Meandering Mango

Meander on Over to Word Press

2007-01-31T21:26:00.000-05:00

Okay...so I've finally decided, after much insisting by Troy over at Growing Sense, that the time has come for Meandering Mango to stop being bullied by Blogger and settle into a cozy new home at Word Press. First it was "Beta Blogger," then it was "New Blogger," but any way that you cut it, if I was going to be forced to switch...well, then I was really going to switch.

Don't fret! You can still keep up with my meanderings...just be sure to change your links and bookmarks to Meandering Mango's new abode at http://meanderingmango.wordpress.com.

Can't wait to see you there--and by the way, there's already a new little treat waiting for your arrival!

Au'revoir, Blogger...Bonjour, Word Press!

*I will keep this account, however, no new posts will be made to this site. Thanks for reading!

Say What?

2007-01-17T21:41:00.000-05:00

Okay...so it's been a LOOOONG time since I've posted, and I'm feeling like a big slacker. But, truth be told, I'm having a bit of writer's block. Enter this post--a collection of totally random happenings from my life lately that make up a giant hodge podge. Here goes, a collection of mini-posts to get me jump started...

(1) Alphabet Soup: Marc has become increasingly interested and involved in ABCD (Asset Based Community Development) during his MSW studies. Therefore, I (by default) have also had a great deal of exposure lately to this paradigm [that buzzword was for you, Troy]. Last week, Marc and I attended a conference in Schaumburg, Illinois at the invitation of a fellow church member. The focus was Communities of Shalom--a program through the United Methodist Church that focuses on uniting communities and congregations...at least that's what I gathered. We attended three break-out sessions--two of which were led by Luther Snow, an ABCD consultant. It was uplifting to realize through our contact with Luther's ideas and teaching that much of what we are doing at Broadway UMC [that which seems very intrinsic and second-nature to us] is actually quite progressive. Not only did we walk away with an appreciation for those things that Broadway is doing to truly celebrate its community, but we also brought home some pretty awesome furniture from IKEA!

(2) Goodbye #3: Many people who know me at all know that I am a complete dentophobe. I'm not sure if it was a bad experience as a child or the fact that I brush constantly and still have multiple cavities, but the dentist really freaks me out. So I ended up putting off (for years) having work done on tooth #3--your first molar on the upper right for those who don't know. Finally, after an abscess at the beginning of '06, there was no getting around it. Tooth #3 won the battle, and I was heading to the endodontist for a root canal. The only problem was that the tooth was still going to have its way and continued to give me problems. At the beginning of December, I finally broke down and called the oral surgeon. By 3:00pm on January 5th, Tooth #3 was merely a memory.

I was so nervous about getting my tooth yanked [or extracted, as the dental-type say], that I actually called Marc crying on my way home BEFORE the appointment. Thankfully, the procedure only took a couple of minutes--I think it took longer to get the shots to numb me up--and I was headed out the door, gauze in mouth, only a short time later. Marc's mom graciously escorted me to my appointment and let me crash at their house afterwards. Later that evening, Marc showed up with pudding and Jello...just what I needed to get me back on the road to recovery!

(3) Doin' the 'Do: Last Friday, I visited our friend Wayde at his and his partner David's hair salon, Common Tribe. My mom, dad and little sister all chipped in to get me gift certificates to the salon for my birthday in December, and I finally decided to make good on a new haircut. I've been growing my hair out for awhile and love how long it's getting, but it was definitely time for a little sprucing up. So I fought off all of the crazy northside traffic after work and made my way to the super cozy salon for my new 'do.

Wayde took great care to make sure that he knew exactly what kind of cut I wanted before he got started and then went on to work his magic. I jokingly told him afterwards that he should think about cutting hair for a living. Note to anyone looking for an extra-fabulous haircut...go see Wayde!

(4) Get out of my Fac(ial): If you remember back to my post in September, my mom, sisters and I play in a golf tournament every fall. This year, my mom and I both won gift certificates for manicures, pedicures, facials, and a shampoo/style at Kokomo's mecca of high fashion, Rudae's Beauty School. Knowing that the certificates expired soon, we made appointments for Saturday, and I headed to Kokomo for our Day of Beauty. We were well aware of the fact that we would be tended to by students, but who knew that our experience might bring to mind a certain song from the movie Grease? At the end of the afternoon, my facial left me feeling a bit icky, and my mom's manicurist actually asked her if she wanted to have her nails polished...this after not filing them or even trimming her cuticles. I know, I know...it would be wrong to think that we would walk away having experienced the high-quality pampering of a professional salon, but I also didn't think that I would feel the need to wash my face after the facial. I think my mom would agree that the best part of our "spa day" was the hour we spent at the ice cream shop afterwards laughing about our time at Rudae's.

(5) That's How I Roll: When Duane mentioned that his sister had a spot on Indy's newest sports team, The Naptown Rollergirls, Troy decided that he wanted to celebrate his birthday at the bout on January 13th. So we packed up the crew and headed to the Blue Ribbon Pavilion at the Indiana State Fairgrounds for the inaugural "Cherry Stomp"...crude, I know. Marc and I were amazed by how the athletics really did outweigh the theatrics, although there was plenty of that, too! I could elaborate on the night's events, but I'll just point you to the website and let you use your own imagination.

Well...there it is. A few little clips to catch you up on my whirlwind life of the last few weeks. More to come--I promise.

Back in Action

2006-12-28T10:57:00.000-05:00

Marc and I knew our Christmas vacation was finally over when we stopped by the Downtown Vet yesterday after work to pick up our wacky fur-baby, Barkley, from "camp." The system is that you go in the front door to pay and then you go back outside to the side "kennel door" to pick up the beast. We've got it down. So we went outside, carefully arranged the blanket in the back seat to protect it from the impending dog slobber, and waited patiently for the kennel door to open. Suddenly, the door flew open and there appeared Barkley, straining against his leash like a wild boar (if wild boars wore leashes, that is) and nearly dragging the technician behind him. This is how it usually goes with Barkley. He's not the most refined dog, and he has a little trouble containing his excitement...the only problem being that, well, just about everything excites Barkley. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to go through life with such enthusiasm, but even thinking about it makes me tired.

Anyone who meets Barkley typically says, "He's a great looking dog." And he is. But what I've come to learn is that it's a little like the times when a friend tried to set you up on a date and can say only about the prospect that he or she "has a good personality." Barkley is not a gentleman; in fact, he is the bull in the proverbial China Shop that is our home. In the world of manual transmissions, Barkley would be stuck in fifth gear...on an Indy car. But I don't want to give him a bad reputation, at least not one that he hasn't already earned by jumping on our friends' children or eating Marc's Burberry scarf a couple of years ago. Truly, it is Marc and me who are to blame--because when it comes down to it, Barkley really is a smart dog. He has selective hearing and chooses to acknowledge only his favorites words, like "treats," "goodies," or "go do business [aka go potty]." He even drops what he's doing to check the front and back doors when you ask him if Daddy's home. Commands such as, "No!," "Down!," and "Drop It!" fall on deaf ears.

Marc and I thought that we would give training a try. We even enrolled Barkley in the Humane Society's "Puppy Kindergarten." After four weeks (one day a week), Barkley graduated, only to eat his diploma in the car on the way home. We should have known then that Barkley was a renegade...a dog not bound by the conventions of dog training. The James Dean of the canine world. But he was cute, and we loved him, and after all...he was part of the family.

In my mind, I've often revisited the telltale signs that might have quietly whispered, "Turn back now..." We purchased Barkley from Tornado Kennels in Galva, Illinois (about a four hour trek from Indianapolis). When we were literally five minutes from the kennel, I made Marc stop the car at a gas station, because I was so nervous that my stomach actually felt sick [sign #1]. After we arrived, Lisa and Mark--the puppies' human parents--asked if we wanted to see Barkley's dad, Taos. We complied and headed out to the fenced in area just outside of the individual dog runs. The area was divided into two sections: one with all of the bitc...excuse me, Girl Dogs, and the other where the studs could strut their stuff. When they opened Taos' run, he bolted across the yard and up to the fence where all of the "ladies" were oogling him with ga-ga eyes and wagging tails. He put on quite a show for awhile until he turned, and as if guided by some crazy cosmic dog spirit, locked eyes with us. If you've seen footage of the Running of the Bulls in Spain, then you might be able to grasp what came next as Taos took off mad-hell towards us with a full thirty yards or so to build up speed. I saw my life pass before my eyes as all 105-pounds of this massive dog came bearing down on us. I might have even closed my eyes, half expecting to be pummeled. At the last minute, he playfully broke to the side...as if he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time [sign #2]. While we were there, Barkley made another dog cry [sign #3], peed on the floor [sign #4], and refused to get in his crate [sign #5]. Once in the van, he barked the whole way home [sign #6], and then repudiated our attempts to get him to go potty at the rest stops [sign #7].

With all of that said, though, the last three years with Barkley have been fun. Sure, there are moments when he entirely lives up to the Tornado part of his heritage...days when he sneaks upstairs and raids the kitty box, or takes it upon himself to make sure the garbage is up to code. But he also has his moments, like the times he rests his head on the the arm rest between the two car seats and raises his eyebrows in a certain way...or when he jumps up onto the window seat in the dining room to "get lovin's." I'll be the first to admit that Barkley is not a dog for the faint hearted; you cannot be stuffy with a dog like him. But if you're looking for Bluto Blutarsky from Animal House...he's your boy.

Spit Happens

2006-12-15T10:00:00.000-05:00

Okay...forgive the dorky title, but it seems to appropriately sum up a disturbing trend in which I've recently noticed a huge increase--public spitting. I'm not sure why this gags me out so much, but it does. It seems that everywhere I go anymore, there are dots of spit [and that is politely speaking] mucking up the sidewalks, parking lots, etc. And it's a disgusting habit that crosses all demographics. In fact, when Marc and I were at the Starbucks on the Circle the other day, I looked out just in time to see a businessman clad in a classy suit walk by and hock a big one right onto the sidewalk. Don't these people know better? I mean, I'm certain that my mother would be quite mortified if she saw me pull something like that. But it doesn't seem to stop anyone.

One time, Marc was minding his own business walking back to his office after lunch. As he passed a woman on the sidewalk, she decided to spit on the ground and missed--instead it landed on Marc's arm. I can't remember what she said to him, but I do remember that it wasn't, "I'm sorry." Due to complete mortification, I don't think that he gave much of a response, which makes him a much better person than I. I'm not sure how the law is written in Indiana, but in most states, spitting on someone is actually considered assault or battery. In Terre Haute, Indiana, it is illegal to spit on the sidewalk. Maybe I'll start lobbying for that here.

If you are a sidewalk spitter, I apologize if I've offended you--but it's gross, so stop it.

The Scream Machine

2006-12-13T10:12:00.000-05:00

Growing up, my family always had pets. The first one I remember was Socks, a white and buff Cocker Spaniel that came home in a Christmas stocking. Then I somehow bargained for a white, long-haired kitten from the pet shop by my elementary school. My mom used to pick me up from school now and again to go out to lunch, and we would always make a couple of side trips after we ate--one to buy candy and the second to the pet shop. One day I fell for the little guy, and as I recall, the deal went something like "place in the top three at your gymnastics meet this weekend, and the kitty is yours." Well, I placed fourth (or maybe 6th...7th?)...who knows, it's irrelevant. Let's just say, I was crushed and probably cried the whole way home. Now, I'm not a parent, but I can imagine that dissappointment like that is hard to watch. And it must have been for my mom, because the kitty came home with us anyway--despite my failed attempt at gold, silver, or bronze. I named him Snowball, but many years later, he became George (a name my dad felt was much more appropriate). I got him when I was in third grade...he didn't cross the rainbow bridge until after I graduated from college.

When my younger sister, Kimmy, was at the begging-for-pets age (about 4th Grade), we ended up with a Golden Retriever named Goldie--by far one of the world's best pets. I remember Kimmy lugging the poor puppy around under one arm, feet dangling below...without complaint from the dog. We used to create a trail of popcorn throughout the entire house and then watch her, nose to the ground, follow the path until the last bit of popcorn was snarfed up. Ashamedly, we even used to put the area rug at the bottom of the stairs, cart the dog to the top of the stairs, and then throw a toy down the steps just to watch her slide across the hard wood floor when she hit the rug at the bottom. Goldie loved to be loved and was always such a good girl. She had a favorite step (#4 I think) on my parents' stairwell where she would spend most of her time lounging. Mutter a polite "excuse me" on your way up or down the steps, and she would move just long enough to let you by. Now my folks have Barnum & Bailey, two Maltese pups, who are basically little people dressed in white fur coats.

So, when it came time for me to be out on my own, the need for a pet ran deeply. I couldn't imagine not having one, and since I was finally beyond the restrictions of college dorm/sorority house/rental house living, the possibility of taking on a new furry friend became reality. I went to the Humane Society and picked a four-year old Black Lab mix named Ilsa. My roommate, already hesitant about adding a new live-in, insisted the dog go back after she shredded the carpet and the front door...all within the first two days in her new abode. I was devastated and embarrassed that I had taken on more than I could handle and spent the whole weekend looking for a rescue facility to take her in. One finally called me back--the afternoon after I reluctantly returned her to the shelter.

From the beginning, the plan had always been that I would take Snowball/George in as soon as I had my own place. My mother always feigned hatred for the cat, yet when the time came for me to take him in, she protested with reason after reason why he should stay at her house instead of making the move. And although I teased her about it, I knew that she was right. Snowball had spent almost his entire life in the same place...there was no need to uproot him now. So my mom took me to the Humane Society in Kokomo, and we picked out a perfect little kitten for me to call my own. I named him (I forget now what it was) and brought him back to Indianapolis to start his new life in the big city. Two days later, he died in my closet on top of a pile of my shoes. After poking him with a hanger to confirm his demise, I called my parents in hysterics. Thankfully, they were in Indy for a play and offered to come retrieve said dead animal from the closet and return him to the shelter. That was it...the pet thing was out of my system.

Then came Thanksgiving of 2000. I came home the day before, dirty laundry in tow, and started to head to the garage to unload my basket. I stopped as everyone jumped from their chairs like a bunch of hooligans screaming, "DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!" When I gave them a much-deserved "you're crazy" look, my mom came over and opened the door to the garage--revealing a relatively scrawny little tiger kitty. My step-nephews had rescued the poor little guy and wanted to keep him, but their household had already reached it's domesticated animal limit. So they dismissively told me, "If you don't want him, we can put him back out in the cold." Admittedly, I was a little skeptical about taking on a new pet with my track record thus far. But he was especially cute and had the greenest eyes I've ever seen on a cat. I decided to take him in but refused to name him until after he had been checked out by the vet and made it through his neutering. Finally, sometime after the new year, he began going by Kelso.

Kelso has come a long way since his paltry days as a half-dead stray. For starters, he made up for those days without food or shelter by packing on the pounds--at his heaviest he weighed a whopping 16.5 pounds--before slimming down to a svelte 12 pounds on his vet-recommended, low-cal kitty diet. He has loved, and lost, his best and dearest friend Lizard* to the massive and indiscriminate jaws of our Labrador Retriever. Then there are the four relocations he survived, though he's down to eight lives after one of the moves. And now, he basically runs the household. One behavior, in particular, has grown a bit cumbersome. It's a little trick he does, which I've dubbed The Scream Machine. Going on his highly tuned and mysterious inner clock alone, Kelso sneaks up to the ears of unsuspecting sleepers [Marc & me] and lets out the loudest meow he can muster. This generally sounds something like a banshee crying out in the night and takes place anywhere from 3:00 - 5:00 AM. It's a big ol' giant MRRWAAAAH that resonates through the dark room like the remnants of the cymbal whacked on The Gong Show. The only difference is that it is repetitive....over and over he MRWAHs at a tone and pitch that is guaranteed to grate even nerves of steel. Every morning, Marc grudgingly drags himself from the warmth of the covers, scoops up the offender, takes him to our spare bedroom [which has come to be known as Kelso's bedroom], and closes the door.

We realize that Kelso's war cry is in fact his way of informing us that he is ready for breakfast, despite the fact that it's much too early. But Marc has his theories. He explains to me that cats have brains the size of a golf ball and that if they use the same percentage of their brains as humans do, well then...the usable part of a cat's brain is about the size of a pencil eraser. Marc is convinced that it's the only way to account for why our finicky feline is so persistent even when his belligerent behavior produces the same results each morning. Personally, I would like to think that it's just his small, albeit misguided, attempt to say, "Thanks, you guys...what a life!"

*Note: No animals were harmed in the making of this blog. Lizard was a rubber, suction-cup clad toy.

C is for Cookie

2006-12-05T20:50:00.000-05:00

One of the things I admire most about our friends John and Troy is their ability to throw a good get-together. And one of the best parts is that there is often some underlying theme or mission for the gathering. Take, for example, “Fry Day,” which, incidentally, takes place on a Saturday during the summer. Fry Day is a celebration of all things fried, be it sweet, savory, or otherwise. Then there is Booze & Cookies, and, yes, the title just about sums it up. Last year, I was sick on the big day, so I didn’t get the chance to join in on the festivities; but, this year, I was ready to go. So we put on our baking shoes, called up our friend Joe, and headed to Chateau Smythe-Moore for the infamous cookie bake.

Although I wasn't quite sure what to do when we got there, I was ready to jump in wherever needed. My first task involved unwrapping Hershey's Kisses for the Cherry Chocolate Kiss cookies. Marc and I were completely surprised when Joe showed up at our house with supplies in hand to make his favorite cookies. The Chocolate Cherry Kiss cookies, which quickly and fondly became known as "Joe Cookies," were definitely a crowd favorite. Imagine a cookie that tastes just like a cherry cordial, and you've got a Joe Cookie.

It was amazing to watch the show run so smoothly when I considered the kind of output that was going on around me. The best was when John would yell out, "Hot Cookies...Coming Through...Get the Door!" Everyone seemed to fall perfectly into their specific roles...John's friend from work, Jennifer, and her husband Denny took over on spatula patrol, scooping cookies from the sheets onto the grocery bag-lined table.

Dave, Kathy, Eric and Duane fought off hypothermia while taking one for Team Kiefle.

Marc and Joe kept tabs on the Colts' Game in order to keep the crowd apprised of the score [even though the home team ultimately bit the big one after a 60-yard field goal].

Todd helped Mari and Daniel make cool magnetic toy cars. And even Claire played her part by supervising the general goings on of the day. She looked especially cute in her ever-so-appropriate holiday sweater!

One of my favorite photos from B&C is this one of the countertop filled with all the supplies necessary for a real humdinger of a cookie bake. I was completely impressed by Connor's knack for whipping up a variety of delicious cookie doughs. Be it Cowboy Cookies or some of the best ginger cookies I've ever eaten, he was on the ball. That boy truly knows his way around a stand mixer!

By the end of the afternoon, I told Marc that I was in desperate need of some protein, so we packed it in and headed out for a sandwich. We've slowly been weaning ourselves off of the cookies by having one or two per day over the last couple of evenings to avoid going through cookie withdrawal. Hats off to John and Troy for yet another fun gathering!

Giving the Gift of Community

2006-12-01T09:32:00.000-05:00

If you get a chance, check out the Indianapolis Neighborhood Resource Center's December 2006 Newsletter. It features an article on an organization called The Zawadi Exchange, which was started by none other than my dear hubby, Marc, and his comrade, De'Amon Harges. I'm glad that they are starting to get some press, because they're doing great and innovative work. Way to go guys!

Deck the Halls with Random Factoids

2006-11-29T15:14:00.000-05:00

Because I have been slacking lately on my blogging duties, I'm using this Holiday "Get-to-know-you" List to get back in the saddle. You can check-out responses from fellow bloggers Troy (Growing Sense) and Jennie (Trim and Fashionable) by clicking to the right.

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate? -- Definitely hot chocolate...and when I'm feeling really crazy, I take a spoon, load it up with marshmallow cream, and dunk it right in. Better than regular marshmallows, in my opinion, which is saying a lot, because I LOVE marshmallows!

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? -- Oh, Santa is a wrapping machine! I love to wrap presents, so my mom would tape the boxes shut and let me help with the gift wrapping. Even the oddly shaped packages get wrapped in something. I don't know that we've ever had unwrapped gifts under the tree.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? --I choose white for my tree/decorations at home; growing up, our family tree always had colored lights.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?--No, but my grandma always hung mistletoe in the archway between her living and dining rooms. It had little windchime-type thing that hung down, and the kids would always try to jump up to ring it.

5. When do you put your decorations up?--My goal is to get them up by the end of the weekend just after Thanksgiving. I do a pretty good job most of the time.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?--I love, love, love my mom's greenbean casserole and her deviled eggs. My sisters and I fight over them! Another favorite was always my grandmother's chicken and noodles. They always looked so perfectly yellow and yummy...I'll never forget the look on my sister's face when she found out that my grandma put yellow food coloring in them!

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?--Going to my Grandma and Grandpa's house for Christmas Eve.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?--What truth?

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?--When I was little, we spent Christmas Eve evening at my grandparents' house. We would exchange and open gifts from our extended family that night. Everything else was "Do Not Open 'til December 25th!" In fact, it wasn't until about two or three years ago that my mom stopped waiting until after we went to sleep to put the gifts under the tree. Now that Marc and I are married, we usually spend Christmas Eve day/evening with his family and do our gift exchanging then. Late on Christmas Eve night, we drive up to my parents house to stay over for Christmas morning. Before bed, each of us "kids" [although we are adults now] gets to open one box, which contains our matching Christmas pajamas...that's right, we match, and we like it!

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?--My picky side comes out when the tree goes up, so I'm pretty particular about how the ornaments go on. Usually, I have a color scheme, but there are a few special pieces that go up whether they match or not...like the two little felt elves that used to go on my Grandma's tree. They look so cute, like they're sitting on the branches watching over the living room while we're out.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?--The way I see it, snow should fall on Christmas Eve and melt the day after Christmas. So I guess I would say I dread it.

12. Can you ice skate?--Yes, but not very well at all. Marc used to play hockey, so he skates circles around me...literally. I haven't gone for a long time, but I would probably end up in a body cast if I tried.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?--One of my favorite gifts was a huge [about 3 1/2 feet tall], white stuffed bear that I named Bozwell. I circled it in the JC Penney catalog but never thought that I would get it. But then there he was on Christmas morning...thanks Santa!!

14. What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?--Hanging out with our families.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?--Chocolate fudge with walnuts.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?--Perhaps it's picking on my little sister, Kimmy, about opening the last gift. She always wants to have the honor of opening the last present of the day, so one year we even went so far as to hide one of our own gifts to steal her thunder. I don't feel bad telling you all about it, because I know she thinks it's funny, too! (Right, Kimmy?)

17. What tops your tree?--Right now, nothing. We bought a great tree-topper a few years ago when we had a real Christmas tree. Now that we've switched over to the evil world of artificial trees, the darn thing is too heavy. I know that there's a way that I can rig it up, but I just haven't found it yet. Some of the girls at work used to joke that I could "MacGyver" anything...hmm...I'm thinking maybe a couple of chopsticks and some twisty-ties just might do the trick.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?--Now what will that say about me if I tell you I prefer receiving?!? But truthfully, I really do like giving gifts, as well. Actually, my favorite part is taking extra care to wrap the presents in a way that makes them look special. I'm a wrapping fanatic, so I always have to have the perfect paper and the bows just right.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?--O Holy Night...no contest.

20. Candy canes! Yuck or yum?--I must confess. I'm not really a fan of candy canes (or Brach's Starlight Mints for that matter). Usually, I only make it about an eighth of the way through before I throw it away. Strange...because I do like pepermint flavor.

Twenty-first Floor -- Men's Wear

2006-11-16T12:10:00.000-05:00

This post's title comes from the movie Liar Liar with Jim Carey. I'm not sure why I think the movie is so hilarious, but I used to watch it over and over again in college. There's a scene where the elevator dings, the door opens, and Fletcher [Carey's character] says, "Twenty-first Floor--Men's Wear." I guess the funny part is that he is in his office building...not in a department store. It is sometimes amusing to say this on an elevator when the door opens...some people get it, others don't.

A little situation I encountered in the lobby at work today brought the Liar Liar quote into my head. Not because anything particularly funny happened, but rather just something elevator related. A lady entered the elevator as I was about halfway through the lobby. At first she stared at the floor (you know how it is..."if I don't make eye contact, I don't have to hold the elevator"). Then at the last second, perhaps out of guilt, she pressed the "Door Open" button to wait for me. Or at least I thought that was the plan, until she let up on the button just as I was passing through the doors. The doors came together and nearly smooshed me as I stepped into the lift. I mildly commented something like, "Ooh, that's a little dangerous," hoping that maybe she would get the point that one usually depresses the "Door Open" button until after a person has made it entirely onto the elevator. Instead, she coolly said, "Yeah, most of the time the doors don't disengage so quickly." What?!?...she's done this before? Does this woman make it a habit of nearly incapacitating folks by luring them near to the elevator and then mischievously letting go of the button just in time to smoosh them?

It got me thinking about how there are definitely rules for proper elevator behavior, and I would like to explore some of those here:

Rules for How to Behave on an Elevator:

(1.) My ears are on fire: Refrain from discussing topics that may make others uncomfortable. One of Marc's favorite things to do is start completely bizarre, fictional conversations with me on crowded elevators. After work one day, as we rode up to our level of the parking garage, he blurted out, "Hey, I don't know if you remembered, but I won't be home until about seven tonight." When I asked him why, he informed me that he had his gymnastics lesson that evening and proceeded to talk about how the instructor really wanted him to work on his "limberness exercises." The best example of this comes from our friend Joe. He is about 6' 2" and was standing in the far back corner of an elevator filled with about twenty mall patrons on New Year's Eve, while Marc and I were in the opposite front corner. Suddenly, Joe yelled out, "Hey Marc, did you remember to bring that ointment for your rash?" Marc said, "Oh crap, I left it in the car." I probably turned five shades of red as our fellow elevator travelers snickered.

(2.) Yakkity Yak, I'll call back: Hang up that phone. If you receive a cell phone call on the elevator, politely tell the caller that you are on an elevator and will call them back. We really don't want to hear all about your doctor appointment (see Rule #1) or about how you can't believe that so-and-so did something-or-rather. If you do choose to break this rule, please refrain from acting surprised when your call breaks up or you lose your signal. This rule may be countermanded only in the event that the elevator becomes stuck and you must call for emergency personnel to retrieve you from said car.

(3.) Eliminate unnecessary eliminations: No gas passing. This should go without saying; but from the smell that Marc and I encountered in the elevator at the hospital a few weeks ago, I think some people may need the reminder. Please do not think that you will be tricky and do this just before you exit the elevator. It is just cruel to leave that kind of "surprise" for the next person who gets on, especially since they will be inevitably blamed when someone gets on with them at the next floor. Elevator + toot = rude.

(4.) Hold that door, please! It's amazing how many people won't hold the door when they see someone approaching. Admittedly, I have been guilty of punching the "Door Close" button when I'm in a hurry...yes, I'm embarrassed to divulge that. One of my favorite stories about the "Door Close" button comes from our friend Eric, who lives in Manhattan. He used to work in an office building where there were so many floors that letting extra people on could really make the difference in whether you were late or not. As the elevator filled up, he would intentionally refrain from pressing the "Door Close" button when he got on the elevator and always made it a point to stand right at the keypad so that no one else could press it either. He said that people would get so irate and impatient that they would try to reach around him to press "Close," but he would physically block them out. Eventually, the doors do close on their own, but I guess we've just been programmed to want to go faster, faster, faster!

(5.) Major commitments: Choosing the right floor on the first try. With so many pretty, light-up buttons to choose from, this one can be tough. But think of those around you and punch with certainty. If you do press the wrong floor button and must depress a second button, apologize to anyone else riding in the elevator, but do not do any of the following, (a) comment that it is Monday; (b) inform others that you haven't had your coffee yet; or (c) laugh or chuckle nervously. These reactions may cause resentment among fellow riders that might only be dispelled by providing them with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

(6.) Clowns in a Volkswagen: Waiting for the next lift. Sardines are nasty, and there's no need to emulate them. If the doors open and it seems as though your cramming yourself into the elevator is going to make things a bit too intimate for everyone, wait for the next elevator. Chances are, it won't take long. And most of the folks in your building probably don't want to know you that well. Just think, you'll also be so much better off in the event that someone on that crowded elevator chooses to violate Rules #3 or #5!

Lazy Jane

2006-11-13T10:12:00.000-05:00

I love Shel Silverstein, especially his poem "Lazy Jane." For those of you who don't know how it goes, let me enlighten you:

Lazy
Lazy
Lazy
Lazy
Lazy
Lazy
Jane.
She
wants
a
drink
of
water
so
she
waits
and
waits
and
waits
and
waits
and
waits
for
it
to
rain.

In a nutshell, that was my weekend. It seems like Marc and I have been going 100 miles per hour lately, and this was the first weekend in a long time where we didn't have anything formally planned (except dinner at a friend's house on Sunday...and I wasn't cooking, so that didn't really count). On Friday night, we hit the Thai Cafe for dinner and then headed home to watch Network, the 1976 film featuring Faye Dunaway, William Holden, Peter Finch, and Robert Duvall. Even if you haven't seen it, you know of it...it's the film that includes the famous line, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" Now that we've "fallen back" with Daylight Savings Time, it seems like it's much later than it really is. When we were driving home from dinner, I told Marc that I felt like it was 10:00 even though it was really seven. By the time the DVD ended at 10:00, it felt like it was midnight (which is, ashamedly, past my bedtime). So we turned in for the night.

On Saturday, we hit the road for a visit to Kokomo to see my family. It was chilly day and kind of gloomy...perfect for sacking out on the couch , which was exactly what we did at my parents' house for the entire day. It was nice, though, to just sit around and catch up since we hadn't been up for a visit since September! (Shame on us...like I said, we have been extra busy.) I baked a pan of brownies to satisfy my chocolate craving. And when dinner time rolled around, I offered to make the sweet potato soup that I love so much. Nevermind that I've made this soup several times...I somehow managed to completely forget the first four or five steps of the recipe, leaving us with 3 1/2 pounds of boiled sweet potatoes and nothing to do with them. My mom said she might freeze them and make a casserole later. I felt so bad! They joked that if I didn't really want to cook, I should have just said something. We ended up ordering pizza, and after about three pieces, I had miraculously forgotten all about the bisque incident.

I brought a bag of dog clothes that Judy's dog, Cooper, willed down to my parents' new puppy, Barnum. He gladly put on a little fashion show for us, displaying how chic he looked in his new sherpa-lined corduroy overcoat. Bailey, my parents' first-born and dearest dog son, was less obliging when it came to trying on the new duds. When we strapped him into the Isaac Mizrahi doggy trenchcoat, he pouted in the middle of the room and refused to pose for pictures. I always love to spend time at my folks' house, and it was a really great visit.

Sunday, we managed to arrive at church just as it was starting. Marc's mom and dad were joining us that day, and they called to see where we were. Marc said he was surprised that they beat us there, but I reminded him [as we stood in our kitchen] that church was starting in approximately two minutes. I've come to realize that living so close to the church can be both good and bad. Bad, because we tend to let ourselves sleep in too late; and good, because it only takes half of a second to get there. After church, we had lunch with Marc's parents and then headed home to watch the Colts almost get spanked by the Buffalo Bills. I think I lasted until the third quarter before I drifted off to nap-land. Later that evening, it was off to the dinner party and the absolutely wonderful Black Bottom Banana Cream Pie that Jack made for dessert. It was quite a way to cap off a weekend.

So I guess that for two people who had nothing planned, Marc and I still ended up with plenty to do!

Rock the Vote '06

2006-11-07T09:07:00.000-05:00

It's rainy...it's yucky...there's a water main break on 73rd & Meridian. Don't let this stop you! Get out there and vote! Not sure where to go? Check out the poll locator on www.indygov.org. You can type in your birthday, as well, to double-check that you're registered to vote at that location. Also, be sure to bring your Indiana or Federal government issued photo I.D. You have to show it, and you're not gettin' in without it.

It's your right and your responsibility, so do it...or else.

Sterno Inferno

2006-11-06T09:42:00.000-05:00

Marc and I hosted a dessert and coffee party at our house last night. It was the ultimate result of an idea I had late this past summer, and I was glad that we actually pulled it off. Usually, we say, "Wouldn't it be nice to do [insert any variety of social gatherings]?" but it never comes to fruition. In typcial Marc and Karen fashion, however, we were busting our butts at the last second to get everything in order...literally. Marc was still out buying ice and cups when our friends, Molly & Kendrick, arrived with their unbelievably cute son, Carter.

Thankfully, our friends are gracious! No one really seemed to mind when they walked through the door that I had dish towels wadded up on the countertop and a saucepan soaking off its layers of chocolate in the sink. I know that I'm always harder on myself than I should be about having the house in tip-top shape, but it doesn't seem to stop me from stressing out before our friends arrive...just ask Marc, who spent the better part of his weekend cleaning instead of studying. There is definitely a corner saved in heaven for him after all of that furniture vacuuming; which, by the way, he claimed to be one of his least favorite things to do in life! I have the loveliest husband...

I'm not sure what planted the seed for our shindig. Maybe the fact that I love baking (especially for friends). Or maybe that we love getting folks together and don't do it often enough. But my guess is that it was probably the union of the two. So out went the invitations, in came the friends and neighbors, and we had ourselves a party. It seems that as stressful as planning a get-together can be, there's something so delightful about having your house filled with people laughing, chatting, meeting, and enjoying each other's company. I wish that I would have taken pictures, but I was too darn busy to try to find the camera.

Speaking to the true procrastination Marc and I embrace in our lives, we raced out to Bed Bath & Beyond at about 2:00 (the party started at 6:00) for mini-Sterno gel-flame canisters. Mind you, I've never used one of these contraptions. But I was dying to make Chocolate Coconut Cream fondue, and nothing, not even a tiny metal flaming can of gel-fire was going to stop me. I made the chocolate dip without much ado, sneaking a few tastes and letting Marc lick the spoon afterwards. Then I set aside the liquidy-Mounds-bar-tasting goodness while I worked on the cobbler. When the time came, I carefully poured the chocolate into the fondue pot, relinquished the matches to Marc, and went about ironing out the finer details of the dessert spread. At one point, I noticed that the flame had gone out, so I scurried over to grab another canister. I loaded it up, lit the gel, and nearly died one minute later when Kathy said, "Ooh, it's really bubbling," followed by, "Oh, no it's burnt!" Ahhh! One and a half pounds of Ghirardelli chocolate down the drain...or more truthfully into the garbage. It was a sad night. The fondue wasn't going down without a fight, though, as Barkley (our 75 pound black lab) decided to resurrect the chocolate from the garbage can...a feat that left Marc calling the emergency vet service at about 10pm to make sure Barkley wasn't going to kick the bucket. The technician reassured us that it would take much more cocoa than what he ate to "take down a dog that size."

The "Biggest Hit of the Evening" Award went hands-down to the Turtle Cookies, followed closely by the Blackberry-Peach Cobbler. I also made a Pecan Pumpkin Spice cake that is actually shaped like a pumpkin. The real recipe calls for a stem and leaves made out of marzipan...too bad the marzipan box actually points you to a website for instructions on how to use it. I'm not sure what that is all about [marketing, probably], but there was no way that I was going to find time to get online for the how-to's. So I just stacked some extra cake scraps into the middle of the cake top, and voila! Makeshift pumpkin stem!

Everyone seemed to have a good time, and I'm sure that most of the folks had a major sugar crash just in time for bed. Unfortunately for Janeen and De'Amon, our friend Troy realized a bit too late that it isn't always a good idea to feed extra cookies to a four year old just before bedtime. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have thought about it either, but maybe that's because I've never had to try to get a little one to bed on five pounds of sugar. Maybe next time I'll use Splenda!

Oh-so-Yummy Turtle Cookie Recipe

2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt (may omit if using salted butter)
1/2 c. unsalted butter, softened (I prefer to use butter flavor Crisco sticks)
3/4 c. sugar
1/2 c. brown sugar
1 egg
1/4 c. half-and-half
1 Tbs. vanilla extract
8 oz. Mini-Rolo Popables (or regular Rolos cut in half)
1 c. chopped pecans
1/2-1 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips

1. Combine flour, soda and salt; set aside.
2. Beat together butter and both sugars, until well blended.
3. Mix in egg, half and half and vanilla.
4. Blend in flour mixture until smooth.
5. Stir in, by hand, rolo candies,pecans and chocolate chips.
6. Drop dough by tablespoon onto parchment lined baking sheets (you must use parchment or the caramel will stick like cement to your cookie sheets).
7. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-13 minutes until edges are golden brown and center is still slightly soft.
8. Cool on wire rack for a few minutes to allow caramel to set. Enjoy!

Big Oil and The Bird

2006-11-02T09:42:00.000-05:00

As if soaring fuel prices aren't enough, now Big Oil has claimed its latest victim...the Pink Flamingo. I half-listened as news stations broke the story last night, not realizing that there was just one factory that pumps out the tacky, plastic Phoenicopterus ruber ruber. Who knew?

What I found most interesting, however, was the reason for the poor flamingo's demise after 49 years of plastic bliss. Not lack of demand (although, yes, in some nitty-gritty, economically speaking way it is somewhat tied to that). Not a general turning-away by the larger public from pink, resin yard birds. But, in fact, Big Oil opened up its gaping hole of a mouth and swallowed up Don Featherstone's prized creation.

Maybe I'm being a little dramatic. Maybe all of the old oil chums weren't involved in some great conspiracy to deliver one final blow to the pink flamingo. But be informed that the top two reasons Mr. Featherstone closed up shop were (1) the rising cost of electricity (hmm...electricity...fuel...oil); and (2) the increasing expense of plastic resin (made from...you guessed it, OIL!).

I guess this exercise in product lifespan makes me contemplate how the smallest things can be influenced by factors about which we might not even think. Honestly, if someone would have asked me what drove the flamingo to its grave, oil probably wouldn't have been my first culprit. Perhaps, I would be more inclined to blame an overall shift in the decorating paradigm of South Florida retirees. When I really think about it, though, it makes sense. So maybe it's a stretch to think that Big Oil is responsible for the ultimate passing on of the pink, plastic bird into ornith-heaven. Or maybe not. Just think...at $6,029 per hour for Georgie to take a spin in Airforce One, our tax dollars could have purchased 402 pairs of plastic flamingos at the going rate. And who knows? That might have been just enough to keep kitschy pink yard ornaments around until their 50th Birthday.

Is that a Mud Stain on Your Navy Blue Power Suit?

2006-10-24T14:48:00.000-04:00

Not that I have a most favorite part of the election season, but this has to be my least favorite part. It's the time of year when every commercial break features countless political ads in all of their mud-slinging glory. Really, it's enough to make me turn off the tube or check out a few extra DVDs from the library. This coming from a girl who usually loves commercials...well, at least the clever ones.

You can typically gauge how close an election really is by the ruthlessness of the campaign ads. Two months out: candidates are happily showing off their good deeds and beautiful families as they saunter through the streets of their hometowns, shaking hands and kissing babies. One month out: it's easier to tell who the ad is against than who it supports; the ads feature the opposing candidate's (insert one or more) (a) lack of experience, (b) lack of morals & values, or (c) lack of aptitude. Two weeks out: the gloves are off; freeze-frame videos stop at just the right point to show the other guy's face contorted into unflattering expressions; ads reveal the opponent's affiliation with a crazed, underground midget cult that brainwashes children to play only violent re-released Atari games. Frankly, I would be ashamed to connect myself with any of these ads, but the commercials are generally followed by a voice over proudly stating, "I'm Politician Mike, and I support this message." WHAT?!?

I remember a few years back when my mom ran for Mayor of my hometown - Kokomo, Indiana. Talk about a crash-course in dirty, small-town politics. Unfortunately, the local media was responsible for backhoing most of the mud into the political catapult. But I digress... I guess the question I beg is, "Who are these guys targeting?" Because I wouldn't buy what they're selling for a penny. Maybe it's because I already know which holes I'll punch on the ballot card, but I consider it amusing that the politicos think they're really fooling anyone.

Putting the FU in Fun

2006-10-18T20:48:00.000-04:00

There is something about dinner with friends that puts a big ol' smile on my face. Not that Marc and I don't enjoy dining out mano a womano*, but that whole "the more the merrier" thing often rings true, especially when it's a casual Friday night outing. (*yes...I made that up.) That's why I was extra happy when Marc asked me last Friday if I wanted to have dinner with our friends, John & Troy, at my very favorite Chinese restaurant.

Last spring, a church friend introduced us to Chang Fu, a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on the far northwest side of Indianapolis. It's not "on our way" to anywhere but one bite of those oh-so-tasty BBQ spare ribs, and I fell hook, line, and sinker. I've found that I actually crave their veggie Lo Mein, and for awhile, Marc and I became regular Sunday patrons. We typically make the trek to Chang Fu at my urging, but I know that Marc doesn't mind the 25 minute drive for their delectable General Tso's Chicken. If the good food isn't enough to keep you coming back, then the people who run the place are. Marc particularly likes the "head guy," who he says looks like a Chinese Zach Braff. Check it out sometime...you'll definitely catch the resemblance.

We got a bit of a late start last Friday, but I don't think it really detracted from John & Troy's maiden Chang Fu voyage. In fact, we closed the place down (at about 10pm). It's not a very fancy place...you order at the counter, pick a seat from five or six booths, and then they bring your food out. No fountain drinks here...just bottled drinks from the soda case. I think that most people come in for carry out, but our food would definitely be cold by the time we made it home. So, we showed the guys the ropes and then waited with bated breath for the feast to begin. When the food first arrived at the table, we all laughed about how big the portions were and how we would have to take home doggy-bags. Then we started eating, and talking, and eating more, until lo and behold all four of us became members of the Clean Plate Club. You can see visual proof of our good work below. Check out all of the plates! I'm not sure where it all went.

John eventually pointed out that the employees were packing it in for the evening, so we moved the party on over to Starbucks. I can't exactly tell you how I managed to down a caramel apple cider, but it was just the perfect treat for a brisk fall evening. My hope is that John & Troy enjoyed Chang Fu as much as Marc and I do, but at the very least, they didn't go home empty bellied.

Here's to You, Mr. "95 J 4"

2006-10-13T10:01:00.000-04:00

Believe me, you know him. He's the guy who pulls out of the line of 27 cars who are waiting patiently into the "Right Lane Ends" lane, and then guns it at the light in order to get in front of you. He's the one who sees the humongous, flashing arrow in the construction zone indicating a closed lane, waits until the last second to merge over, and then screams at you for not letting him in. He's the one who just bought a $50,000 vehicle that obviously came without turn signals.

Yesterday, he was the jerk who (1) almost hit me when he decided he didn't need to stop before tearing out of his parking garage, and (2) pulled an illegal (and dangerous) traffic manuever to strip about 0.0083 seconds off his evening commute. Mind you, I was the car immediately behind him at the next stop light. So to him, I say, "Take that, you big bully!" Let me explain this illegal move so that you can be as incensed as I was. I was sitting at the stoplight waiting to turn left. The arrow had expired, so I was waiting for oncoming traffic to pass in order to turn safely. In addition, I work in Downtown Indianapolis where there are these people called pedestrians who like to use the crosswalks in order to make their way from one side of the street to the other. Well, Mr. 95 J 4 didn't seem to have a grasp on either safety or pedestrian foot traffic, because he pulled up behind me at the light and proceeded to turn left from behind my car, disregarding both the oncoming traffic and the people crossing the street. Obviously, I wasn't living closely enough to the edge for him, so he felt the need to just skirt on past me, while I waited my turn at the traffic light.

As I relayed the story to my husband, I started getting angry at this man for his blatant omission of any type of traffic civility. I told Marc that I was going to out this guy to everyone who reads my blog. So that's what I'm doing. Here are the specs on my bad-mannered driving nemesis: (a) He parks in the parking garage located above the bail bonds office just west of Market & Delaware Streets; (b) He is middle-aged and has brown hair [maybe a little wavy]; and (c) He drives a tan Mercedes Benz [go figure] with an Indiana license plate #95 J 4.

At first, I considered this a PSA for anyone driving in the vicinity. The more this weighs on me, though, the more I realize that my reaction to the situation had less to do with how awfully this man drove and much more to do with what his driving reflected to me. You see, whenever I see someone act like Mr. 95 J 4 did yesterday, the more alarmed I get by the undeniable increase I've seen in the "Me First" attitude of people. Maybe I'm being delusional, or maybe I'm getting more cynical as I get older. It seems to me that, generally speaking, people just don't seem to have as much care or concern for others anymore. I think about small things, like holding the door for someone; and bigger things, like driving a fuel-economy car instead of a Hummer. I realize that, while these things seem like common sense to me and to most of the people I call my friends, they just don't register with others. And I guess more than anything else, that makes me sad.

So here's to you, Mr. 95 J 4! Congratulations on the picture perfect execution of your illegal traffic maneuver. Sure, you may have nearly wiped out an innocent bystander, but at least you got to the next light...first.

So Nice to See You Again!

2006-10-09T11:00:00.000-04:00

It's always disappointing to lose touch with good friends. At Butler, I had two best girlfriends, Amy and Lisa, who were my partners-in-crime. Lisa and I were roommates at the Theta house, and Amy lived just across the hall. It was great! Over the last few years, though, keeping connected has been more difficult. Amy lives in Madison, Indiana, while Lisa is in Crown Point. Living in Indianapolis, I'm right in the middle...an almost equidistant 2 hours from either one of them. One might think that we would reunite more, but busy schedules and growing families make it tough. So, when we received an invitation a couple of months ago to Amy's wedding, I told Marc that we had to go, even though we hadn't been in contact for so long.

We thought it was a wonderful opportunity to travel to Southern Indiana during the best part of the year, while the leaves are turning and the air is crisp. So we dropped Barkley at doggy-camp, shipped Kelso off to his grandparents' house, and headed out Saturday morning. Marc expressed some doubt at the directions I provided (thinking that they took us an entirely backwards way to Madison); and as we made our way through the rolling countryside, he even commented on how he truly believed we were seeing pieces of Indiana that he had never seen before during his 29 years living in the state. It wasn't until we hit a detour outside a tiny town named Osgood that I started to get a little worried. First we passed the road we were supposed to take for the detour. Then, once we made it onto the right road, we drove for miles before we saw any signs indicating that we were still on the right track. Finally, we managed to finagle our way through the entire detour and were rewarded with the "Golden Arches"...lunch break! Marc and I really don't eat McDonald's very often, but road trips always seem to bring out the fast-food lovers in us. The best part was when we were getting ready to leave, and every trash container was either full or the waste basket had been removed for dumping. We chased this little old lady around the restaurant until she finally slowed down long enough for us to dump our trays. When she saw us, she kindly took our garbage and said, "Y'all come back and see us again!" Marc commented on how he loved her "Southern Hospitality."

Once Marc and I finally made it to Madison, we first drove to the historic district to find the church and reception hall, lest we get lost and arrive late for the ceremony. The road leading into downtown actually has a warning sign reading, "Long, steep road ahead with hairpin turns." We were intrigued. As you can see from the pictures...they weren't lying.

Downtown Madison is a quaint little area that sits directly on the Ohio River. It is filled with antique stores and a variety of other independently owned cafes and shops. It was the perfect setting for Amy's beautiful wedding, which took place in an old Presbyterian Church. The church had amazing stained glass windows. The picture I took doesn't do them justice, but you'll get the idea.

Amy & Casey's wedding was the perfect Autumn wedding. Her bridesmaids wore chocolate brown dresses with cappucino colored sashes. The steps leading up to the church were adorned with hurricane lamps filled with potpourri that looked like dried cranberries, and the tables at the reception were scattered with "leaves" and cinnamon sticks. One of the best things about the reception was how wonderfully it smelled. It was the perfect mix of cinnamon, spice, and vanilla...the kind of smells that make you feel warm and cozy. I told Marc that I wished our house smelled like that all of the time!

The next morning, Marc and I decided to take a lap around Historic Madison to walk off our breakfast. Most of the shops were closed, but we managed to find a few shops to wander into. One shop, in particular, caught our eye due to their lovely signage. As Marc said, "Thanks for the warning!"

Finally, we stopped in to the Madison Coffee & Tea Company for a quick pick-me-up before we hit the road. (Check out Marc enjoying his chai tea...I'm not quite sure what the girl on the sidewalk is doing.) Someone at the reception confirmed Marc's suspicion that we took the longest way possible to Madison and offered and alternative route back. All things considered...it was a pretty good trip.

Rainy Day Haiku

2006-10-03T09:24:00.000-04:00

When the storms started rolling in this morning around 3:30AM, I noticed (yet again) the direct correlation between the intensity of the storm and the stiffness in my joints. Most of you who know me well know that I have a crappy disease called Rheumatoid Arthritis. Basically, I often feel like an 28-year old woman stuck in an 88-year old woman's body. So I decided to write a haiku in honor of my creaky joints:

the storm kicks my butt
me, human barometer
arthritis be damned

Sure, it may not be Pulitzer Prize winning, but I think I'm onto something!

Looks Like Baby Food...Tastes Like Heaven

2006-09-29T14:01:00.000-04:00

This is one of my favorite soup recipes for the Fall, so I have to share it! I just made a batch last night...mmm mmm good.

CURRIED SWEET POTATO BISQUE

What You'll Need:

2 tsp. Olive Oil
1 C. Diced Onion
2 tsp. Curry Powder
1/4 tsp. All Spice
5 C. Sweet Potatoes - Peeled and cut into cubes (about 3 lbs. whole)
3 10.5-oz Cans Low Sodium Vegetable or Chicken Broth
1 C. Water
1/2 tsp. Salt
1 1/2 C. Plain Yogurt (divided)

How To Do It:

1.) Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in a large dutch oven or stock pot.

2.) Add onions and sauté for two minutes.

3.) Add curry power and all spice to onions and cook for one minute.

4.) Add sweet potatoes, broth, water, and salt. Cook for 25 minutes or until potatoes are tender.

5.) Remove from heat.

6.) Pour one-half of potato mixture into blender and puree until smooth. Pour pureed mixture into a large bowl. Repeat with the other half of the potato mixture.

7.) Return pureed potato mixture (all of it) to the stock pot. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat.

8.) Once boiling, remove from heat and stir in 1 C. plain yogurt until well blended.

9.) Serve topped with 1 Tbs. yogurt.

Yields appx. 7 Servings - 1 1/3 C. per serving.

Side Note: Marc and I love to pair this with grilled cheese on Scholar's Inn Bakehouse Farm Bread. Enjoy!

People Sometimes Get Us Confused...

2006-09-28T16:46:00.000-04:00

My face is one of those "familiar faces." You know the type. Often when I'm out and about, people think they know me from somewhere. It's always the same thing; the look of semi-recognition; the assorted questions (Where did you grow up?...go to high school/college?...work?...etc.); and then the final determination that, in fact, I look "just like" the person's old babysitter, Starbuck's barista, or long lost best friend from third grade. I believe that I have approximately fifty evil twins running amok in this world, hellbent on tarnishing my good image. Personally, I've always thought of myself as unique looking; however, I'm starting to think that there must be great similarities in my uniqueness.

Enter Greta Garbo. Yesterday, a co-worker introduced me to a new website called myheritage.com, which allows one to upload a photo of themselves into the magical "Celebrity Face Recognition" machine. I'm not privy to how this process actually works, but I can tell you that a cool little face scanning graphic pops up, identifies your face in the uploaded photo, and spits out a battery of celebrities who supposedly look like you (often providing both male and female look-alikes). As you can probably tell by my side-by-side with Miss Greta, I think that the website is still working out a few kinks. Other notables in my collection of "celebrity twins" included young Elizabeth Taylor, Kyra Sedgwick, Jodie Foster, and Jimmy Buffett. Mind you, none of the usual suspects popped up in my results list. In the past, I've been compared to such celebs as Anne Heche, Tilda Swinton (think Ice Queen..."Chronicles of Narnia"), and more recently Jennifer Finnigan (from the TV drama "Close to Home"). [see below]

While I may, in some small ways, bear certain resemblance to a few of these gals, I've never had the good (or bad) fortune of actually being mistaken for any of my celebrity look-alikes. That honor goes to my husband, Marc. As he returned from lunch one afternoon to his office downtown, a man yelled out to him, "Hey! Elton!" Marc stopped, wondering what in the world the stranger was talking about. Again, the man shouted out, "Hey, Elton!" Dumbfounded, Marc said, "Excuse me?" To which the man proudly exclaimed, "I have ALL of your albums!!" Poor Marc, but imagine how thrilled that guy must have been when he told all of his friends that not only did he see ELTON JOHN in downtown Indianapolis, but he spoke to him, as well.

I'm still trying to figure out exactly what the celebrity scanner caught that made Greta Garbo my number one match. Maybe it was the pursed lips or the "what exactly is she staring at?" gaze. Who knows? But I would almost put money down that if you haven't already, your next click is going to be a trip to My Heritage to find your own celebrity twin.

Fabulous Four(some)

2006-09-25T16:08:00.000-04:00

Pick the rainiest, nastiest, windiest Friday in September every year. The day that you would typically hit the snooze a few extra times and pull the covers a little tighter around your head. That drizzle-filled morning when the last thing on your mind is swinging a golf club in a thunderstorm for fear of being struck by lightning...and that will be the day of the Howard County United Way's Ladies' Golf Outing. This has been the same story for five years running, and as Marc drove me to Kokomo last Friday, I couldn't help but recall the scene from Caddyshack where the priest enlists Bill Murray to schlep his golfbag in the middle of a torrential downpour.

You might be wondering if I just happen to shelter an unnatural and enduring love for the local United Way of my childhood home. Rest assured, I make the trip to Kokomo to play in the tournament each year for two (okay...three) reasons. (1) My mom; (2) my sisters; and (3) I'll admit it...I love golf, even on dreary, windy, crappy days!

My family is a golfing family. My grandfather was a scratch golfer who played avidly even later in life. In fact, I had the good fortune of playing along on a day when he hit a hole-in-one. We still tell the story today of how we enthusiastically congratulated him, carrying on about his wonderful shot only to have him ask us where the ball was when we got to the green. His eyesight was bad enough that he didn't see the ball roll in, and it wasn't until he reached in and pulled the ball out himself that he believed me when I said, "It's in the cup, Grandpa!"

The love of golf runs through our blood, but none of us necessarily inherited my grandfather's skills. Don't get me wrong, we have held our own in the past at the tournament, but my mom must remind us each year (only half-playfully) that we are there to have fun...not to win. To which my younger sister, Kimmy, coyly responded, "Yeah right, and men go to Hooter's for the food." Our time at the outing is less about golfing and more about togetherness. Or perhaps I should say, "more about being completely obnoxious." More than once, I've heard my mom utter the words, "I didn't raise you girls like that," but she always says it with a laugh. Truthfully, when left to an expansive patch of grass and our own devices, we're a pretty rowdy bunch.

Despite the rain, the wind, and the muddy, wet, dirty golf shoes that proved to be the mystery smell seeping into our car over the weekend, I wouldn't miss the tournament for the world. After all, it's my once-a-year chance to be part of the Fabulous Four(some).

Keeping Abreast of the Situation

2006-09-21T10:46:00.000-04:00

I was always active as a child. Ballet, gymnastics, track, volleyball, golf...you name it. As an adult, my interest in exercise has dwindled to oh, about zero. In the past year, in fact, I've probably burned more calories complaining about my need to exercise than I've actually burned doing any exercise. Read it here first friends...those days are behind me. I've discovered something deliciously new to me - AQUATIC AEROBICS (AA). Who knew that I would ever truly look forward to strapping on a pair of sneakers with my bathing suit?

This is not a picture of my actual class, in case you're wondering. In fact, I'm providing it only to offer visual proof of the euphoria that can be achieved through AA. I'll admit that when I first started thinking about taking an AA class, I was picturing something more along the lines of what you would find at a Senior Citizens Center...splashing about carelessly while trying not to get one's "once-a-week hairdo" wet. I thought it would be a good way to get my creaky joints back in motion, and my doctor said that it was a good idea. I started looking for classes, but gym memberships are so expensive. All hope seemed lost until a friend, Janeen, let me in on the little secret that is Aquatic Aerobics through the Indianapolis Parks Department. You don't have to register or commit to a certain number of classes. Just show up, pay $2.00, and voila...you're in.

Janeen and I went to the first class together; by the second class, Marc was in on the action with us; and by the third session, Marc and I dragged our butts all the way up to Dick's Sporting Goods at Trader's Point after class to buy Aquatic Aerobics shoes. (Yes...there are special [albeit a little overpriced] sneakers made especially for this endeavor.) We're hooked!

Admittedly, there is a certain level of kitschy amusement that goes along with taking an AA class. To start off, you throw shame out the window when you start synchronously bouncing and flailing around in an elementary school pool with approximately ten other people...and you've paid to do this. Then there are the incredibly awkward situations that one can encounter. Just last night, there was a new woman in class who was pleasant and smiled almost nervously throughout the entire workout. At first, I contributed it to her being a newbie; but then, to my horror, I noticed that during our bouncing and flailing her breast had unbeknownst to her fallen right out of her swimsuit! I politely smiled back and was relieved to notice that by the return lap, all parties had retired to their rightful homes.

When I think about it, where else can you get this type of entertainment and a killer body for just $2.00 a pop?

Vivian and Kermit Ride Again

2006-09-20T12:07:00.000-04:00

It probably started back in April. The e-mailed photos of "THE" bike. The "I've got a birthday coming up, you know?" You see, birthdays in the McAleavey, Jr. household achieve greatness that most reserve for, say, Christmas. There have been years during our marriage that Marc and I have exchanged only greeting cards for the holidays, but birthdays are not taken lightly. So when the e-mail came in, I didn't think twice about whether or not I should grant Marc his one, true birthday wish...a shiny, new, bright kelly-green, Schwinn Deluxe 7 Cruiser. The Cadillac of bicycles.

It is, indeed, an impressive piece of equipment. From the nearly oversized white-wall tires to the extra-springy, handstitched saddle seat emblazoned with the Schwinn-script "S," the Deluxe 7 is definitely not a bike for the speedy set. This is a bike made first and foremost for comfort, style, and of course, shameless fun. This is a bike that gets you a few looks and guarantees to separate those folks who "get it" and those who just don't.

Kermit, as the bike came to be named, proved to come with its own predicament, though. It needed a mate. So in August, for our fourth wedding anniversary, Marc surprised me with the most beautiful bicycle a girl could own. She's bubble-gum pink with white-walls and a pink & white suede leather seat. She has coaster brakes and a pink bell that makes the best little "ting-a-ling" noises. I named her Vivian.

We took only a few rides before Kermit and Vivian took up a semi-permanent home in our living room. My rheumatoid arthritis started to flare, and making it up and down the stairs was hard enough. Bike riding seemed to be out with a knee the size of a grapefruit. But things started to turn around, and I finally felt like taking the ol' girl for a spin.

We headed out into the beautiful afternoon and made our way to the St. Joan of Arc "French Market." From there, we rode to Butler and spent time taking photos in Holcomb Gardens. It was one of those days that you don't forget. And it's nice to announce that Vivian and Kermit ride again.