mailed in order to put more postage on it.
The other night Hubs decided to tap into my borderline psychosis by explaining to me the many duties of a librarian, specifically the Reference Librarian.
Apparently, the Reference Librarian is an expert in her field. One must undergo tedious instruction and certification for this title. She has skills that others dream of.
In his words, "she is like the Special Forces of Librarians."
Hubs decided to google Reference Librarian and found some terms and definitions on Wikipedia that must have been written by the Book-stacking Black Ops themselves.
Here are a few:
Librarians are experts in the contents and arrangement of their collections, as well as how information is organized outside the library.
Wow. I can't even find my keys.
Library users are encouraged not to be shy about asking a reference librarian for help. Even though most librarians stay busy when not serving a patron, their primary duty when they are at the desk is to assist library users.
Really. I thought they were there to make me feel organizationally inferior.
Using a structured reference interview, the librarian works with the library user to clarify their needs and determine what information sources will fill them.
I'm so glad the reference interview is structured. The library itself is just a total mess.
To borrow a medical analogy, reference librarians diagnose and treat information deficiencies.
But do they always wash their hands between readers?
Here are a few skills that a Master's Degree in Library Science will provide. (Unlike those Bachelor Degree Librarians, the Physician's Assistants of Book Stacking.)
The librarian can look up a brief, factual answer to a specific question.
The librarian can use the catalogue to find out whether the library owns an item with a particular title or author, or that contains a short story, chapter, song, or poem with a particular title, or to compile a list of books by a particular author or on a particular subject.
Not that they are particular.
And here is my favorite skill of the Reference Librarian, one which I've never experienced personally.
The librarian can often take the library user directly to the shelves with books on a certain topic without using the catalogue.
Which is like the Jack Bauer of Librarians. You know, without the violence and all.
So I guess if I could start to see the library the same way I see the CIA or the FBI or my family doctor then maybe I could get over my aversion and my child would not be so deprived of literary access.
Nah. I think Hubs' Wikipedia search backfired. Now I just see the library as an exam room with torture devices.
Kind of makes waterboarding sound like a trip to the bookstore.
My daughter and I were out for dinner with Nancy and her sweet girl. The four of us were munching on tamales and sopapillas when the subject of the library came up.
"My Mom would never take me to the library," my poor, neglected child said with a sigh and a giggle.
So I asked Nancy to pay the check and then I ran to the car and sobbed.
Not really. They hadn't brought us the check yet.
I answered the pitiful comment, "I really need to get over that... besides, I still like the bookstore."
My child's reading skills are where they should be so she is obviously getting some good reading material from somewhere. The somewhere is the library from which Hubs checks out the books.
Let me tell you something about Hubs. He is quite comfortable in the library which is more than I can say about his feelings concerning buffet lines. In fact, he used to work there.
I married a librarian.
He is going to run in here screaming if I don't go ahead and set this straight. Technically, he was a college grad awaiting another job who worked at the library. Temporarily. For a full year.
As you can see, my aversion to libraries is ironic considering who I married. Let me add here that Hubs never once worked for the post office although he was allowed to go in the back, behind the counter and find a letter he had just mailed in order to put more postage on it.
The other night Hubs decided to tap into my borderline psychosis by explaining to me the many duties of a librarian, specifically the Reference Librarian.
Apparently, the Reference Librarian is an expert in her field. One must undergo tedious instruction and certification for this title. She has skills that others dream of.
In his words, "she is like the Special Forces of Librarians."
Hubs decided to google Reference Librarian and found some terms and definitions on Wikipedia that must have been written by the Book-stacking Black Ops themselves.
Here are a few:
Librarians are experts in the contents and arrangement of their collections, as well as how information is organized outside the library.
Wow. I can't even find my keys.
Library users are encouraged not to be shy about asking a reference librarian for help. Even though most librarians stay busy when not serving a patron, their primary duty when they are at the desk is to assist library users.
Really. I thought they were there to make me feel organizationally inferior.
Using a structured reference interview, the librarian works with the library user to clarify their needs and determine what information sources will fill them.
I'm so glad the reference interview is structured. The library itself is just a total mess.
To borrow a medical analogy, reference librarians diagnose and treat information deficiencies.
But do they always wash their hands between readers?
Here are a few skills that a Master's Degree in Library Science will provide. (Unlike those Bachelor Degree Librarians, the Physician's Assistants of Book Stacking.)
The librarian can look up a brief, factual answer to a specific question.
The librarian can use the catalogue to find out whether the library owns an item with a particular title or author, or that contains a short story, chapter, song, or poem with a particular title, or to compile a list of books by a particular author or on a particular subject.
Not that they are particular.
And here is my favorite skill of the Reference Librarian, one which I've never experienced personally.
The librarian can often take the library user directly to the shelves with books on a certain topic without using the catalogue.
Which is like the Jack Bauer of Librarians. You know, without the violence and all.
So I guess if I could start to see the library the same way I see the CIA or the FBI or my family doctor then maybe I could get over my aversion and my child would not be so deprived of literary access.
Nah. I think Hubs' Wikipedia search backfired. Now I just see the library as an exam room with torture devices.
Kind of makes waterboarding sound like a trip to the bookstore.
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