on Pre-Camper Syndrome

It's ugly. It's unavoidable. It's pre-camper syndrome.
This terrible condition strikes predictably whenever families are preparing to go away together. My kids coined the name years ago when I flipped my lid prior to leaving on a family camping trip. (But it can strike the morning of any family trip, and is not just limited to camping.)
This lid-flipping was, admittedly, a regular thing.
But in my defense, I had good reason!
Here's a generalized scenario:
The parents plan a trip with the kids, anticipating showing them the wonders of something or other. There's plenty of advance notice. Some of the kids are old enough to take care of little details such as doing their trip-laundry, packing their bags, covering their paper routes, finding a place for their pet turtle to spend the week, all on their own.
Believing that they will do so is a common error many parents make, and a leading cause of pre-camper syndrome. I remain hopeful, and never, never learn.
Weekly, and then daily prior to the big trip, reminders are given by the parents. A month to go! Is your paper route covered?
A week to go! Do you know what you're packing?
Two days to go! Is your laundry done? Have you dropped the turtle off at your friend's? Does your bathing suit still fit?
We leave in the morning, 7 a.m. sharp! Are you all packed? Put your bags by the door.
Kids! Get up! You have plenty of time for breakfast and a shower. We hit the road in two hours.
Kids! Get UP! I've made toast. If you hurry you can still shower. Put your bags in the car, please. We leave in an hour.
KIDS! ARE YOU STILL IN BED? It's time to GO! Where are you BAGS? We're paying for this trip, and you're making us miss it!
The kids, feeling abused, reveal that they have not done laundry, can't find their bathing suit or tooth brush, forgot to drop off the turtle or cover the paper route, promised the neighbor they'd babysit tonight, and don't want to go on a stupid vacation with the family anyway. Can they stay at their friend's with the turtle?
This is when mom and dad flip their lids. After all, they've spent a couple grand, taken time off work, and spent hours preparing for a 7 a.m. departure, at the expense of a good night's sleep. Which makes them . . . cranky.
"@!%&**!!!," Dad says as he stomps around the house, pulling out his remaining hair.
Mom isn't much better.
"Get. UP! NOW!" she grits between her teeth.

Two hours later, bags are haphazardly packed and stowed in the car. The turtle is at the friends, the babysitting job and paper route are covered. They hope. And the snarly kids are stuffed into the vehicle, not speaking to anybody, all listening to separate i Pods.
Mom and Dad are crabby. They're practicing breathing exercises to calm them down while cranking out old Doobie Brothers tunes on the car's CD player.
A kid in the back glances cautiously up front before leaning over to whisper to his sibling: "See? They always get pre-camper syndrome. It never fails! And I have no idea why!"

on My Big, FAT, New (idea for an) Invention!

If only it were possible to pull this off, I'd get rich! I've got the best idea for a fabulous invention: An honesty detector! 

How great would it be to be able to build an honesty detector that would go Beep! Beep! Beep! whenever dishonesty was detected.

It would have to have a sensitivity setting, or it would be forever going off because some nearby kid fibbed to his parents about his grade on his last English paper; or some man fudged – just a bit – the amount he told his wife he’d spent on that new power tool; or someone who cheated on a math test 25 years ago got too close.

If it could be calibrated just right, it would be handy in a number of locations.

For example, shop keepers could install one in the door of their stores which would beep every time someone tried to shoplift. That would put an end to that!

Or people with cheating spouses could install one in the bedroom which would go off in the event of a new cheating episode. It would have to have the ability to be re-set often.

People hiring a new employee could have one sitting on the table in the interview room. If a candidate for a position took a seat and the device immediately started beeping, the person would simply be shown the door.

I guess it would have to have a character detection setting for that.

How handy would such a device be in a political debate? Or in a police interrogation room? Or in the principal’s office at school? Or in the security line at the airport?

Unfortunately, such a thing isn’t currently possible. But if I ever come up with a way to bottle good character judgment, you’ll be seeing my honesty detectors on the shelves of your local stores.

And you’ll be seeing me on the beach in Cozumel! Honest. 

 

 

On All the Disgusting Germs in your Daily Life!

Today I happened to come across an article on Facebook about 11 unhygienic things we all do every day. These aren't obvious things, such as putting you finger into places on your face where it doesn't belong.
These are things we all do, and don't stop to think about all the GERMS we're snacking up while going about our daily business.
Prepare to be grossed out.
1. Touching money. According to the article, a typical quarter has more germs on it than a toilet seat. Ok, maybe a toilet seat isn't where you'd expect to find germs, but hearing a quarter has all those germs on it is disquieting. Gives the term "filthy lucre" a whole new meaning!
2. Using the card reader at the gas station or a store. Because people touch them all day long, and lots of those people seldom wash their hands.

3. Drinking from a can. I've always been suspicious of this practice. It stands to reason that lots of people touch cans, from the can factory to the bottling plant to the truck drivers to the grocery store clerks to your mom. The advice is to drink from a straw. You could also pour your pop into a glass. Or hey, go nuts and put the cans into a sink of warm, soapy water and wash em off before refrigerating them. Carry wipes in the car or in your purse for single cans you get from a machine. You need them anyway, to clean off your quarters!
4. Your cell phone case and screen is apparently a hot-bed of germlife.
Again, grab a wipe. Careful not to ooze liquid into the phone, or you'll be buying a nice, new clean phone after you fry the circuits on the one you drenched.

 5. Allowing your doggie or kittie to lick  you on the face or hands. Do I really need to elaborate on this? God love em, they lick their own butts. When I see someone kissing Fido on his doggie lips, I just cringe. And if a cat bites you, you have to go on antibiotics. Why would you put your lips on that? Think, people!
6. Using your computer keyboard, like I am right now. Who washes that? Ick. Antibacterial wipe. Again, no dripping.
7. Escalator handrail: Germ city. Touch only if you have bad balance. Then go wash your hands, before buying a soft pretzel and eating it with your bare hands.
8. Pulling on gloves. Do you ever, ever wash your gloves? Yet, you touch everything with them, and then touch your own face and hands with them. Literally sickening.
9. Gas station fuel pump handles. How many people go to the bathroom first, and then fuel up, barehanded? And have you ever taken time to notice how many people don't bother to wash their hands after using the bathroom. I'm always surprised when I'm standing there, washing away, and some woman flies out of a stall and right on out of the restroom without a stop at the sink. It happens a LOT. Take time to check this out.

10. Door handles in and out of buildings and rooms in buildings are naturally covered with germs. I open them with my sleeve or a scarf if I'm wearing one. This may seem extreme, but I'm tired of getting colds!
11. Surfaces in your own home. All day, day after day, people in your home cough, sneeze, use the bathroom without always washing, pets walk on tables and counters, and in general germs build up. Clean surfaces such as doorknobs, toilet handles, faucets, etc. And don't forget your car door handles, steering wheel, etc.
So, the purpose of this isn't to make you paranoid of living in the world. You have to open doors, pump gas, handle money. But wash your hands often, and use antibacterial wipes to clean things you can't wash with soap and water. Be careful, be smart, and you won't be sick as often.

on wondering . . . what color is Jesus?

 Jesus is white. I know this from all the paintings I've seen of him, done by white painters, mostly from Europe in the last few hundred years. And I'm white, so I'm comfortable with Jesus being just like me. It makes me feel like maybe I could relate to him, or understand him somehow.

But wait: When I was in high school, I visited a school in downtown Dayton. It was an inner city school with a largely African American student body. In the art room, there was an amazing painting of Jesus, done by a student.

What caught my attention, and my imagination, was that in this painting, unlike any painting of Jesus I'd ever seen, Jesus was black.

That led me to consider the possibility that not everyone thought of God in the same way I did. Maybe to other people, it was just as obvious that Jesus was black, like themselves. 

The Bible tells us God created us in his own image. But I think this goes both ways. I think we've created God in our own image, too.

A few years ago I went on a class trip with St. Benedict School's eighth grade to Washington D.C. While there, we visited the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. I highly recommend that anyone planning a trip to Washington spend a couple of hours there, whether you're Catholic or not. The architecture is amazing, and the artwork superb.

Throughout the enormous church are little shrines for many world countries and cultures. Not every country is represented, but there are a whole lot of them. And in each one is a painting of the Blessed Mother and the Infant Jesus. What's unique is that they're done by artists who have visualized the Holy Family as the people of each country see them. In the Vietnamese shrine, Mary and Jesus are Vietnamese. In the shrine from one of the African countries, they are black. In the Irish shrine, red-headed. 

I loved it! Again, it made me ponder the physical appearance of Jesus.

Logically, I know he was from the Middle East, and Jewish. He was no blond haired, blue eyed baby, nor did he sport the red locks I've often seen him portrayed with.

He no doubt wasn't actually black or Asian, either. But since people have historically made quite free with his appearance, and since there are, as far as I know, no photos or portraits of Jesus in existence, I just feel like what does it matter?

People need to be able to relate to Jesus, and if it helps to picture him as we, ourselves, appear, I doubt he'll mind. I've always figured Jesus was a whole lot more understanding and tolerant than anybody else.

Remember how Jesus's followers were given the ability to be understood by people of all languages when they spoke? Maybe when we see Jesus, he'll appear to us all differently, too. Who knows?

In the book, “The Shack,” a powerful novel about dealing with loss, Jesus appears to the protagonist as a Middle Eastern man, while God appears as a large, black woman, and the Holy Spirit, a young Asian woman. This is an excellent book, by the way, and I recommend it, especially to anyone struggling with a personal loss. 

Jesus said something to the effect of, when you do unto others, you do unto me. So look around at all the faces you see. We're all pretty different. Yet we believe God made us all in his image.

What color is Jesus? 

What color do you want Him to be? I'm no theologian, but I'll bet He cares more that you want Him to be . . . period. Everything else is just window dressing.

on Centicidal Maniac Spiders

What are Centicidal Maniac Spiders, you ask? Specially bred wolf spiders that only eat centipedes.
We breed em, right in our basement.

Because in our basement is the nexus of the homicidal centipede species.

(Wolf spider with babies on board)

My 15-year-old son told me about it. And it explains a LOT -- like why there are so many centipedes and wolf spiders in our basement every year, spring through fall.
According to my son, many, many years ago, before Cambridge came to be, a young boy was bitten by what seemed to be a normal centipede on the land now occupied by our home. Think centipedes don't bite? Go away and don't bother me.
The centipede enjoyed the taste of human flesh so much that it taught all its young that human flesh is tasty.
This isn't the centipede from James and the Giant Peach, folks. I'm telling you. That one may have been big, but it was friendly. Small ones that can hide under your couch until they're ready to strike are much more scary.

So ever since then, the centipedes that live here, in this little piece of the world, have been man eaters. Well, they're small, so man-nibblers, I guess. It's still bad! Piranhas are small, too!
Years later, perhaps when a village stood on this site, someone realized what was breeding in the crevices of the ground. And they knew that to save mankind, a predator must be developed to deal with the freakish, blood-thirsty centipedes.
Research happened.
It was discovered that a certain variety of wolf spider did not fear the centipede. The spiders were carefully collected, bred, and developed to vanquish the awful centipede hoards.
As time passed and the area was developed, always, always, whoever lived here made sure there were some of these special wolf spiders -- the so-called Centicidal Wolf Spiders -- on this land.
And so it continues.

My older son tells me there are terrible centipedes in other parts of the world. Bigger ones. Harder to kill. For the house centipede we have here is fast, oh, yes! But it is soft and vulnerable.
But this is the one we fear.
I think there must be centipede/wolf spider battles in other parts of the world.
I have a vague memory -- one I've tried to quash -- of sleeping in a basement in Maryland about 20 years ago. I awoke in the middle of the night to see -- someTHING-- carrying away the body of a centipede. I think it was a Centicidal Wolf Spider -- or a centipede wolf.
So if you come to my house, and go into the basement, watch the floors. Hold your skirts up when you walk. And never, never kill a wolf spider. It could be the last thing you do.

on Real-life Romance Novels for Real People

I'm reading a hot, juicy romance novel by one of my all-time favorite authors, Nora Roberts. I simply love her for so many reasons. She routinely creates riveting plots; is a master at character development, building heroes and heroines you really give a darn about, and in fact wish you knew. And she writes hot sex scenes.
Yeah, she's a smut author, for readers 18 and over. But if you don't want to read that, skip those parts, and enjoy the superb story-telling for which she's justifiably famous.
My only complaint is that I'll never meet a gorgeous, 30-something hero who falls helplessly for me and takes me to Tuscany on board his private jet where he buys me a gorgeous, Italian shoes before we tour an ancient winery and toast our love under the Tuscan sun.
In fact, I'd settle for a decent-looking and mostly healthy 50-something who owns his own car and enjoys an occasional jaunt to Chicago or New York. Where he could buy me a knock-off purse from a squirrelly street vendor.
Maybe there should be romance novelists for people like me? So as not to give us unrealistic expectations of real life love.
A scene could go something like this:
The restaurant was dimly lit, which suited Renee as she sat across the table from Roy on their sixth date. Squinting across at him, she tried to determine what he'd spilled on his shirt earlier that day. Whatever it was, it was riding high on his beer belly; maybe grape juice, maybe jelly. She couldn't tell.
"What are you gonna have?" he grunted, his face buried in his own menu. "Anything you want, baby. You're worth it."
She sighed. Was this really the best she could do? 
"This is a spaghetti place. I'm thinking . . . spaghetti," she said. She studied him some more. He wasn't that bad. And she knew he meant well. He was a nice guy, if not too bright. He had a sweet face, and a nature to go with it. He was a bit overweight, but could still climb a couple hundred steps up into the nosebleed seats at a baseball game on a cool day without breaking a sweat.. 
And face it. She was 42 and divorced from a guy she'd thought was Mr. Oh, Yes!, who'd turned out to be Mr. Oh, NO!. If she wanted to pop out any babies before the clock wound down, this could be . . . it.
Roy lowered the menu and smiled at Renee. "Let's have the Disney Special, honey," he suggested, wagging his eyebrows up and down.
"The Disney Special?" Renee asked, almost afraid of the answer. 
"Yeah!" he grinned. "Two for one spaghetti, like in Lady and the Tramp! And we can go home and watch the movie when we're done. I'll even make popcorn." 
Reluctantly, she smiled. He really was very sweet.
"Sounds good," she said, putting her menu down and sipping her cheap Chianti. 
He reached across the table . . . and picked up his cell phone. 
"I'm just going to check the Indian's game," he said. 
She sighed, and thought about that internal clock.
Come to think of it, never mind. I'd rather read about some studly fellow I'll never meet. I guess everyone agrees, or Nora wouldn't sell so many books.
Let me know if you need a recommendation! I've read them all! About five times.

On why Christmas should be in February

It's the middle of January, and the winter doldrums are setting in. I have a plan to end those cold-weather blues forever! 

Now hear me out. From what I understand, nobody is quite sure when Jesus was born, though summer is the best bet from what I’ve heard. That would make sense, when you think about all those people travelling around to register for the census. Why do that in the winter, right? It would be cold, and those people all wore sandals all the time. Not exactly snow shoes, right?

So right now, we’ve got Christmas in December, probably to fit in with a pagan holiday the early church was attempting to use to help pagans convert less painfully to Christianity.

(I’m prepared to be theologically shot down on all this, believe me!) 

So moving Christmas wouldn’t be that big a deal, theologically, anyway, right? And I’m betting merchants will love the idea, too!

Here’s my argument for a February Christmas. Fall already rocks. You’ve just come off summer, and then skated through the fun of Halloween and the celebrations (in the U.S. and Canada, anyway) of Thanksgiving. We don’t really need another big holiday right on the heels of those two. Not to mention New Year’s Eve and Day, the biggest date night of the year followed by the biggest sales day for folks in the corned beef business of the year.

I propose that we stretch things out a bit. Share the holiday wealth, so to speak. We should move Christmas to February. I’m thinking mid-February, so as not to interfere with Groundhog Day. Yeah, Valentine’s Day and President’s Day will have to be moved, but that shouldn’t be a problem. We can stick President’s Day in June. Nothing big happens then. And Valentine’s Day can move to March or April, rotating around based on when Easter is each year. The pink hearts and Easter Eggs will look good together. 

This way, the stores won’t be flooded with Christmas decorations during the Halloween and Thanksgiving seasons. Instead, we can start looking at Christmas shortly after New Year’s Day. It’ll be great for merchants! Think how they’ll be able to extend their prime selling season. It’ll be October through February, rather than through December!

And it’ll help us all get through the long, northern winters. The way it is now, we seem to jump from summer to January, leaping from holiday to holiday in a festive frolic and then, suddenly, slamming up against the wall of winter with nothing to look forward to for months on end. Be honest . . . who among us gets a real valentine after the age of 25? (I don’t want to hear from you smug people who do. The question was rhetorical!)

If we move Christmas to mid-February, then when the lights come down and the carols stop playing, it will be nearly spring.
Anybody can make it a few weeks into March. That brutal January – March stretch is a killer.

And we can get the groundhog people on board by appointing their favorite, hibernating mammal Santa’s new helper. Yuletide Yertle, the Christmas Groundhog, who holds Santa’s bag when he’s going down the chimney! Think of the possibilities for Yuletide Yertle books, television specials, action figures and stuffed dolls. Why should reindeer get all the action? 

Finally, schools and parents will be on board with this plan, because it allows them to hold Santa over little kids’ heads from September until February, ensuring their good behavior in school and at home months longer each year!

Oh, yeah. This could work.

Let’s get our clergy working on this for us. I figure with enough enthusiasm we can have Christmas moved by next winter!

On the Etiquette of Borrowing

My late ex, Jim, had a saying I always liked: If you borrow something from me, don't treat it like it's your own. Treat it like it's mine!
Makes sense, right? People are always saying, "Don't worry, I'll treat it like it's my own car!" (sweater, book, shoes, etc.)
In reality, that's bad, because if you ruin something of your own, no big. But if  you ruin something of mine, big bummer!
This came to mind today when my daughter told me she'd loaned a wig to a friend of her sister's; a guy who needed it for a costume he was putting together.
That was a year ago.
Today she found out he'd gotten it dirty, and instead of washing it out, had simply thrown it away. Worse, he hadn't mentioned this, and we only found out a year later, when they needed the wig and asked to have it back.
"Oops, I threw that away a year ago!" he said. "Sorry."
What??
Ok, that guy is off the list of people this family will ever, ever loan anything to.
And to make sure you never, ever make the same mistake, let's review the etiquette of borrowing. (I made this up, but it seems like a good plan.)
The Etiquette of Borrowing
1. When you borrow something, it is not yours. It is MINE. You're not Homer Simpson, and I'm not Ned Flanders. I EXPECT to get my stuff back, undamaged, right away. Which brings us to . . .
2. You have borrowed it for a specific amount of time. This means I want it back. As soon as possible.
3. If we have not specified an amount of time, give it back the day after you use it. Or right after you wash it, as the case may be.
4. If you damage my thing, you must repair or replace it. This is not optional. Do not put a guilt trip on me by calling me up and saying, "Oh, man I broke your car, but I can't afford to fix it."
If you can't afford to fix it, you can't afford to borrow it. Capiche? If you do borrow it and break, damage or destroy it, replace it. Don't ask first, just do it. Either something as good as or better than the one you ruined.
5. If you do all these things, you may ask to borrow something of mine again. If you don't, don't bother asking. You're off the list of trusted borrowers. I'll forgive you. But I won't be dumb enough to loan you anything again.
6. You can't get back on the list. Don't try.
So now you know. Are you a good borrower? Come on . . . think about it. If you're not, there's still time to change -- except for those people off my list forever.
You're out of luck.

Maybe Ben Franklin had the right of it when he said, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be."
There's no quicker way to make enemies than to be beholden to someone, or to be the one to whom someone is beholden.
Think before you borrow. Do you really need that thing?
And only lend if you can afford to lose something or replace it.
This is triply true of money.
Some people can't be wiped off your list, after all. So be careful up front, and avoid trouble later.
That's it!

On whether or not you're ready to D-A-T-E as an older woman.

Birds do it, bees do it, even flowers and trees do it, let's do it! Let's fall in love! Da. Da. Daaaa.
Yeah, except it's not as easy as that, is it?
I've been single for hmmmmm...eight years now. Why is a personable, attractive, intelligent woman alone?
By choice, that's why.
I'm not saying I'm not interested in eventually finding "Mr. Right." I just don't think he has to be "Mr. Right Now."
I've watched reams of my single girlfriends date online, and so far, I can name only one couple I personally know who met online and are happily married. Or even happily, monogamously engaged in . . . whatever.
Most such relationships are weighted heavily toward the male interests . . . wham, bam . . . this email's spam!
Look, I know many women consider themselves "liberated," and that's great. But at the bottom of it, men and women may (I say may to avoid gross generalizations) want different things.
They say men don't remain single very long after divorcing or becoming widowers.
Women may remain single until they meet their maker.
Why?
Men may want somebody to take care of them and their house.
A line from the Broadway musical, "Hello, Dolly!" says, "Marriage is a bribe to make a housekeeper think she's a householder." Yow!
Now, if that's your idea of heaven, go for it, sister! I'm not going to judge!
But I'm not looking for a man to add to the list of people I need to see to every day. I already have five kids, a dog and two cats for that. And a bunch of employees. And various people on various committees.
I'm full-up on dependents, thank you very much!
And consider this. I'm over 50. Therefore, men I may date will generally also be over 50. I'm not interested in taking on some old man's declining health years, and getting stuck taking care of him as he sits, corroding, in his arm chair each night after work.
"Martha! Get me my heating pad and my e-cigs!" No. Thanks.
And when it comes to the, er, physical side of things, I think it is biologically easier for men to be casual about things. (Assuming there's anything to be casual about over age 50.)
They've got that whole sow-yer-seed imperative, right? I've never come across a man crying in the morning from regret about a decision made the night before. Nuff said?
Women tend to take things a bit more seriously. Not all of us, I know! Some are very happy-go-lucky, care-free, if it feels good do it. But me? I just can't be that way.
Why? Reasons!
I have kids in my home. I WILL NOT bring a man here, with the kids here. End. Of. Story. You want to screw up your kids? Subject them to a long line of boyfriends/daddies/uncles. Yeah. That'll do it.
Plus, there's danger there, sisters. Don't kid yourselves. You meet some dude online, and you're going to bring him into your home a couple of cups of coffee later? I don't think so! You're begging for trouble of one kind or another.
Also, I can't, as liberated as I may be in other areas, go for "casual ahem."
Not made that way. It would mess me up. I KNOW this.
I guess I'm the marrying kind. Or the staying-single kind. All or nothing. Hope I don't come off as cynical, but it is what it is. I guess I'm just skeptical by nature!

So, I'm going to just keep on keeping on. If the good Lord wants to match me up with someone, he'll plop us down together in some situation where we're forced to socialize, and find out we like each other.
So girlfriends, stop trying to set me up with your brother, cousin, uncle, dad! for Pete's sake. (You know who you are.)
And when I'm ready, if I'm ever ready, I'll find my own date for the prom.

on Tiny House Living

Last week I joined a class on downsizing. We get a weekly lesson by email, and there's a forum on Google + for discussion with others in the class. The thrust of the class is to lighten the load of what one owns, with an eye to eventually being able to live "tiny."
Have you heard of the tiny house movement? It fascinates me. The idea behind it is to "live smaller," leaving a smaller footprint on the environment, spend much less money on housing, utilities, etc., and to be surrounded by less stuff.

Sometimes, as I've written before, I feel that my stuff owns me rather than the other way around.
Anyway, tiny house living means living in a house smaller than 400 sq. ft. Think that sounds small? Many people who go for this lifestyle actually live in homes on wheels measuring less than 200 sq. ft.
Many communities have zoning rules with minimum square footage requirements. To get around this, tiny house folks in cities with such limited zoning place their houses on trailers with wheels, making them mobile homes, which are not subject to regular zoning rules.
There's a television show on Monday nights at 10 p.m. called Tiny House Nation, which visits a new tiny house project each week, helping the people build their home and downsize their belongings. I've seen married couples with children move into 192 sq. ft. homes. Crazy!
I figure if they can do that, I can live alone in 400 sq. ft. Well, with a pooch, a kitty and a tank of fish.
What I want is a small plot of land, ideally on water, but in the woods would be my second choice. Some people put their tiny homes in somebody's backyard, tapping into their water and electric, but I want my own space.
The really tiny houses use lofts for sleeping space. I figure that as I'm a woman of a certain age, the time is coming when I won't want to climb a ladder into a loft, then squat down to get to my bed.
I wouldn't mind a second floor bedroom if I can have a staircase, possibly with lots of storage underneath. Dormers and skylights can make the ceiling high enough to walk under.
Another thing they do in really tiny houses is use Murphy beds, cleverly disguised as desks or book cases during the day, in the living room. Sounds like too much trouble to me, though it's pretty cool use of space.
Back to my fantasy home. Downstairs I want a great room comprising my living room, dining room and kitchen space. I want a fireplace to heat with. I want a bathroom big enough to have separate toilet/sink/shower rather than the "wet room" many really tiny houses have, where everything is in one little space, and you practically have to stand in the toilet to take a shower. Easy to clean though, I bet.
I want a washer/dryer -- perhaps apartment sized stack-able. And a usable kitchen space. Not large. I'm not a gourmet cook. And I want a nice porch to sit on and enjoy the outside.
I'd like a solar panel to supplement my energy use. I want propane, to be off the grid. And septic if possible. County or city water is more sensible than trucked in, so I want that. And the possibility of a "green roof" to help insulate and gather rain water for use watering a garden, etc.
Sounds great, doesn't it?
You can go to You Tube and watch a short movie called "Tiny," about a guy who builds his own tiny house.
So, to make this happen, I will have to get rid of A LOT of things. I've inherited stuff from three women, and my children inherited stuff from their dad. It's all in my house.
When we moved here from the big house we had before, we dumped about 1/3-1/2 of our stuff.
I'm going to need to dump 90 percent to go tiny.
Kids, come get your stuff!

My timeline is when my youngest graduates from high school, or 3.5 years. That gives my older kids time to establish their own places, where they can take their stuff.
I'll only keep my absolute favorite things. I read that if something doesn't fill you with joy, get rid of it.
And a good friend once told me that memories are inside of us, not inside of the stuff we inherit from others. Why be tied down by the belongings of dead people?
So that's my plan! To go "tiny" in a few years. After all, I'm the Shabby Housekeeper. I don't like keeping house, so less house can only be good for my mental health, right?

If this sounds interesting to you, go check it out. Just Google it, and you'll find plenty of info.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!

on whether or not it's a good thing to meet your celebrity heroes.

Have you ever had the opportunity to meet one of your celebrity heroes? It can be exciting, but isn't necessarily a good thing.

I've never been one to be bowled over by fame, or to go gaga over a star. Stars are interesting people in that they lead what seems from the outside to be interesting lives, and I wouldn't mind spending a few minutes over a cup of coffee talking to a few of them. But sometimes, it's best not to meet someone you admire from afar based on their acting, or singing, or how well they play a musical instrument, or write. You might be disappointed by the actual human behind the image.
When I was in college I had a favorite author. I won't name her, because when I got to meet her it was a shocking disappointment. She did a book signing in my hometown of Dayton, Ohio, and I sat eagerly in the bookstore, avidly awaiting the moment I'd lay eyes on the woman who had provided me with endless hours of reading enjoyment. I imagined what she would be like based on the wonderful characters she created. How could she be anything but wonderful herself? I was about 20, and naive. The writer entered the room, and I was thrilled. I had her new book, which I planned to have her sign. She stepped up to the microphone to address the small crowd -- and proceeded to complain for 10 minutes about her flight, her hotel room, the traffic, in short, everything. I thought it a bit rude, but decided maybe she was just tired, and got in line to have her autograph my precious book.
When my turn came, I probably gushed a bit about how many hours of enjoyment she'd provided me with, and how I enjoyed the world and characters she'd created. Instead of the instant connection I'd been dreaming of, she basically grunted, "Yeah, what's your name?" She signed the book, which I still have, and moved on to the next fan.

 Thud. Clunk. Off the pedestal she fell. And that was the end of hero worship for me. I decided then and there I'd rather know as little about the actors and writers I admired as possible, in case they all turned out to be jerks.
Years passed. I was married, and working at Channel 6 in Columbus. My job was to point a camera at the news and weather anchors, and sometimes to set up the television programs and commercial carts. Occasionally I met a celebrity. I met Jack Hannah back before he was Jungle Jack. I met Dave and Wendy from the restaurant chain. She really did have red hair, but didn't wear it in those braids. I was in an adjoining bathroom stall with Mariette Hartley. They were all perfectly pleasant, and polite to me in my role as crew.
But one incident stands out from the rest, and it didn't happen at work. Jim Neighbors was in town, and was supposed to sing a concert with Patsy Cline. He was booked onto the noon news show at Channel 6, and I was looking forward to meeting him because I'd always enjoyed Gomer Pyle as a kid. Just before the show, however, we received word that he'd cancelled the show and the concert because he was suffering from a light case of laryngitis.

Oh, well.
That night I met my new husband downtown at Grant Medical Center, where he was doing a medical school rotation. We were going out on one of our very rare dinner dates. Rare because medical students have no time, and because we had little money. I think it was our anniversary. We decided to go over to German Village, to Max & Erma's. He dropped me off, and went to park. The street was virtually deserted. I stood in front of the restaurant, waiting. As I did, I noticed a lone man walking down the sidewalk toward me. As he drew near, I realized it was Jim Neighbors.
Being the imp then I still am now, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, then told him I worked at Channel 6, and asked him why he hadn't showed up at the noon news show that day.
Well, the poor guy was terribly embarrassed, and said his agent was supposed to cancel for him.
I felt bad for teasing him! At that point, my husband walked up, and I introduced the two men (yeah, I did, as if I KNEW Jim Neighbors) and then told Mr. Neighbors that I was kidding. His agent had cancelled, and I was just a camera operator. He, fortunately, had a good sense of humor about it. Then, realizing he was alone in a strange town, I invited him to join us for dinner. He graciously accepted, and we went in. The next hour and a half was such fun! People came up and asked him for autographs, and he was as nice as could be to them. He entertained us with stories about other celebrities of whom we'd heard, such as Lonnie Anderson and Burt Reynolds. Once someone looked at us and asked us if we were "anybody!"
Then he insisted on paying for our dinner, and invited us to visit him on his macadamia plantation in Hawaii. We never made it there.
I wonder what he'd do if I showed up there now?
So this goes to prove that, like anyone else, some celebs are nice people just like anybody else, while others are snarky curmudgeons, like the writer I so admired.
So, do you still want to meet your favorite celeb? Who is it? Have you met a favorite celeb? How did that go? I'd love to know!

My personal five

I've neglected my blog since Thanksgiving. So sorry! But today I'm imbued with the spirit of the New Year, and have decided to blog out my thoughts.
My entire family rang in the New Year with disgusting cases of the flu. Woot!
So we've all been sitting around, phlegmming, with plenty of time on our hands. And tissues on the floor.
And DayQuil in our guts. And germs everywhere. Stay away!
We've watched movies, played video games, read books, neglected housework, and snarled at each other for next to no reason at all.
Ah, family!
It's allowed me a lot of time for thought.
And here is what I've been thinking about: Getting back to my Daily Five.
My Daily Five is a philosophy I came up with a few years ago, and haven't been following much lately. The idea is that each day I must do something, no matter how small, to address each of five important areas of my life. These include: SELF; WORK; HOME; FAMILY; and FINANCES.
Under "SELF" comes physical health, spirituality, emotional well-being, romance life, self-improvement of any kind and education. Whatever I might deem just for me, or a bit selfish -- which I feel we all deserve.
Under "WORK" comes my professional life. The job I have and how I can do it better; future career plans; possibly continuing or advancing education; training I'd like to get; and in my case, writing on the side for fun or for pay.
Under "HOME" comes my physical living situation. This includes maintenance, cleaning, decorating, de-cluttering, and anything else that might come under the roof -- pun intended -- of my house.
Under "FAMILY" comes all I consider my own. This includes my children, their children, their spouses, my siblings, their spouses and children, my dad, my extended family, and my friends. How can I improve and maintain these relationships? Relationships I can't live without...and which must be nurtured regularly to flourish.
Finally, under "FINANCES" come all the areas pertaining to how the heck I plan to pay for all the rest, in perpetuity. This crosses over into "Job," and "Home," when you consider that I'd like to own my own again someday. Also, I'm over 50, so I have to wonder how and when I'll be able to retire. (Never?)
So how, on a daily basis, can I make "progress" on any or all of these areas?
Easy! Here's an example of a typical day in my life.
6:30 a.m. Rise and shine. Stumble into kitchen. Make coffee. Outen dog, feed dog and cats. Drink coffee. Read.
7:00 a.m. Nag kids out of bed.
7:30 a.m. Drive my son to school. Come home. Shower. Dress. Head to work.
9 a.m.- 5 p.m. Work. Deal with all aspects of work, as well as with family appointments such as doc, dentist, hair, etc. as possible and necessary from phone.
5 p.m. head home.
5:30 p.m. Grocery shopping once a week...a labor of love! Once home, outen dog, feed dog and cats, feed family.
6 p.m. several nights a week: Coffee with friends. (free group therapy!)
7 p.m. several nights a week several months a year: Play practice. Maybe with assorted of my kids. This is play time for us, and serves as a great emotional outlet, as well as being good physical exercise if dancing is involved. (laugh it up...I lost 15 pounds during my last play!)
9 p.m. Time to go home and relax, read, help with homework, watch a movie with kids, maybe do a household chore or two. Write if I'm working on something personal.
11:30 p.m. Bed. Sweet dreams!
House cleaning is a group effort, done every Sunday. Daily tasks such as dishes and laundry are seen to by all, and resented by all!  But they get done eventually.
So where, in that long day, can I fit my five? The answer is, everywhere!
I'll use today, a Sunday, as an example of seeing to my five.
I've had the flu for days, so I've neglected pretty much everything. This morning I got up feeling a bit better, so I took a shower, washed my face and gathered my laundry. I picked up dirty dishes and took them to the kitchen. I cared for the animals as usual..they don't want to hear about us being sick. Then I sat down with my coffee and a good book, and vegged.
Later in the day, I dealt with the matter of switching my insurance to USAA, an excellent company I'm eligible for because my dad is a Marine. This move saved me quite a bit annually. (This is not a sponsored commercial, unfortunately!)
Then I made a simple -- and I mean simple! -- meal for all the sicko kiddos, and decided to sit down and write this blog.
Note: Most Sundays I'd have gone to church (flu!) which would count toward my spiritual health, under the SELF heading.
So it's not yet 4 p.m., and I've done positive things for SELF (showering, gathering laundry, drinking coffee and enjoying book), HOME (gathering laundry, picking up dishes), FAMILY (making a meal, picking up dishes, gathering laundry and chatting with my siblings via text, which I hadn't mentioned previously), FINANCES (switching my insurance and saving money). The only area I haven't addressed today is work, but I'm on call at the paper if they need me, and after all, it is Sunday. Plus, I believe this idea could be worked into a sweet column, so there's WORK!
You see that the things I do for my five aren't big and dramatic? Well, the insurance switch was, but that's unusual. You also see how many of the areas cross over into each other. This is natural, as we don't live in a vacuum, and my five would also cross into the fives of people around me if they were playing this same game.
It's easy, and it makes me feel good at the end of the day.
So think about taking up your own personal five, and let me know how it goes for you.
By the way, your five areas may  not be the same as mine. Just pick the five areas of your life that seem the most important to you. And five is enough, by the way. Don't go nuts. You're more likely to succeed if you keep it manageable.
One, two, three, four, five . . . start!