Giving up the Paper

The Olympic gold medal men’s hockey game is on in the background as I re-type this (I’ve already lost it once in blogger – NEVER type in blogger, ALWAYS type in Word and then copy and paste it to blogger – you’ll save yourself some major headaches). Canada is tied with US at the moment. Wouldn’t it be nice to see the United States men out on the ice after the game…celebrating with cigars, PBR and champagne? I’m keeping my fingers crossed but it’s a bit difficult to type that way.

I spent the last hour taking the final few steps to rid my life of paper…I’m transferring birthdays and anniversaries from my pleather-bound calendar to a free iPhone application I just downloaded. This is a major step in my life and included passing on one of my annual traditions: going to the Office Depot to carefully pick out a weekly-tabbed Day Runner with a yearly overview, address book, birthday reminder sheet and a list of international holidays. I tried this "getting rid of paper" thing once before in my life and swore I would never put all of my chickens in the same coop ever again. At least as long as I knew darned well that there was a raccoon around that could take them all down in one bite. Back in the 90’s I converted my life to a Palm Pilot – what a mistake since God was clearly not my Palm Co-Pilot. I promptly lost everything when it crashed, rolled and burned – nothing, not even my grandmother’s address and phone number, was pulled out alive.

Of course I won’t be able to completely give up on paper for a few reasons:

1. My writing utensil fetish. I love a good pen or pencil. Anything from a Sharpie to a fountain pen. My favorite is a black flair felt tip since that’s what my Dad always used at work and to draw his famous dog. I guess a Sharpie is my second favorite since Dad always has one in his pocket (right next to the box-cutters and rubber band wallet).

2. My attachment to mail. I love receiving cards. I’ll sift through all of the junk mail with no problems if I think that mailbox has a card in it. Hanukkah, Kwanza, Valentine’s, Confederate Memorial Holiday, I don’t care. Just send me a card with some handwriting in it. And heaven help our crazy mail lady if it’s my birthday and she decides to skip our mailbox just because a car is parked in front of it. I’ll chase her down like a dog.

3. Clippings from mom. Life would not be the same if I didn’t receive articles from the Ad-Visor, Marshall Evening Chronicle or Battle Creek News that were lovingly cut with left-handed pinking shears. Sure, I can read the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Atlanta Urinal and Constipation on my iPhone, but it’s not the same as receiving an article from mom that she thought I would like.

4. My love of lines. I can’t live without graph paper, journals, diaries, legal pads, composition books, and post-it notes. I love to write, with a cool pen, on paper.

So, we’re in overtime now in the Olympic hockey game. Guess I’ll watch it so that I don’t have to read about it tomorrow in the paper…

Silence of the Chicken

How are you doing on those resolutions? Does your list fill a legal pad or did you simply type it into the "notes" application on your iPhone? I was tempted by the latter but I still can’t bring myself to completely give up paper. Perhaps I’ll add that to my resolution list, "consider giving up all paper except toilet and wrapping." Actually, I prefer gift bags so maybe I can even give up wrapping paper. Did you post your resolutions on Facebook for all to see or are you keeping them private? I think you’ve got to put your resolutions out there in the public domain or you won’t stick to them. Of course I won’t be putting mine out there, but everyone else should. Does your list include at least one item related to weight, nutrition, or how much alcohol you will or will not allow yourself to drink each day? Mine has at least 17 such entries. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it only has 15. One thing I’m thinking about for the New Year is whether or not I want to continue to be chicken godmother to the brood next door when their owner is gone. Up until the other night (for my Yankee readers, it’s okay to double up on your prepositions – "up under" is actually my favorite), I hadn’t given it a thought. Why wouldn’t I? What’s so hard about it? The hens put themselves to bed each night, I collect the eggs and close them up in the coop for the night, then I let them out in the morning…right after I eat the scrambled product of their immaculate inconceptions (yes, I created that last word – seems like it should be in the dictionary doesn’t it?). Well, Wednesday night was different. It was a cold, rainy, blue-moonless evening. I put on the crappiest pair of tennis shoes I could find and trudged myself next door to close up the chickens for the night. With the flashlight, I waded through the mud and chicken poop to do my usual peek into the coop to count off the four hens. The hay on the floor of the coop was all in disarray. My heart stopped as I listened to myself say "oh shit" over and over again as I realized that two of them were missing. Then I noticed that one of the coop windows had been broken out from the inside…a struggle of some sort had obviously ensued. In the pouring rain, I searched the entire mucky backyard without success. There was nothing more I could do that evening. With my blood pressure at its highest since Kanye dissed Taylor at the VMA’s, I went back to the house and poured myself a shot of leftover Christmas whiskey (doesn’t everyone have that tradition?). The next morning, in the light of day, I pretended I was Brenda on "The Closer" and went back over to survey the crime scene. Sure enough, one chicken was ready for chalk outlining. But where was the other one? I couldn’t find it. Perhaps Buffalo Bill had killed one and decided to keep the other for himself? I could only hope that Agent Clarice Starling was already on his trail. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and I really had to get to work soon or I’d end up having to stay there late to get my hours in. I went back home still conflicted about what to do with the deceased chicken. After several thoughts of asking Doc. B. to take care of it, I sucked it up, grabbed some plastic bags, and decided that since it was trash day, I better just deal with it. Thank goodness I did because synchronicity prevailed. As I walked next door, there in the front yard was the missing chicken. It had gotten out of the fenced back yard (flown the coop?) in order to save itself from whatever got its sister. Now all I had to do was catch her. For what seemed like hours (but I’m sure it was only about a minute), I ran around (insert bad pun) like a chicken with my head cut off until I caught the hen and got her into the back yard. I won’t go into details, but I then “took care of” the departed chicken, washed my hands about a thousand times and got myself to work by 8:15. All I know after this incident is that I don’t want to be a farmer. Even though farming is in my blood, it must get regularly filtered out by the desk job that’s in my heart. In the meantime, I’m still deciding if Chicken Godmother will be a role I continue this year. I probably will. That is if another chicken (or the hamster I’m also in charge of) doesn’t croak on the remaining two days of my watch. I wish you all peace, love and low blood pressure in 2010.

Happy Anniversary M & D!

The other night I had a conference call with my sisters. It was our annual sibling meeting to decide how best to celebrate our parents on their (46th) wedding anniversary and X-mas. The tradition is that one of us starts it off with an e-mail to the other three siblings. This year it was Middle Sis who got the bowling ball rolling with an excellent idea on how to honor M&D (mom and dad). It continues with a brainstorm Dairy Queen Flurry as we all chime in and try to settle on the best gift(s). This year we decided to pretend it was the first Saturday in April and that we were on the Diag at the University of Michigan and just get on the phone to hash(ish) it out. I sat in my recliner chair with a cat on my lap, Middle Sis sat in the hairstylist’s chair with a kid on her lap and Baby Sis sat amid 40 sheets of drywall as we agreed upon what to purchase for the man and woman who raised us.

NOTE #1: It’s okay if M&D read this because I’m certain they’re aware of this yearly ritual. Plus, I’m not giving away any secrets – at least about the gifts anyway.

NOTE #2: Bro didn’t join us on this year’s call. So for those of you doing the math, yes, there are indeed four siblings. Knowing little brother’s demanding job, he was probably on a plane to Germany or researching left ventricular failure and survival in cardiomyopathic gerbils (just kidding if you are reading this bro or sis-in-law!)

We quickly determined the best gift options and then moved on to sister chatter. As we closed the conversation, someone randomly brought up 70’s music and how the three of us know it so well. Baby Sis suggested it was because our basement juke box was filled with it when we were growing up. Please mister please, don’t play B17, it was our song, it was his song, but it’s over. Yup, we were too young to know what the song meant but this oldie but goodie from Olivia Newton-John’s Have you Never been Mellow album was strategically placed in our juke box at, imagine that, B17.

If you’ve been reading this blog since its inception, you know that music has always been a part of my life. For my younger siblings, it may have begun with the juke box; but for me, it began in the early 1970’s with my Uncle Al’s album collection. I was 8 and he was 12, and I wanted to be cool like him and listen to Cheech and Chong’s Sister Mary Elephant as well as all of that country rock, like Lynard Skynyrd and The Allman Brothers. I remember the Eat a Peach album cover and thought it was so cool that I might live in Georgia one day. Little did I know that I would later (as in last weekend) have the opportunity to encounter the man who created the album cover art work – an amazing man named Flor Noi plays with a local band called the Flying Mystics. Doc B. and I heard him play last weekend.



By 1976, I was 12, going on 10. I thought it was pretty cool that our mom and dad let us listen to Rod Stewart’s Tonight’s the Night. We couldn’t figure out why our friends weren’t allowed to listen to it. My friend Julie said her parent’s didn’t like part of the lyrics, something about spread your wings and let me come inside. I just didn’t understand what was wrong with an angel wanting to come in from the cold? And then by the time we got to 1977, we were out skateboarding and I asked Julie if she wanted to join us. Julie’s mom was against it because it wasn't safe, AND her mom also wouldn’t let her listen to Peter Frampton’s I’m in You. I wonder why?

Anyway, the bottom line is that my sisters and I know and love 70’s music. And our very cool parents didn’t stifle or censor our enjoyment of it. They didn’t force us to love Peter, Paul, Mary or Johnny Mathis; they let us discover our love for them all on our own.

I love you M and D and I hope tomorrow is the best anniversary ever! Your 4 children and 5 grandchildren love you dearly…