Overbooked and Underpaid: Notes from a Yes-aholic

You Did What?!!!!!

Wednesday began much like any other day with one exception; my husband was out of town.

In a universe that loves to screw with people, that was all it would take to set in motion a chain of comedic (and painful events).

My mornings typically begin like a lot of people's mornings. There is the usual routine of making sure my daughter is up, getting ready for school and making a lunch.

Then there is the driving of the morning leg of the carpool to the aforementioned school. 

So, on this particular Wednesday, I have everything under control and am heading to the car.

Now, because we have a young male dog that wants to run all over the neighborhood and "socialize" we have rigged up a sort of gate contraption at the top of our driveway. (This gate is actually next to useless as our very agile sheltie can just hop right over it at the low spot but it does discourage him from bolting down the driveway at top speed.)

If I had any sense, I would have opened that gate as I do most mornings.

But of course, I didn't.

Instead, I decided to step over it.

Which is not normally such a stupid thing to do. It's only two feet high.

But on this day, a day when my husband was 4 hours away and my teenage son spent the night at a friends house, and the only family member around was a 12 year old girl who cannot drive, on THIS day, my first foot went over the gate just fine but my SECOND foot got caught in the top of the mesh. Sending me spiraling down in what the ER nurse would later characterize as a "cartoon fall". (Ironically, he used that term having no idea my husband and I work in the comics business.) 

The next 5 minutes are kind of a blur. There was a spilled can of soda (my morning non-coffee caffeine ritual), an explosion of articles out of my purse, and a fair amount of swearing.

And possibly some wimpering.

What do you think I did next?

Do you think I had my daughter run in the house and call the girls in the carpool and tell them they couldn't go to school today?

And did I then have her call a friend to drive me to the hospital? Or maybe an ambulance even?

No. Of course not.

Because I am a fully indoctrinated, Scots/German raised "suck it up, walk it off, and get on with it" stoic.

So I did what any stoic with a rescue complex would do. I had my daughter throw all my stuff into the car (except the soda - I never did find out what happened to it), I gritted my teeth, drove over and picked up the girls, and drove the 9.8 miles (each way) to school. (Thank you google maps - I've been making that drive for 14 years and only just now found out how far it is.)

I knew I had done something significant to my left ankle - maybe a bad sprain - but I also knew all my friends were at work and even the parents of the girls I was driving were already at work. I didn't even know how to get a hold of them because - in all the years that I have been driving those kids to school, I've never bothered to get the parents work phone numbers. (Which is pretty stupid.)

The girls were terrified because I literally huffed and puffed the whole way, grimacing and letting out audible gasps every time I had to use my bad leg to depress the clutch.

Oh, yeah - did I mention the only car I had available that day was a stickshift?

On the return journey, I called my son on his cell and told him to get ready, I was going to swing by and pick him up from his friend's so he could help me get out of the car and into the house. 

I have to say here that - all that stuff about how hard it is to raise teenagers, all the conflict that gives parents migraines, that's all true - but my 17 year old son was a gem that day. Once we got home he waited on me hand and foot and only went to school once he was sure I would be OK without him. 

Since I have health insurance that could charitably be described as "catastrophic coverage only", I did what all economically challenged stoics do. I took some Ibuprofen, climbed into my bed, elevated my leg, wrapped my ankle in a nice Ace bandage, put ice on it and settled in to let it get better.

I didn't cancel my students for that evening because A) I don't need my ankle to teach harp B) the students for the day were all coming to my house rather than the University C)  I foolishly thought my ankle might be better by then and D) self employed people who don't work don't earn money.

I did call John and tell him what had happened and he, of course, dropped what he was doing and headed straight home so I knew I would be in much better shape once he got back.

With 4 - 5 hours to kill before John made it back to town and kids were home from school, I discovered the flaw in my "I'll be OK here by myself" plan. 

The dog needed to be let out to pee.

My ankle was so bad I could not put any weight on it at all so I tried hopping around on my good leg.

Which is when, on one particular hop, I felt a small twinge in my good ankle.

Great. All I needed was to screw up the other ankle.

So I resorted to crawling around my house on my hands and knees.

During one such excursion, I had to figure out a way to carry the phone around with me as I have several playing engagements coming up which now had to be farmed out to other harpists. Since my phone doesn't have one of those clip on things I had to resort to stashing it in my bra. (Note to my male readers - women are always doing stuff like this, they just don't tell you,)

Let me tell you, spending several hours crawling around your house gives you a whole new perspective. For one thing, you find out how truly filthy your floors are.

I spent all that day and the ensuing night wrestling with whether or not to go to the ER. With a deductible like ours ($7,000) you don't make such trips for things you can fix yourself. But my final student for the night pointed out that if there really was something seriously wrong and I didn't address it, I would probably limp for the rest of my life.

And I realized that I wasn't only being a stoic, I was being a stone cold idiot.

Bright and early Thursday morning John drove me to the ER.

The x-rays showed that I had not sprained my ankle. 

I had, in fact, broken my leg in two places. 

To be precise, I had broken my fibula. The big break is down by the ankle. The second break is a tiny one up by the knee.

I don't yet know the full prognosis. I meet with the orthopedic surgeon on Monday to find out if there is any way I get out of this without surgery to put a plate in my ankle.

The kicker is that I have one of my busiest playing seasons in years with a musical and two concertos on which I am the featured soloist playing the Handel Concerto and the Debussy Danses.

All of which are now on hold.

But thank goodness I got some sense and got treatment. As I go through this process, I will be blogging a lot because A) I'll have nothing better to do and B) the health care system in this country is so f****d up and I am tired of the American people being brainwashed into thinking healthcare reform is a bad thing.

Count on me to be on a soapbox in the coming weeks.

A couple of photos:

The offending gate

 
My thigh high splint and my new digs for the duration.

In an ironic twist of fate, this is today's Edison which is also Mike Peterson's Comic Strip of The Day. Please go read Mike's take on health care in America.

The Death Of The Christmas Newsletter?

 

I have an unhappy relationship with holiday greetings. I have not managed to send out a Christmas card - or holiday card of any kind, actually, since 2000.

That was the year I lost my address book.

My first reaction, upon learning I had lost all those addresses should have been one of despair, right?

It was unbridled relief.

Relief at the thought that I had a legitmate excuse for not sending out holiday cards that year.

Why? Why such distast for a time honored tradition loved by millions of people? I mean, who doesn't like to get Christmas cards? And, I must confess here that I eagerly await all the cards other people send me. (Which is, of course, completely unfair and hypocritical.)

I burned out on Chrstimas cards because of the new tradition - probably started in the 1990's - of the CHRISTMAS NEWSLETTER. 

Before the Christmas newsletter became such a staple of our lives, it was easy to divide my cards up into two piles.

1) Close friends and family who I see regularly - these are folks who completely don't mind if we just sign our name to the card and

2) People we almost never see (we may not have actually seen them in years) - these folks you have to write a little note to catching them up on your life and inquiring about theirs.

And that was the extent of it. 

Pile number one always went very quickly and pile number two went a little more slowly but it wasn't that bad because the note was a politeness. A mere 5 sentence summary of the state of our lives - maybe a little more, maybe a little less. The note was NOT a blow by blow description of every illness or every acheivement.

Now that they have been around a while, Chrismas letters have evolved somewhat in that there are a few people who do them very well. They strike just the right balance of chattiness and catching you up without beating you over the head with accomplishments that make you feel like chopped liver or depressing the daylights out of you with their litany of sorrows.

But is this all, now, a moot point? 

Because now we have Facebook. And Twitter. And Google+. And Blogs. 

We are awash in each other's news. 

I can now find out the almost day to day activities of anyone I've chosen to interact with via social networking and the internet. 

Does this mean the impending death of the Christmas newsletter?

Boy, I hope so! 

I have a new address book and my two piles of cards ready to go.

 

Dog Who Cried Wolf

We are the new, proud owners of an adorable sheltie puppy. He's fluffy and sweet and, of course, has already cemented his position as one of the family.

 
But he's a baby. And babies have all kinds of needs. And one of those needs is potty training. Especially since I don't plan to invest in doggie "diapers". ( I think that would be carrying the "baby" analogy just a little too far.)

 
Potty training children is tricky enough. (Which is probably why there are an amazing number of books and magazine articles out there dedicated to the simple art of not making a mess on the middle of the kitchen floor. Or in ones pants.)

When my children were small these were the top three potty training philosophies:

The Zen Approach - "You just have to relax and let nature take its course. He'll learn when the time is right".

The Dictatorial Approach - "We're not moving from this spot until you use the potty!"

And, my personal favorite, the Payola Approach - "Mommy will give you a treat if you put something in the potty...." (This approach works best when delivered in a high pitched, cajoling tone of voice, but don't make the mistake of showing the treat before you get the desired action.)

Once they grasp the purpose of the bathroom, children seem to learn quickly that the magic words to escape any unwanted activity, be it grocery shopping, a family gathering or church, are "I have to go potty".

My children were particularly talented at finding the most inopportune "we need to get to a bathroom right now" moment. In the checkout line, during "Happy Birthday", in the middle of the  sermon, you name it.

But at least the kid can say he/she needs to go potty. Even if they cannot crank out the whole sentence they can usually at least say potty.

Dogs can only whine. Or bark. Or jump on you. You get the idea.

And the big problem is that there is really no way to tell the " I have to piddle" whining from the whine that says "gimme some of your food!" or "I want to go outside and harass wildlife. Or simply " I want to go outside and lie down in the grass".

So, as with the child in the grocery store, you drop whatever you are doing and take the puppy out to do his business. 

And he stands there and looks at you. "Hey, it's really great to be outside and everything, but what are we doing here?" his expression seems to say.

So you say, "Go Potty!" and then, when that doesn't work, you say it again. Louder. (Because we all know that incomprehensible instructions get  clearer the more loudly we say them.)

And, if you're lucky, the dog figures out you want him to do SOMETHING and so he starts walking around and sniffing.

And you think to yourself "Ha! I knew saying it louder would work!"

And then he takes off after the cat. And runs under the car. And chases a squirrel. And eats grass. And sniffs some more. And then sits down and looks at you again.

At this point you might then try that "zen" thing and find something useful to do in the garden while you wait for the puppy to eventually simply need to go.

When that doesn't work, you can segue into bribery. (I recommend a pocket full of cheese pieces or bacon bits.)

Although more than half the time the result will simply be that the puppy will spend another 20 minutes or so faking you out with more sniffing.

So you give it up and take him back in the house.

Where he promptly pees on the floor.

And then wags his tail at you and expects a treat.

Which, being a soft hearted idiot, you wind up giving him.

Which begs the question who exactly is training who.

Don't answer that.

 

Idiocy At The Salon

 

I was running errands this morning. One of those errands involved stopping by the salon where my family gets their hair cut. Errand accomplished, I headed back out to my car. 

After clicking the remote unlock button on my key fob, I opened the door, got in, inserted the key in the ignition and attempted to start the car.

I say attempted because, as I went to put in the clutch and turn the key, my foot swooshed through thin air. I tried again.

Swoosh.

I looked down at the floor for the clutch thinking that maybe I just had my foot in the wrong position.

I couldn't even see the clutch.

Because there was no clutch.

At which point I took a good look around the car and noticed that there was a baby seat in the back.

Which ain't mine. My last baby just turned 12.

This is not my car!!!!

It was the same make, model and color as my car. It was even parked where I usually park.

Well, I jumped out of that car pretty darn quick, I can tell you!

Now what?

The car is unlocked. Did I somehow manage to unlock it with my remote? Did the owner leave the car unlocked?

I decided, for better or for worse, that the right thing to do would be to go into the salon, search for the rightful owner of said car, and humble myself in front of her. I just could not be sure, you see, that I hadn't left some evidence of my presence. Silly as it may sound, I just knew that that woman would get into her car - like the bears arriving after Goldilocks - and she would instinctively know that someone else had sat in her seat and put a strange key into the ignition.

I actually wound up having to ask  every woman in the place before I found her. She was very gracious - although she looked pretty confused by my explanation - and we all - meaning everyone at the salon - had a good laugh. 

So no harm done, I guess.

Except I don't think I'm going to schedule any appointments there on a Friday any time soon.

You know, just to be on the safe side......

2011 Resolutions Part One

Well, tis the season for resolutions and I'm making a few. Putting them down here just might keep me honest.

1) Make sure to get chores done every day before playing hooky doing art

2) Stop playing Solitaire on my ipad (goodness knows how much time I've wasted doing this since I got the thing) 

3) When I feel the urge to play Solitaire, to pick up something to read instead. I've really missed reading this year. I literally have over 100 NYer magazines to catch up on and several books.

4) Figure out how to be funny when I don't feel like it. This is a biggie but the last couple of days I've hit on some triggers that may help.

More as I think of them.....

Produce Drawer of Death or "I Need A New Fridge"!

Produce Drawer of Death or "I Need a New Fridge"

So it's the holiday season and that means guests. 

And that means cleaning. 

Not just cleaning. 

CLEANING. 

As in everything.

Everything as in all three bathrooms - including the medicine cabinets (you knowpeople open your medicine cabinets), all the mold and mildew in the shower (you know they look at that too - I don't know why, but they do), the toilets (including under the lid - a place the boys in my life should understand some people will see), behind the toilets and the pedestal sinks (ugh!.. my very least favorite - it's where all the dog hair not only gathers but somehow congeals), and the ritual placing of the fake towels (you know the ones - the ones no one in the family ever uses so they'll look nice for company - and the "company" thinks they are also too nice to use and so they sneakily wipe their hands on the shower curtain).

Everything as in moving all the furniture when you vacuum because someone might actually change the position of something and discover what's lurking under there much of the year.

Everything as in all the doors and door frames and light switches and kitchen cabinet knobs that apparently have not been cleaned since last Christmas. It's amazing how much grime builds up in these places without me noticing it. When I suddenly become aware of it about, oh.. Dec 6th, I am stunned at its obviousness and our slovenliness. For a brief moment, I worry that this grime will have been obvious to any and all other guests we may have had throughout the course of the year. Then, like the blissful forgetfulness that follows labor pains, I put it out of my mind until next December.

Everything as in the stovetop (never, I repeat never get a black enamel rangetop - shows every last water spot and grease speck) and the oven door and the dishwasher door (goddamned stainless steel). 

And, finally.... everything as in the inside of the fridge. Yes the inside of the fridge. Because not only is this the time of year for many guests, it's the time of year for many guests to help you. They will be in the kitchen helping get food on the table and fetching things in and out of the fridge for you and JUDGING YOU.

Which brings me to why I need a new fridge. Because not only is my fridge of an unknown age (it came with the house 12 years ago and it was probably at least 15 years old then), my fridge is frightening. Frightening because it makes a variety of unsettling noises  - hisses and pops and growls and grumblings - it's like something out of the Shining. When I open the door, I expect to hear "Redrum!" or else see those animal things from the fridge in Ghostbuters.

And frightening because of all the death it contains. Dead soup, dead bowls of spagetti, dead half eaten yogurts, dead jars of crystalized jam, dead chinese food, and dead produce. 

Now the produce is in a different category of death. Most of the dead items in my fridge consist of optimistically placed leftovers. (You'd think after 24 years John and I would know which types of leftovers will actually get eaten and which ones are doomed to become a ritualistic sacrifice to the refrigerator gods. Yet we continue to put all supper leftovers in there blithely assuming they'll turn into lunches.) These I at least have no problem eventually throwing away - they never taste as good as when they were new anyway and they grow fascinating varieties of mold.

But the produce represents a bigger failure. The produce represents a quest for healthy eating. Salads never made, vegetables never served for dinner, oranges that, while they looked juicy at the store, have turned out to be little rind covered balls of sawdust.

I try, I really do. Every trip to the grocery store I buy all these healthy fresh foods with every intention of consuming every bit of them. So where does it all break down? Why are these foods not getting eaten? It's not that we are junk food junkies - we love to cook and these  are foods we actually like to eat. 

No, the fault lies with my fridge and the produce drawer of death. My theory is that it is all the fault of the design of my "freezer on top - fridge on the bottom" refrigerator. First of all there are two produce drawers - one that says "moist cold" and one that says "vegetables and fruit" and the fact that I cannot for the life of me figure out what is supposed to go into the "moist cold" one if it isn't vegetables and fruit.

Second is the fact that the drawers are tinted like sunglasses and you cannot see what is in them without opening them. This, of course, means that, unless you open them constantly, stuff is pretty sure to be going bad in there. Thirdly, and here is where we get to the new fridge part, the produce drawers are all the way at the bottom of the fridge. I practically have to get down on my hands and knees to even get access to them. Talk about out of sight out of mind. So what I need is... drumroll please... one of those new refrigerators that has the freezer on the bottom and the fridge on the top with the lovely french doors and the produce drawers right smack dab at eye level. With clear plastic that I can see through to boot. 

I am absolutely, stupendously sure that this will solve all of my fridge death problems and we will eat healthy evermore. And, I won't have to clean the fridge this year for company :-)

Are you listening, John?

Epilogue:

A year has come and gone since I wrote that and I still have my cruddy old fridge and yes, I still plan to clean it before my big Christmas Party. I got started in a small way tonight. When I opened my produce drawers, this is what I found:

Tonight, funeral services were conducted for two heads of lettuce, some grapes, green onions and a desiccated lemon.

These grapes are both dried up and moldy - pick your poison...

I assure you, this lettuce smells every bit as delicious as it looks.....

This poor lettuce never even made it out of the plastic wrap....

John swears that, as I stroll through the produce aisle at the store, all the fruits and vegetables recoil in horror when they see me coming. Like that little fish killing girl in "Finding Nemo" 

Sigh.

New Years' Resolution number one: stopping killing lettuces.

Out Of The Frying Pan.......

The shower disaster of the weekend has been resolved.

Only to be replaced by a barfing teenager.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Trying to take care of him while praying I don't catch the bug until December 28.

Lysol, anyone?

My Crappy Morning

We interrupt the Christmas coverage to bring you my crappy morning. I'm tootling along, planning my day, prepping comics for coloring, getting kids off to school, to hear "Holy Crap!!" "Get me some towels!"

When you live in an 80 year old house, you never know what jolly surprises are right around the corner.

The towels and buckets. We moved as much out of the room as we could. I was able to get the harps out of the way but lord knows what I'm going to do with the piano. There was enough water that the already ugly avocado green finish is ruined in some places. And I thought this piano couldn't get any uglier!

The crack forming in the ceiling. I'm hoping the whole thing doesn't come down tonight. My parents lost an old plaster ceiling once. It wasn't pretty.

This is my grandmother's piano - the best I can do is hope that my waterproof, padded harp cover can protect it in some way.

 

So, the problem is not fully resolved, the plumber is out of town, and there's a snowstorm on the way. This will probably turn out to be an equally fun filled day. Details at 11:00.

Christmas - Ho!

Yes, only one Ho! as in "Westward, Ho!" as in "Onward to Christmas!!" 

I have mentioned before how I have a lot to do before Christmas and how I make gifts for family and friends. What I didn't mention is how many gifts.

This year's count is approximately 59.

Yep, you read that right - 59.

Why so many?

Well, I've been keeping a little secret about Christmas around my house. We throw a party every year the week before Christmas and invite a houseful of people to whom we give away art and food.

I need to backtrack a little. My stepfather in law is a woodworker/woodturner. He makes fabulous stuff. (Click here for some examples) And every year since 1986 he has given much of what he makes away at a big party he throws on Christmas Eve.

But there's a catch. To get one of these fine pieces of art, you have to play his game. I'm sure many of you are familiar with gift swapping games like the white elephant game. In Bob's version, each person may open a new "gift" or else steal someone else's.

Because everything in the game is flat out fantastic, Bob has had to set some rules about the total number of  times a piece may be "stolen". Which, as you can imagine, leads to a lot of strategizing throughout the night. The party is only for family and close friends, which keeps hurt feelings to a minimum, (somewhat) and you have to have thick skin. The piece you feel you just can't live without may very well leave in the hands of someone else. 

The only truly tricky bit is that he lets the children play as well, once they reach the age of five. This means that, those who are childless spend the evening in pursuit of the piece they most want. Those with children spend the evening trying to get back whatever it is that their kid can't live without. End of the night, back alley dealing to reclaim a piece for ones crying child is not unheard of.

Anyway, my husband and I enjoyed this party so much that, in 1993, we started having one of our own. At that point it wasn't too hard because we only invited about 6 families and the number of children was few.

Since that time, it has ballooned to over 16 families and 55 people. (The other four in my present head count are family members who live out of town.)

I don't talk publicly much about this party because, along with all the folks we invite, are a ton of folks we'd love to invite but can't. For one thing, our house is not big enough. For another, I never ever uninvite a family. Which means that, over the years, as our friends families have expanded, the number of new families I could add is capped by how many people will fit in the house and also how many gifts we can get done.

Another reason I am very careful about expanding the guest list is that not everyone likes to play games where they get their present taken away.

Which brings me to one of the differences between our party and Bob's. I don't let the kids play until they are in high school. I make very nice favor bags for all the kids under 14, but I just don't think that they have the emotional chops to handle all the stealing that goes on until they are young adults. And I want the adults to be able to enjoy themselves as well and really go after the present they want rather than trying to get back a gift for their kid.

Why do I bring this up now? Why go public?

Because - while I often complain on the blog that I am behind - when it comes to this year's gifts I am BEHIND. We're talking major.

So a lot of my posts in the next three weeks are going to be mostly short funny musings or those dealing with the progress I'm making on the party.

Next post: things we've given away in the past, complete with some pics.

 

A Word About Typepad

I chose Typepad for this blog for two reasons. First, after working in blogger for 3 years, there were a lot of things about layout that I wanted to do that were easier with typepad. But secondly, and most importantly, I wanted tech support.

I am a computer idiot. 

I mean, a genuine, certified, computer idiot.

And my friend Sandra swore by the folks at Typepad tech support.

And she was right. They are great and really responsive.

Which is why you will now notice that each of my posts has, not 1 but 3, sharing buttons.

Because for the past 2 days I have desperately been trying to figure out how to put sharing buttons on my posts with no success. I tried everything, only to have them keep showing up in the sidebar instead.

So I emailed Typepad about it. And we had a couple back and forths where they tried to talk me through it. 

And, nice as they were, and try as they might to explain the proper procedure to idiot me, nothing was working.

So, apparently - if you truly are an utter and complete idiot and cannot make your blog work right - Typepad will (and I'm imagining it went something like this  Employee A: "Can you believe this woman? She still can't get the thing right!" Employee B: "Just go ahead and do the (*&&R&^ing thing for her. Hell, give two extra ones, just in case!") step up and do it for you. Well, alright - maybe not the swearing part.

At any rate, I am eternally grateful to them for at least getting the dang things on my post for me. And 3 buttons just means you have to share the blog with 3 times as many people!