tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73782408445087640902024-03-08T14:20:38.659-05:00Janie Jabbers...AgainBaby boomer fends off old fogienessJane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-20387988889443118222011-01-02T20:26:00.003-05:002011-01-02T20:31:09.221-05:002010 Christmas Letter - Better Late than NeverJanuary 2, 2011<br /><br /><br />Dear Family and Friends,<br /><br />I’m sorry this here letter is so late. Things have been a little tight and I thought I’d wait till stamps went on sale the day after Christmas just like those boxes of cards I used to send, but that didn’t work out so good. Our government might be in the business of handing out money to every foreign country begging for a billion or so, but when it comes to helping one of our own to keep in contact with loved ones, like Marvin, Sr. said, <em>Uncle Same don’t give a damn</em>. <br /><br />Truth be told, I couldn’t have gotten the cards out before Christmas. The doc changed my medication to one of those generic ones and I got such a case of dry mouth that I couldn’t have licked all those envelopes anyway. I did manage to smooth out the plaster in the bathroom that’d been driving me crazy. But that’s enough for now about me and my problems. <br /><br />Our little grandson Everett had a 2010 to remember. He’s made a name for himself at Mutton Grove Elementary. Everett’s moved up to one of those classes for kids with special abilities. It wasn’t but two weeks after school started that his teacher suggested it. Seems that little Everett knows a little about what the firemen called subtaneous combustion. And that kid’s only in the second grade. Marvin, Sr. and I are thinking he’s got a bright future ahead of him. Just maybe he’ll be the one to come up with something to make life better. Marvin, Sr. is hoping it’s a shot to prevent foot fungus. We’ll just have to wait and see. <br /><br />I’m sorry to say this year hasn’t been as kind to his sister Mary Lula. All those state budget cuts have put an end to her college days. And after she’d worked her way up to head fryer, too. Anyone who’s met our Mary Lula knows that girl’s always been a giver. Always thinking about the other guy. So it won’t come as any surprise that our granddaughter is going into the medical field. Mary Lula is training to be a massage therapist at the Feel-Good Parlor downtown. Lots of hands on experience she says. She’s working to build up her own customer list. Some of them must be in pretty bad shape and get sick real easy. Lucky for her, she’s got a great boss who pays for the medications she needs to fight off any germs those poor souls she tends to might spread. <br /><br />For those of you who might have heard that nasty rumor going around after Marvin, Jr.’s picture was in the paper in that Don’t Ask Don’t Tell protest this fall, I want to say it was all a BIG misunderstanding. We didn’t get cards from a number of you and I think this is probably the reason.<br /><br />Let me start of by saying, Marvin, Jr. has been home for a year now and he’s getting used to civilian life again. It hasn’t been easy, but with the Lord’s help, lots of love, and a good parole officer anything is possible. <br /><br />If you heard that Marvin, Jr. disappeared the night before the protest, that would be factual. We couldn’t find him anywhere. Our first thought was aliens got him, but then Jerry Springer did that show about crazy things people do when they have post automatic stress syndrome and we were nearly out of our minds with worry. Then we saw him on the 6 o’clock news. We were relieved for a minute, but when we saw those perverts he was with, I’ll have you know I was sick to my stomach and my heart nearly broke in two. Marvin was furious and wrote Jr. right out of the will.<br /><br />But what you may not have heard was that Marvin, Jr. was a victim of the media. Like so many other upstanding citizens. Marvin, Sr. says, that damned first amendment should have some limits set. Anyway, seems there was a convenience store hold up and just because Marvin, Jr. had that one little incident before, and a gun was involved, they took him in. A case of profiling if ever there was one. The storeowner didn’t pick Marvin, Jr. out of the lineup, so they let him go. Eventually. But first they asked him a slew of questions about his past. Kept him there all night. On his way home, Marvin saw those Don’t Ask Don’t Tell buttons. With all he’d been through, he thought it was a good idea and joined in. That should have been the end of the story, but did the media report that Marvin, Jr. was suckered in? No, they did not. We asked them to come interview Marvin, Jr. and let him tell his side of the story. He is a convicted felon not a homosexual. No word from them thus far. We’ve forced to spread the word ourselves. <br /><br />Also, any reports that we’re moving are false too. There’s no way we’d leave our double wide with only ten more years to go until it’s all ours.<br /><br />On to some good news. Albert’s made us grandparents again. Twins! A boy and a girl. I’ll send pictures when the impetigo clears up. There were some tense moments though. Albert’s girlfriend Joleen, was also dating a football player and a bartender. Marvin, Sr. told Albert to demand a paternity test. Our Albert is a stubborn one. He saw what a nervous wreck his brother was last year going through the same thing. So Albert told Joleen to get herself a maternity test. We didn’t want to get too cozy with the babies until we got the results. And guess what? They’re both hers! Christmas is going to so much fun those two little ones crawling around. The boy has a hankering for tinsel. Changing his diaper is a Christmas delight. Marvin, Sr. snapped a photo or two of the output. I’ll send that along too.<br /><br />Karen Sue and her new husband Irving are getting along just fine. Karen Sue is working at K-Mart and loves making the blue light sales announcements. I’ll tell you, the girl’s found her calling. Can that girl sell! One day I came home with a dozen tubes of denture cream and my teeth are real. Irving is working at their Church. He met Pastor Hobart at one of those 12-step programs and those two hit it off right away. Karen Sue told us there’s no truth to the story making the rounds that money’s missing from the collection plate. Those new leather boots of Irving’s were a gift from a member of the congregation. <br /><br />Marvin is worried about processed foods. Big company food companies raise so many of the chickens and cows in horrible conditions. They give them drugs and antibiotics too. Marvin said his granddaddy took lots of penicillin when he got back from the war and that man was the closest thing to crazy he ever knew. Marvin, Sr. is pretty sure we’re going to have ourselves a big food shortage once folks realize all this, so he’s building a squirrel preserve on our back two acres. I think preserve is a strange name given he plans to eat the critters. But Marvin says I make strawberry preserves and we eat those, so I guess he’s got a point. Bet you all can’t wait to see what we bring to the next covered dish.<br /><br />An update on my mother. She did not have a stroke as we feared. She was at Senior Citizens playing Bingo and her speech got all slurry, her eyes crossed, she said she thought she was in Never Never Land. They rushed her to the hospital and we met the ambulance there. Who would have thought that nice old gentleman playing the four cards next to her would slip her a date rape drug?<br /><br />That’s all the news from the Marvin Slangby family. <br /><br />Happy New Year!<br />Elvira Slangby<br /><br />P.S. We missed you all at the New Year’s Day reunion. We drove all the way to Earl Bob’s place, but I guess we had the wrong time, being that everyone was gone when we got there. I’m making up the 2011 calendar, so far I’ve got all of Marvin’s proctologist appointments penciled in. Let me know as soon as the next date is set. I’ll mark the date with a big X.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-47616854540933156922010-03-29T12:13:00.002-04:002010-03-29T12:24:43.148-04:00A Pound (or so) of FleshI have gained some weight over the past few years.<br /><br />“Menopause does that,” my family doctor states as a fact. My gynecologist agrees. As do my jeans.<br /><br />I find the link between menopause and weight gain hard to believe. Given the hot flashes I experienced, how a fat cell could survive such heat is beyond me. As proof, just put a half-pound of bacon in a skillet, set the burner on high, and forget about it for say thirty-five minutes or so as you munch on a Hershey bar and read the paper. I guarantee you there won’t be a bit of fat left in that pan. The assistant fire chief will back me up on this one. <br /><br />Members of my team of physicians both insist that my reasoning is flawed. While I disagree with them, I can’t deny that something has indeed gone awry. While the weight listed on my driver’s license and the number the digital scale flashes have never been exactly the same, the gap is expanding, and I need to reverse the trend. My health care providers say that exercise is the way to go. <br /><br />I’m weighing (pun intended) my options. I could exercise at home. We have a stationary bike and treadmill in the basement. Surely dusting them off would burn up a calorie or two. I’ve never been a fan of either device. I have a rather short attention span and find them both boring. No matter how fast I pedal or how fast I walk, I’m always in the same place, doing the same thing. It reminds me a lot of my stay-at-home mom days with three kids under the age of four. <br /><br />I could join a fitness club. But the very name suggests one is fit, and I don’t think at this point I qualify. Nor do I want to work out with a bunch of skinny people smugly lifting weights and running miles and miles on treadmills. I'm sure they do this without breaking a sweat, while I have recently switched to a clinical strength antiperspirant to keep me dry on trips up and down our stairs at home. If I can find an unfitness club, I might consider it. But as far as I can tell, no such establishment exists.<br /><br />I considered those combination dance-exercise sessions like Cheryl Burke of Dancing With The Stars advertises. Those women wear tiny leotards and have so much fun, all the while smiling to beat the band. One two cha-cha-cha! But again, those gals are thin as string beans and have feet that naturally move in patterns consistent with dance steps. I, on the other hand, have left my string bean days behind and am headed into the era of the squash. My feet tread as gracefully as Gerald Ford’s once did. In addition, I’m not sure what effect the new health care reform bill has on my current accidental death or dismemberment supplemental insurance policy. Until I read the 2000+ pages, I’m not taking any chances. <br /><br />My third option, and one I am considering, is joining the Y. A friend of mine exercises there and loves it. She and a group of women exercise in the pool. Water Wake Up at 8:00 a.m. Cardio Splash starts at 9:45. Power-Up class meets at 11:00. At noon they head out for lunch. <br /><br />It sounds great. Almost too good to be true. The Y is just minutes away from my home. The women tend to be on the mature side of forty, or fifty. And if I exercise in the water, my sweat glands won’t cause me embarrassment.<br /><br />I had filled out my application and was reaching for my credit card when it hit me. Water equals bathing suit. A bathing suit! I’ll have to put on a bathing suit!<br /><br />This is a problem. A serious problem. There is no way I can join an exercise group to shape up and lose weight until I am a little firmer and about twenty pounds lighter. How in the world am I going to do that without exposing myself to the scrutiny of those who have already walked the walk whether on treadmill or pavement?<br /><br />I’m determined to find something I can do in the privacy of my own home. Behind closed doors. And behind closed shades.<br /><br />This is why I’m taking the plunge into technological exercise. What choice do I have?<br /><br />I’m going to get a Wii. And just as soon as I can lay my hands on one, I’ll let you know how it goes.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-6676135757172554832010-03-09T11:42:00.005-05:002010-03-09T11:52:15.711-05:00Airport Health CareIn a few short months, CVG, our local airport will be performing full-body scans. Some decry this invasion of privates or privacy, however you choose to view it. They claim TSA personnel will use the equipment to check passengers for more than contraband, in which case, the stimulus money used to purchase the scanning machine will stimulate things other than the economy. All of this may be true up to a point, but in these hard economic times, we have to look and think outside of the box. Tightened security is inevitable, but we may as well make the best of it. This may be a blessing disguised as voyeurism. <br /><br />Think about it. The cost of health care is skyrocketing. Everyone is delegating, but no one is accepting the blame. Our representatives in D.C. cannot agree on government’s role to keep us hale and hardy while making physician’s waiting rooms with copies of 1997 National Geographic accessible and affordable for all Americans. <br /> <br />Keep in mind that CT scans on average cost $1,397.00. An MRI of the brain runs $3,227.00. I found this information online, so it must be true.<br /><br />Now consider this. A person can jet to Las Vegas, spend a couple of days in a nice hotel, gamble or sightsee to her heart’s content for $351.20. A mere fraction of the cost of either test. <br /><br />Given this data, I think I’ve hit on a way to cut soaring health care costs. <br /><br />Let’s send sick people to Vegas. <br /><br />For argument’s sake, suppose the government were to blend the issues of airport security and health care. What if airport personnel could accept a physician’s order with our boarding pass? For example, a person with a backache would get a note from the doctor instructing the TSA to focus on the lower lumbar area. Or in the case of migraines, zoom in on those clogged sinuses. For smaller body parts, such as arms and fingers, the patient/passenger would hop on the conveyor belt and ride along with their carryon items. The report goes to the doctor; the patient goes to Las Vegas; the cost of health care goes down. A win, win, win outcome.<br /><br />As the threat level increases to yellow-orange or orange-yellow, and body searches become more invasive, they could include prostate screening for the gentlemen and pap smears for the ladies. Yet more savings!<br /><br />In order to make some money, the struggling airlines could offer some optional testing as well. Passengers aren’t allowed to carry liquids aboard planes, so why not extend that to internal liquids as well. Passengers could relieve those bladders into plastic cups before boarding the plane and purchase one of those color-changing test strips like they do potato chips and cookies. The plane would be lighter and therefore more fuel-efficient and the traveler at ease, knowing she won’t be bothered with a painful UTI while out of town. In time, pregnancy tests could be added. <br /><br />It’s a golden opportunity to allow our government to dabble in health care without overhauling the system until we’re sure they can handle the job. If the TSA proves itself, other government agencies can follow suit. Next up? The IRS. They’ve become so adept at taking a pound of flesh, taking our blood should be a piece of cake.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-22278752622276260692010-02-23T13:18:00.003-05:002010-02-23T13:27:42.110-05:00Living the Winter OlympicsI’m generally a big fan of the Olympics, but this year I just can’t get into it.<br /><br />I could blame it on the way the athletes dress. One look at those overgrown snow suits and I have flashbacks of the days of getting three little ones bundled up to play in the snow. Forty-five minutes of searching for boots, wrapping scarves, guiding fingers into gloves and not forty-five seconds out the door, one of them had to pee. <br /><br />More than likely, it’s the weather. The weather here in Ohio—not in Vancouver. We’d kill for sunshine and temps in the 40’s. After ten days of snowfall totaling more than we normally get in a year, our yard looks like an organ donor center for snowmen. It’s not easy to get excited about games played in the snow. On purpose, no less. <br /><br />We have a steep driveway. A very steep driveway. That said, it’s difficult to view bobsledding as a sport when we’re forced to do it each day. And here in the Midwest, we’re neither trained nor equipped for such events. The first time my husband made it into the garage after only three attempts, I waved the flag and hummed the <em>Star Spangled Banner</em>. He’ll deny it, of course, but I swear his lip quivered as he brushed away the hint of a tear. <br /><br />In years past, when our average February temperatures were 10+ degrees above freezing, I loved to watch the figure skating. But this year, when we’re lucky to see the thermometer rise above single digits, ice in any form is not the least bit entertaining. It reminds me too much of my trip out for milk and bread before the last storm. I must say though, I am rather proud of the triple axel I nailed in the grocery parking lot. <br /><br />I’d heard a lot about curling. I considered giving it a try, but curling sounds so much like hurling and we’ve had enough of that with that nasty virus our grandkids passed on. Anyway, from what I’ve heard about the sport, I imagine one of the highlights would be the face of a mother holding her temper as she watches her son using a broom—something he’d never touch while living under her roof. <br /><br />Now the snow is finally beginning to melt. We’re seeing patches of grass and dirt, making it look a bit more like Vancouver here in Ohio. I may give the games another shot. I swear though, if another storm heads our way, I’ll put my Olympic viewing on hold until the summer games when those young guys in Speedos make the scene.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-74356142400005943362010-02-10T12:59:00.001-05:002010-02-10T13:01:24.519-05:00Snow News is NOT Good NewsIt’s been snowing forever. Well, maybe not forever, but for a long, long, long, long time. Long enough for me to imagine how Noah felt as he listened to the forecast a week or so into his ark voyage. Just how many cubits long would a toboggan have to be to get my family, friends, and me to the Caribbean? <br /><br />I’ve tried my best to keep a positive attitude. Really I have. The first day, as the flakes tumbled from the sky, I forced myself to drink hot chocolate and smile as I acknowledged them as unique and heavenly creations. I got so into it I had to suppress the urge to name them. <br /><br />The second day, I raised my mug and toasted the white blanket covering the lawn, the drive, and the street, giving thanks for the earth’s thermal insulator. Irish hot chocolate’s really not bad, but the marshmallows don’t hold up very well. <br /><br />By the third day, I had an attitude, but it was far from positive. Unable to find his email address and too cheap to send a telegram, I wrote a letter to Punxsutawney Phil expressing, in no uncertain terms, my displeasure with his announcement of six more weeks of winter. I might have been a bit harsh with the furry fellow, but given the fact that Phil is a rodent who lives in a hole, telling him to stick his prediction where the sun doesn’t shine can be interpreted any number of ways. <br /><br />As time passed I tried my best to cope. I decided to ignore the stuff and hope it went away. Sort of like the Congress and the Social Security shortfall. To that end, after finding the newspaper, which involved hours of digging, I clipped any references to snow, ice, and cold from its pages. By the time I was finished, it would fit in the palm, or on the palm of Sarah Palin’s hand.<br /><br />One day I was so depressed by the local forecast that I read the one for Key West instead. 75 degrees and sunny! Ah, that was more like it. I turned up the heat, pulled out my flipflops, sprinkled kitty litter on the treadmill, hung a lightbulb from the celing, and walked my own private beach. I turned on some Jimmy Buffet music and was feeling much better until I heard a strange buzzing sound. I attributed it to the margeritas until I spotted the electric meter spinning out of control. My cheeseburger in paradise was fried. <br /><br />I’m not normally a violent person, but yesterday I’d had it. I strapped tennis rackets to my feet in order to maneuver through the piles of snow. Armed with my hairdryer, I sauntered into the front yard and took aim at those freaking white flakes dive-bombing our once peaceful community. Our mail person gave me a thumbs up as I screamed Go ahead. Make my day! I didn’t get them all, but I took out quite a few. And it felt so good. <br /><br />Today I’m removing every sign of winter from our home hoping Father Nature will take the hint. So far I’ve hurled a snow globe in the path of a plow. I’ve torched the first hundred pages of Dr. Zhivago. I’ve devoured four of the six boxes of Sno-Caps I’d hidden in the guest closet. Yet the meteorologist has the nerve to say more snow is headed our way. Eskimos have a zillion or so names for snow. Now I know why. Until it stops, I’ll be adding a few of my own.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-62581858474632329942010-01-28T14:58:00.002-05:002010-01-28T15:02:20.141-05:00The Ugly Truth About OrganizationThere are so many things to dislike about January. The wind chill factor that rears its ugly head this time of year. The nagging feeling that my credit card company has taken note of my Christmas expenditures and taken out a life insurance policy on me. The metamorphosis my jeans undergo during the holidays causing them to be a full size smaller than they were in mid November.<br /> <br /> As bad as those things are, even worse is the organizational frenzy the first month of the year brings with it. I stopped at Target the other day and had no more stepped inside the door when I came face to face with a mountain of plastic storage bins. There they stood in every size, color, and shape imaginable and in quantities large enough to hold each version of the health care reform bill as well as every attachment and revision. <br /><br /> Perhaps I take the not so subliminal message of these bins too seriously, but when I see heaps of them I hear them taunting me, calling me a slob, and ordering me to get my, for lack of a less offensive word, stuff together. Not only do they want me to get it together, but also package it, label it, and stack it appropriately. How many more plastic trees and bushes must die before we put this neat freak syndrome to rest? <br /><br /> January magazines are no better. A number of years ago, I spent hours in the kitchen alphabetizing my spices and arranging them on a plastic tiered doodad that looked like a staircase for Barbie. By the time I checked the expiration dates and tossed the little no-longer-good tins into the trash, the only things left on my shelf were packets of airline salt and pepper. Replacing those seasonings would cost a fortune, so I gave the staircase to my granddaughter and rely solely on paprika these days. By the way, is there a special bay leaf expert who predicts its life expectancy? <br /><br /> It’s not that I don’t recognize the value of being organized, but I don’t buy into the bin-it theory. If for instance, the IRS calls, I understand the importance of retrieving those old tax forms while garnishment of wages is still a mere threat. I suggest that is precisely why shoeboxes are made in dimensions such as to slide under beds. <br /><br /> While professional organizers insist we store anything with our social security number, mother’s maiden name, or hundreds of pin numbers in a safe deposit box or other secured container to fend off identity theft, I have a much simpler and cost-effective solution. The week before I renew my driver’s license, I refrain from washing my hair. The day of the photo shoot, I skip makeup. Just before the DMV clerk says SMILE I sniff an onion and suck a lemon. Believe me, one look at this picture and no one would want to be me. <br /><br /> There are those who would have you believe that a person can’t function unless every hanger in the closet points in the same direction. They’ll tell you that true peace of mind can’t be attained if all shoes are not in close proximity to their mates. In my opinion, they are misinformed. <br /><br /> In reality, being too neat can be hazardous to your health. I get more aerobic exercise each day running from floor to floor searching for things I’ve misplaced than I would in a week at the gym. I bend and stretch as I peer under tables, search under the couch and check the refrigerator top for a stray glove (which I dare say I would not need if it weren’t January). And this workout comes without a monthly membership fee. Years from now, I predict the obesity epidemic in our country will be blamed in part to the overuse of storage bins. <br /><br /> I’ve also found that too much organization stifles creativity. If my possessions were in perfect order, I’d miss countless opportunities to use my imagination. Just last week, I imagined being a skillet and created a scenario to determine where an object like that might hide. Be warned. Exposing young children to large doses of orderliness can lead to a dependency on video games and a tendency to be couch potatoes. To further complicate matters, overzealous organizers have been know to purchase storage bins designed to contain these games for their children making their offspring more susceptible to the compulsion. <br /><br /> This obsession with orderliness affects our GNP. (My accounting background surfaces yet again.) Other than the storage bin producers, the economy suffers when we organize our stuff. I have no charts to explain the economic impact. Besides, I find those pie ones are a distraction and serve only to make me hungry, so I’ll do my best with a simple example.<br /><br /> Suppose you loose your scissors. If they’re packed away in a plastic bin and noted on your organizational spreadsheet, you retrieve and use the pair you have. The end. If, on the other hand, you have no idea where they might be and you really want to cut the size label from the new jacket you’re wearing to a luncheon where you might get warm and feel the need to remove said jacket and hang it on your chair where everyone might notice the tag, you stop at the drugstore on the way to the luncheon to buy a new pair. While you’re there, you realize you need bathroom tissue. The bathroom tissue reminds you that you’re out of bowl cleaner. The bowl cleaner brings to mind the taco salad you ate the night before. Memories of the taco salad prompt you to buy an antacid. At the register you decide you can’t wait to find out whether Brad and Angelina are going to adopt a baby from Mars, so you add that tabloid to your cart. I could go on and on, but I’m sure you get the point.<br /><br /> Like so many things in our society, organization is not harmful when used in moderation and with adult supervision. In large quantities, however, it can be hazardous to your health, impair ingenuity, and contribute significantly to the economic woes of our great nation.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-4751895418500581652010-01-05T19:39:00.003-05:002010-01-05T19:47:01.680-05:00Solving the Resolving IssueHere is it January 5th and as of yet I haven’t made a single New Year’s resolution. I suppose I can cross that procrastination one from my list. Maybe next year.<br /><br />In 2009 I resolved not to resolve anything. Not only did I resolve not to resolve, I resolved not to feel guilty about not resolving. A couple of days into the year, it dawned on me that by resolving not to resolve, I had actually resolved. That realization made me feel twice as guilty.<br /><br />This year I’ve rethought my resolution quandary. I considered the tried and true resolutions—eat less, exercise more, and follow the every move of Kate and Jon and however many kids they have. After careful consideration, I’ve decided against any of these. The first two require lots of self-control, which I’ve resolved to find numerous times but manages to elude me. The Jon/Kate option is just way too complicated. If I were so inclined to involve myself, my resolution would be to determine why these people are newsworthy and just why I should care. <br /><br />It’s not that I don’t have any bad habits or that I’m unaware of the ones that I do have. But I’ve had little success and much frustration attempting to overcome them, so I’m now looking at them in a new light. My hope is that in the not-too-near future, they become not bad habits, but eccentricities. Years from now, my grandchildren will tell their children fond stories about their grandmother who sometimes sprinkled M&M’s atop her breakfast cereal and until they were able to read, convinced them they were berries. They’ll recount the many adventures they had with Grandma as she drove them to preschool and story time before she got a GPS. They’ll chuckle at how each time she buckled them in, they asked, Grandma, are we going to get lost again today? They’ll reminisce about the things they learned with Grandma; such as, never promise macaroni and cheese to a child before checking the pantry. Cheez Whiz over rice just doesn’t cut it.<br /><br />Now that I’ve taken this time to think about this in depth, I’ve made a decision. My resolution this year is simply to not add any more bad habits—or perhaps quirks is a kinder word choice given I’m still among the living—to my repertoire. Prevention is key and procrastination can wait.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-67882825273062876792009-12-20T08:15:00.004-05:002009-12-20T09:43:51.028-05:00Merry Christmas from the Slangby FamilyChristmas 2009<br /><br />Dear Family and Friends,<br /><br />Well, it’s that time of year again and I know you all look forward to my yearly Christmas letter. And it is a Christmas letter. Hear that? Christmas! That holiday this and that crap is going a little too far to suit me.<br /><br />Like always, I’ll start with the good news.<br /><br />Now I don’t mean to brag, but our little grandson Everett is doing great in school this year. Even the teacher’s amazed at his work. These are her exact words. “Looks like Ev will be out of junior high before he’s driving.” We couldn’t be prouder.<br /><br />His older sister Mary Lula is going great guns too. She started at the local college this past fall. I can hardly believe she’s almost grown up. Mary Lula’s right at home in the cafeteria, and her boss is impressed how she’s taken to working that deep fryer. He drove her home the other night and asked how much she’d like to be head cashier. Our Mary Lula has a bright future ahead of her.<br /><br />The best news of all is that Marvin, Jr. is coming home. Lord, it’s been so hard this past year. Marvin, Sr. and I worried ourselves sick over that boy. Not a day went by when I didn’t wake up wondering if he was okay. That’s if I slept at all. I lost many a night’s sleep fretting over him. That state budget shortage was a lifesaver. The prison’s budget got cut and they issued some early paroles. Marvin, Jr. was one of the lucky ones. Plus, he had no prior convictions before that convenient store misunderstanding. I know all you Slangby family members will be happy to see him at the reunion on New Year’s Day.<br /><br />And that’s not all! Albert will be there too. Can you believe it? Both my boys at the reunion! I am a blessed woman. On the 30th that ankle bracelet comes off, so he can cross the state line to Ethel’s place this year. Albert’s real sensitive about his leg. I told him the hair will grow back. But please don’t mention it to him. His medication seems to be working, but I’d rather not push our luck.<br /><br />Marvin and I are getting a new son-in-law. We’re happy to report our Karen Sue has herself a new beau. She met this really nice guy doing community service. It was love at first sight. They’re getting married in the park where they met. Karen Sue and Johnny Ray are asking that the guests don’t wear stripes. The invitation will remind you all. I don’t think they’ll serve any alcohol, but I’m sure they’ll mention that too.<br /><br />Marvin, Sr. and I had our own little miracle. Now, don’t you go thinking we’re having a baby! We’re too old for that. No, Marvin and I called in sick last Monday. We needed a mental health day, like they say. Marvin and I took off for the boats and hit it big. How big? Well, I’ll be wearing my new genuine imitation mink to the party and Marvin will be getting that much needed hemorrhoid surgery now that he’s got the co-pay.<br /><br />Remember how bad Marvin, Sr. felt about not knowing where his hunting buddy Hubert had taken off to? Marvin didn’t know whether Hubert was dead or alive. They’d lost contact years and years ago. Like Hubert walked into the forest and never came out. We were watching that show <em>American’s Most Wanted </em>and there Hubert was, the top story. Marvin, Sr. is so relieved to know he’s alive and kicking. Looked like he’d put on a little weight. <br /><br />Not everything has been roses and lollipops though. Like every family, we’ve had our down times. That reminds me; don’t you go buying anything for Marvin III. That paternity test didn’t turn out so good.<br /><br />The police around here are cracking down on adult entertainment, so Sissy’s out of work this Christmas. It’ll be rough on those five youngins of hers. They’re growing like weeds and no two have the same body build so it makes handing down clothes real hard. If you know anyone needing some holiday entertainment, give our Sissy a call. <br /><br />Thank you all for asking about my mother. With helping Sissy and her kids out, we don’t have enough money left to pay for Grandma’s elder care every day. We had to come up with something to do with her while we work. The airport’s real busy on Mondays and Fridays, so we drop her off at airport security in the morning and most times she’s still in line when we get back. We feel good knowing she’s in a safe place.<br /><br />That’s all the news from the Marvin Slangby family. We’ll see you all at the reunion.<br /><br />Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!<br />Elvira SlangbyJane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-36930838688329329352009-12-10T09:04:00.003-05:002009-12-10T09:52:42.369-05:00Christmas QuestionsI’ve read the story of the first Christmas at least a zillion times. I know it’s not proper to critique the writing style of the apostles, but I dare say in this instance it’s sketchy at best. <br /><br />It’s probably a guy thing. Women are by nature more interested in birthing tales, while men are more likely to be intrigued by how many miles to the bale of hay Joseph’s donkey got. Or what was going on at the Coliseum. <br /><br />Had a woman written the account, we’d know more of the inside story. To make my point about men and their lack of attention to detail, I submit the following questions that given the opportunity any woman would have answered. <br /><br /><br /><em>Was Mary’s mother upset she didn’t marry a guy with roots in Galilee? And when Caesar Augustus ordered the census, did she say I told you so?<br /><br />Just curious. What’s it like riding a donkey when you’re nine months pregnant? <br /><br />Just how many potholes were there on that road from Nazareth to Bethlehem? <br /><br />How many rest stops did they make? Were the facilities clean? Was there paper in the Ladies' Room? How often did Joseph ask if Mary could hold it for just another mile or so?<br /><br />When Joseph told her there were no rooms in Bethlehem, did it ever cross Mary’s mind he might just be trying to save a few bucks?<br /><br />How much did Jesus weigh and how large was his head? And, Ouch! Did he come with the halo?<br /><br />Did those angels and their trumpets keep baby Jesus awake all night? Was Mary ticked those shepherds dropped by unannounced? <br /><br />Did the Wise Men hang around until Mary fed them?<br /><br />I understand the gold, but whatever did Mary do with that frankincense and myrrh? <br /><br />Did Mary and Joseph have Christmas every year? Or did Joseph’s family take a turn? </em>Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-29855945368127758692009-12-02T08:37:00.004-05:002009-12-02T08:44:27.305-05:00Tis the seasonBlack Friday has come and gone.<br />As has Cyber Monday.<br />I have shopped. <br />Until I've dropped <br />A bundle and a half.<br />Now I’m singing <br /><br /><em>The IOU Christmas Blues</em><br /><br />Dashing through WalMart<br />With a three-wheeled shopping cart<br />Midst the checkout throngs<br />I charge with all my heart.<br />Bells on registers ring<br />Making shoppers crass<br />Oh what fun it is to be<br />In debt up to my…credit limit.<br /><br />Master Card! Visa, too!<br />Discover’s the way to buy.<br />Oh, what fun it is to pay<br />For Christmas in July.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-25404492266292537412009-11-23T19:49:00.002-05:002009-11-23T19:54:34.714-05:00Thanksgiving - The Real DealThanksgiving is coming and I’m concerned that my grandchildren are not aware of the true meaning of holiday. When I picked them up from school, I was greatly relieved when they bounced into my car wearing Pilgrim hats. They even had made turkeys in the shape of their own precious hands that I could display on my refrigerator. <br />On our drive home, they talked about the books their teachers read to them about the first Thanksgiving. Having had some time for the stories to perk in their little kindergarten and first grade heads, they had a Mayflower load of questions. I answered them as best I could.<br /><br />No, I was not at the first Thanksgiving even though it took place a long, long time ago. <br /><br />No, my feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t born yet. <br /><br />No, Grandpa wasn’t there either. <br /><br />Yes, he is older than me. But not that much.<br /><br />No, he wasn’t born yet either. <br /><br />I’m really not sure where we were. <br /><br />No, I do not forget everything like your Daddy says. I suppose we were in heaven waiting to be born.<br /><br />No, Sponge Bob wasn’t invited either.<br /><br />He was in cartoon heaven waiting to be drawn.<br /><br />No, Cinderella wasn’t invited. <br /><br />No, the Pilgrims weren’t being mean. They didn’t want her to get her ball gown dirty. Or her feet. She only had the one shoe. And that’s because she didn’t keep an eye on the time.<br /><br />After this conversation, I decided that reenacting that first turkey feast was the only way for them to truly understand. Some things have to be experienced to be understood. As I found out during childbirth, reading and experiencing are totally different. <br /><br />When we got home, the children and I planted a row of vegetables. Due to time constraints, we buried two cans of green beans and a bag of frozen corn in the sandbox. The neighbor’s cat strolled though and fertilized our garden.<br />I want the children to appreciate the courage and fortitude of the first settlers, so while our crops grew, we played a game I called long cold winter. I told them we’d make believe we were early settlers dealing with days and days of snow and wind. I pretended to pull on a coat, hats, boots, and a scarf. Much to my dismay, they jumped up and down cheering No school! No School! I didn’t want to bring on nightmares, so I didn’t get graphically specific, but touched lightly on the scarcity of food. They told me they understood. Just the night before they had run out of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and had to eat plain vanilla. This was going nowhere. I thought long and hard, and then decided to get tough. I whispered to them that in the day of the Pilgrims, there was no such thing cable TV. They wailed inconsolably. <br /> <br />When they calmed down, there was the matter of hunting a turkey. None run wild in our subdivision, but my Butterball was in the freezer. I pulled a handful of feathers from my duster, which was clean as a whistle, so there was no fear of contamination. I plastered those feathers to the frozen bird and rolled it down the hill in the back yard to simulate a running target. Lest I expose the youngsters to yet one more incident of gun violence as they encounter on the nightly news, I encouraged the children to pummel the turkey with corn hole bags. When it rolled into the house, I declared it dead. My granddaughter cried until I explained that this turkey came from a turkey bush and had never been a real live gobble-gobble one. <br /> <br />This was a lot of work. We’d been at if for hours. The sun would be setting soon. I began to panic.<br /><br />We hadn’t finished pounding popcorn into cornmeal. The stones were cumbersome and I was running out of band aids, so I used my food processor and told the children only a few people knew Monsieur Jacques Cuisinart came from France to celebrate the First Thanksgiving. I suggested they keep his visit a secret. A bag of M&M’s sealed the deal.<br /><br />The children and I harvested our vegetables in the wagon, and pretended to roast our turkey in the fire pit. We joined hands and gave thanks for the blessings he’d given us. After our dinner, my grandson asked about pumpkin pie. I told him that the chief’s wife was Princess Sara Lee.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-48324390145543808372009-10-19T19:08:00.003-04:002009-10-19T19:14:34.964-04:00Everything New Is Old AgainI’ve never expected to find our home on the cover of <em>House Beautiful</em>. There was a time I might have thought it worthy of honorable mention in <em>House Comfortable</em> or <em>House Pleasantly Habitable</em>. Today, however, I’d nominate it to be the centerfold for <em>House Demanding</em>.<br /><br /> We’ve tried to be good to our house. We’ve given it some of the best years of our lives, but somehow it’s never enough. When we first saw it nearly 25 years ago, the place was empty and lonely. My husband, three children, and I took the house as our own and moved our furniture into its barren space. We hung pictures on the wall. We painted a room or two. And the house felt better, but it wanted more.<br /><br /> Its closets were vacant and abandoned. They had no purpose. We moved in clothes, shoes, and hundreds of boxes holding our precious stuff. The house swallowed it all in just one gulp, but still was not satisfied. With time and perseverance we filled each and every one of its nooks and crannies. It was full and remained that way. For a while, the house was happy, but that was short-lived. <br /><br /> A few short years later, the house grew tired of its appliances of harvest gold, avocado green, and coppertone. It moaned those colors were no longer fashionable causing it embarrassment beyond belief. We responded by telling the house those appliances were perfectly functional and much nicer than the ones our childhood houses had been happy with. The house rolled its shades at that one. We stood our ground, but the house was determined. It taunted the appliances until the refrigerator melted our ice cream and froze our lettuce; the stove didn’t clean up after itself; the dishwasher regressed to wetting the floor.<br /><br /> It didn’t end there. The house demanded almond appliances. After all, our fibbing two-story promised, almond would never become passé and teased us with the prospect of increasing its resale value. It also wanted and got new wallpaper since the old didn’t go with the new color scheme. It sulked until we agreed the countertops were shabby and installed butcher block the house swore would last till Armageddon.<br /><br /> The house wore us down until we felt it was easier to cave than fight. We told the house we would give in this time, but this time only. And it darn well better enjoy and appreciate this because after this kitchen remodel, we were finished. Did it understand? The house dutifully agreed. I think it crossed its downspouts behind its back.<br /><br /> The house was content for a few years before it had issues again. Small ones at first. A room painted here. Some wallpaper stripped there. We thought this reasonable. What house can be expected to wear the same coats year after year? It pushed the limit at faux painting, but we managed to accommodate even that.<br /><br /> All was quiet on the home front for a time. Suddenly the house hinted that its sump pump had seen better days. We turned a deaf ear until six inches of rain proved us wrong. The house got its way yet again.<br /><br /> Our house was not immune from the lure of botox and facelifts. We installed triple-paned windows, replaced its sagging shutters, and hung a new front door. These things appeased it. For a time.<br /><br /> The house has discovered HGTV. I know it’s our fault. We should have monitored the programs it views more carefully, but we thought the house was sleeping. We were so wrapped up in our own lives we didn’t even notice. Once again the house has a list of demands. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a hot tub. At this writing we’ve reached a stalemate. The house sees itself in need of an <em>extreme makeover</em> and we’re thinking it’s <em>designed to sell</em>.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-2307434185361126882009-09-21T10:02:00.003-04:002009-09-21T10:26:39.097-04:00On The Road With The Other WomanMy husband Bill and I returned Wednesday evening from a vacation in Ireland. Witness the shot I have downloaded from my digital camera. I have done this both to share our visit to the Emerald Isle and to prove that I am now adept at the process of downloading. Adept may be too strong a word as this was actually a picture of Bill and me at Giant's Causeway. Alas, I've experiened a glitch. Just visualize us in front of the rock.<br /><br />We chose to design our own trip rather than join a tour and be held to scheduled stops and time constraints. We would be masters of our own vacation. We would answer to no one. For two solid weeks it would be just the two of us roaming the Irish countryside; the two of us taking in the forty shades of green first hand; and at the end of the day, the two of us retiring to a guest room at a quaint B&B alone.<br /><br />All of that changed a week or so prior to our leaving when a friend suggested we take Rhonda along with us. Let me add, this suggestion was made to Bill, not to me. On the occasion of said suggestion, Bill and I were with a group of people I previously thought to be of high moral character when Joe took Bill aside. At that very moment I noticed a button was missing from my favorite jacket. Since the light was better where Bill and Joe stood talking, I chose a nearby spot to search look for my button. I overheard Joe make this Rhonda suggestion to Bill. It worked so well for Kathy and him, Joe thought we might like to try it too. I had always thought Joe a pretty straight-laced family guy and was shocked at the visions this brought to mind. Joe went on to tell Bill that having Rhonda along took a lot of the pressure off Kathy as they traveled. Joe was evidently friskier than I gave him credit for and Kathy more open-minded than I had perceived. Bill told Joe he’d think about it. I assured myself my faithful husband did so only to spare making an ugly scene. Joe added he’d drop Rhonda off at our house, if we liked. Not in this lifetime, I vowed silently.<br /><br />The next morning, Bill mentioned Rhonda and how it might be a good idea to take her along on vacation. After I poured the hot coffee into his cup, but before I poured it into his lap, he mentioned Rhonda was a GPS as if that gave her a license for perversity. I told him I didn’t care if she was an <em>MBA, CEO</em>, or <em>CPA</em>. There was no place for her in our life.<br />How was I to know that Kathy and Joe felt the need to name their Global Navigation System? I cited this as proof positive that humans are interacting entirely too much with machines. Nonetheless I consented to allow Rhonda to join us. What harm could a little electronic device do?<br /><br />We first engaged Rhonda at the airport in Shannon, Ireland. Before I could hum the verse to Danny Boy, she had miraculously locked in our location and directed us to our first destination, The Cliffs of Moher. Ronda got us there with no problem. Bill was quite smitten by her. He was oblivious to her lack of manners. He didn’t take offense as she constantly interrupted my attempts to read aloud from our travel guide. She thought nothing of butting in with <em>Turn right here. Turn left there. Watch for a roundabout in two miles.</em><br /><br />Our next stop was Galway and Rhonda took us there as well. My replacement’s cute little screen beamed as she hung from the windshield showing the road we traveled and supplying information such as what direction we were headed and how long it would take to get there. Bill was impressed. This man who takes directions from no one complied with Rhonda’s every command. He even shushed me to listen to her. I tossed the guidebook into the backseat acknowledging my defeat. He didn’t care that our backseat driver never said Please turn right or please turn left preferring instead to order us here and there. Rhonda was definitely on the bossy side.<br /><br />From Galway, we drove to Dingle—a site I knew to be voted the most beautiful place on earth by National Geographic. I waited for smarty-pants Rhonda to mention that, but she was all about herself as she once again commandeered our drive and my husband’s attention along with it.<br />Along the way, we missed a turn and Rhonda did not appreciate it. In my opinion, Rhonda had not given us ample warning. But did Bill raise his voice at her? No way. And did Rhonda apologize to us? Did she say <em>Oops, my bad.</em> or <em>I should have given you more warning</em>? I’ll have you know she barked at us to <em>Turn around as soon as possible</em>. She assumed no responsibility for the incident. We turned around and I swear she snickered as we resumed our route.<br /><br />As we drew closer to Dingle we encountered some narrow rural roads, many of them unnamed. Miss Rhonda must be a city slicker, as she didn’t like this one bit. Her screen showed us driving amuck in green spaces and sometimes floating on a body of water. She recalculated our route more times than the government does the national debt. She directed us to turn left in one hundred feet and followed that with turn right in twenty-five feet. Rhonda was lost, but not willing to admit it as I always did—sometimes before Bill started the car. Bill was not upset with Rhonda and asked me to check on her to see how she was faring.<br /><br />When we finally reached Dingle, Rhonda had caught up with us and acted as if nothing had happened. Bill excused her behavior saying the roads were too small for the satellite to pick up though he would expect me to identify a back alley in downtown New York.<br /><br />When we pulled into the drive of our B&B, Rhonda finally went too far. She announced <em>You’ve reach your destination.</em> We continued down the drive and again she said, as if we were too stupid to know it, <em>You’ve reached your destination</em>. Bill turned the car around in the lot. A third time Rhonda lost her cool and all but screamed <strong><em>You’ve reached your destination</em></strong>. Bill finally saw Rhonda for the electronic dictator she really was and pulled her plug. Then I shoved her into the glove compartment. It was the end of the road for Rhonda.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-19821223375755079592009-08-28T14:36:00.001-04:002009-08-31T07:47:12.437-04:00Too Clogged to BlogI’ve been sick, under the weather, not my usual self. Any of these apply. But to sum it up, I’ve been too clogged to blog.<br /><br />My doctor blamed my grandchildren for my condition. In his medical opinion, those two adorable kids came back from Disney World and all I got was this nasty virus. Granted, they did have bouts of strep throat while away and returned with a cough and fever he diagnosed as croup, but I have no doubt I got this virus from my computer.<br /><br />Computer viruses are different from people virus and never the twain shall meet; or so the good doctor claims. Eons ago they made the same claim about birds and swine. We know how that turned out.<br /><br />What my medical expert doesn’t realize is that my computer and I are extremely close. I spend more waking hours with it than any other person or devise in my life. I’ve even named it Wordsworth. Words for short. They say that after living together for years, married people begin to act alike, talk alike and even look alike. Well, Words and I experience a similar phenomenon. I download a Spanish file into Wordsworth by mistake and mysteriously he’s no longer backed up. I eat tacos; the same goes for me.<br /><br />So you see, it’s not only possible that Wordsworth gave me this affliction; it’s the most logical explanation. How did he become infected, you ask? I’ve done my own medical investigation by carefully backtracking his whereabouts for the past two weeks. Approximately ten days ago, I received a new friend request from facebook. Ever eager to increase my number of friends, I accepted her quickly. Too quickly. Had I examined this photo more closely, I would have noticed the crumpled tissue in her hand. Wordsworth’s immune system was undoubtedly compromised by this encounter.<br /><br />Two days later I received a tweet about the upcoming flu season. Come to think of it, has anyone researched the link between bird flu and twitter? To calm my fears, I went to the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) website. I should have known better. People looking for disease control are probably diseased. Duh. Typing away at their germ-infested keyboards. And who knows where their hands have been.<br /><br />By the way, if you’re looking for reading material the gang at the CDC suggest <em>Morbidity and Mortality. </em>When you finish that one , try <em>Prevention of Chronic Diseases</em>. Personally I'll wait for the <em>Dummies</em> edition.<br /><div align="left"><br />A word of caution to you bloggees. I’m new to this blog thing and am not certain that this is the correct term and mean no offense by it. I assume if I’m the blogger, anyone reading would be the bloggee. Please feel free to correct me. Back to the CDC…</div><div align="center"><br /><strong>Do not, I repeat, do not (even though it’s quite tempting)<br />DO NOT CLICK ON Emerging Infectious Diseases. </strong></div><strong><div align="left"><br /></strong></div>I did. Within seconds Wordsworth became sluggish. He could barely open a file. He was out of sorts. Ten days later, that’s exactly how I feel now. Coincidence? I think not. <div align="left"><br />With lots of rest for us both and plenty of fluids, for me, not Wordsworth, we’re both getting stronger by the day. I’m down to a half box of tissues per day and Wordsworth is no longer creating pointless Power Point presentations. Soon we will be back to our normal selves. I plan to keep us that way. I make Wordsworth stop at the <em>Lysol</em> website before and after going online and I’m wearing rubber gloves. </div>Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-62386780792755064572009-08-18T18:55:00.000-04:002009-08-18T18:58:50.878-04:00Twitter Dee - Twitter DumNot to brag, but I now email, blog and have a faceless page on facebook. I’m still thinking about which picture to post. A very nice one came with my new wallet and I’m considering that one.<br /><br />Mastering, well that may be a stretch, let me rephrase that. Learning the basics of these new telecommunication networks may seem like no major accomplishment to the average six year-old, but to a this boomer now eligible to file for Social Security, it’s something to crow about. Which brings me to Twitter—my new frontier.<br /><br />I have friends who twitter. Oops! Twitter, they tell me, is not a verb. My friends tweet. I assume this word choice comes from the days when we found out things that others didn’t particularly want us to know and claimed a little birdie told us. Another thought is that this network was intended to send love letters setting hearts atwitter. I’ll use my search engine to find out the real story and report back.<br /><br />A good friend of mine assured me that Twitter was a snap. Her 88-year-old mother was tweeting and would be happy to walk me through the process. No offense, to her mother, but if she could do it, so could I.<br /><br />On August 6th, I decided the time was right. Twitter.com, ready or not, here I come. I entered my name. Choosing a user name is always fun. Cher was already taken as it always is, so I chose something easier to remember—my own name. Passwords are always difficult for me. I have more of them than the U. S. government has clunkers. I opted for my techno one. Twitter told me it was weak. I chose another. Twitter said that was weak too. I went through six more weak ones until Twitter was finally happy. Note: MuscleboundSr is now taken. <br /><br />My next step was to Create Account. I was feeling pretty cocky until a series of twisted letters appeared on the screen. Twitter said this was for security purposes, so I couldn’t ignore it. I haven’t seen letters so squiggly since I renewed my driver’s license. I closed one, squinted with the other duplicated them perfectly. Just as I finished, Twitter crashed. It went twud.<br /><br />Now I’d done it. I’d silenced Twitter. Tweets were no doubt circling in cyberspace bumping into one another and interfering with weather satellites. Had I toppled Doppler? Would those tweets interfere with airplanes like geese do? Would we have cable?<br /><br />I didn’t know what the penalty for crashing Twitter would be. I imagined the Twitter police marching to our door. Chances are they’d have blue birds on their shoulders. They’d slap handcuffs around my wrists and cage me. Just in case, I ran upstairs and wiped my keyboard clean. If need be, I’d ask my husband to check our bank balance online.<br /><br />And where in the world did I stand with Twitter? Did this crash mean I was a half-twit?<br /><br />The news of Twitter’s demise made national, and though I didn’t check the BBC, most likely international news. Officials and conspiracy theorists have called it a cyber attack and blamed it on a group of politically motivated hackers. I know better.<br /><br />But I ain’t singing.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-88690561157751706912009-08-13T07:53:00.000-04:002009-08-13T12:12:17.171-04:00Julie & Julia & JaneYesterday I saw <em>Julie & Julia</em>—the movie, not the people. I wasn’t sure it would be my cup of tea. Julie was a cute young woman worried about turning 30. 30! Need I say more? And I always considered Julia somewhat of a food snob. I based this notion on her insistence to use real butter and spices I’d never heard of.<br /><br />I doubted I’d connect with Julia, as I do not claim to be a French chef. Or a French chef in the making. I don’t claim to be related to Chef Boyardee. As a cook I’ve had more years experience in the food preparation department than I care to admit—opening boxes, cans and the like. I can dip a spoon into a pot, take a sip, close my eyes, and smack my lips with the best of them, but my experience with cuisine, I must admit is nearly nonexistent.<br /><br />I’ve seen clips of Julia on TV, but that as close as Julia and I have come. I don’t own her cookbook nor have never glanced through its pages at the bookstore. I feel much more comfortable with Betty Crocker. I’ve never seen a box with Julia’s name on the label in the Hamburger Helper section of the grocery. My limited encounters with Julia make me hungry, but have never, ever make me want to cook.<br /><br />For these reasons, I was hesitant to attend this movie. I imagined the theater filled with chefs from area restaurants. Or worse yet, those dreadful food snobs who claim real Parmesan cheese does not come in a round green container.<br /><br />I considered buying one of those fluffy white hats to wear, but thought better of it fearing it might block the view of a devoted Julia fan. I did, however, stop at the Dollar Store to pick up a whisk to tuck into my purse in case anyone questioned my right to be there. The whisk and I are no longer friends, as it became tangled with my keys and caused me to miss most of the previews.<br /><br />I settled into my seat observing my fellow moviegoers. Comparing the audience to the boef bourguignon (stew) Julie prepared, the women were the meat. The few gentlemen were the parsley flakes she sprinkled on top. It may not have been parsley, but you get the idea. Take it from me, it’s very difficult to take notes in the dark; add to that the saliva dropping onto the paper and it’s nearly impossible. Rest assured, I saw no white coats or puffy hats so I felt safe.<br /><br />For nearly two hours, I watched Julia dice mounds and mounds of onions (it’s such a shame they didn’t have those little frozen packs in those days), create culinary masterpiece after culinary masterpiece, and slather butter on anything that didn’t move. She used so much butter and it looked so good, at one point I considered storming the popcorn station just to get a butter fix.<br /><br />I left the theater with an entirely new impression of Julia. She was no food snob. She was the goddess of the kitchen. I’d follow her anywhere. I’d learn to cook like her even if it meant doubling my husband’s cholesterol medication.<br /><br />When I got home I decided to turn my kitchen into Julia’s. I hung my pots and pans on the wall. They fell to the floor as the 41-year-old handles dislodged themselves from the cookware. I’d go a gourmet shop to buy new.<br /><br />I searched E-Bay for cookbooks with Julia’s name on it. I pledged ten dollars more than the current bids. I offered to pay for next-day shipping. No price was too high.<br /><br />Until I could get my hands on those books, I’d have to settle for what I could find online. My googling efforts netted me some of Julia’s favorites. Vichyssoise! I’d heard of that dish. It sounded so, so French. And delicious. Then I read the English translation—Chilled Leek and Potato Soup.<br /><br />Maybe I’d try her Deluxe Chicken Salad. If Kroger sells chicken salad in the deli, how difficult could Julia’s be? Dear Julia’s called for eleven (11!) ingredients, one of them being excellent light olive oil. I thought the stuff I had on hand was pretty good, but would Julia really rate it as excellent? Especially since the expiration date had passed two years ago. Besides, I had long ago instituted a 5-ingredient limit in my kitchen. I wasn’t ready to break it yet, not even for Julia.<br /><br />I moved on to Julia's Braised Whole Fillet of Salmon. A good healthy dish. High in those fish oils Dr. Oz raves about. The instructions covered my computer screen three times.<br /><br />I rethought this French cooking thing. Surely I missed the warning posted at the start of the movie: <em><strong>Do not try this at home</strong></em>. If it hadn’t been there, I’d contact Nora Ephron and suggest it. Meanwhile, I made reservations at the little French Restaurant in Cincinnati and prayed that someone would outbid me on E-Bay.<br /><br />Dinner was tres fantastique.<br /><br />As Julia would say, “Bon Apetit!”Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-8067421478425026532009-08-05T22:19:00.000-04:002009-08-05T22:23:47.058-04:00New Technology & An Old FriendIn my never-ending effort to keep up with the latest in technological communication, I have created my very own Facebook page. Actually, it’s better described as my faceless book page, as I’ve as yet to decide on a photograph to post.<br /><br />I’d heard my kids (one just turned 40, but they’re still kids to me) talk about Facebook and figured it was some newfangled distraction for young people. Nothing I’d be interest in. Then a few of my friends signed on saying it was they only contact they had with their children outside of Friday evenings when they dropped the grandkids off for the weekend. I still wasn’t interested. One by one my friends succumbed to the lure of Facebook and I realized not unlike the lava lamp in the attic, that I hadn’t realized I needed Facebook until my friends had it and I did not.<br /><br />I attempted to look at my friends’ Facebook pages, but found them available to other Facebook people only, reminiscent of the fifth grade club that met in our garage and admitted no unless they could recite the secret password. I gave in and signed up for Facebook and could access my friends’ pages. The Facebook police informed me that my friends only allow certain people to view their information. I was the new kid on the Facebook block and must ask my real-world friends if they would be my Facebook friends. I experienced some of the anxiety I had in the second grade when we moved to a different neighborhood.<br /><br />After some begging and arm-twisting I had friends. I had friends of friends who then became our mutual friends. But best of all I was in the loop. I checked my page daily limiting myself to 10 minutes per day as some of my friends warned of the danger of addiction. After a month or so of knowing whose grandkids had diarrhea, who had an OB-GYN appointment scheduled, and how effective a home remedy for hot flashes actually was, I questioned the value of Facebook.<br /><br />I enjoyed pictures of grandchildren, puppies, and bald husbands. But after opening a colonoscopy shot that I considered beyond the boundaries of good taste, I thought about dropping out of the Facebook world. I was on the verge of termination when I a message I received changed my mind. It seems a friend of mine had a friend who was the brother of an old friend of mine. We were close friends in high school, but hadn’t been in contact for several decades. This gentleman directed me to the Facebook page of my friend’s husband. I contacted her and we’ve renewed our friendship. We live in different parts of Ohio and we’re catching up on the lost years by email. Oh, the joys of Facebook. Once again, technology is my friend.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-54284523764049090602009-07-31T12:31:00.000-04:002009-08-01T23:05:42.924-04:00The Proverbial Paper Bag<p>I am directionally challenged. Just recently a very reliable source whose name I’ve forgotten, told me that her sister read somewhere that a condition such as mine is caused by the way my brain is wired. Normally I wouldn't be happy to hear news like this. But I'm delighted to know it’s not my fault! I’m thinking of starting a support group, but I doubt anyone could find it, so maybe it’s not such a great idea.<br /></p><p>For those of you who suspect you might share my disorder, I’ve devised the following diagnostic test: Answers are limited to Yes and No </p><p><br />1. You become dizzy and break out in sweat when you hear words such as <em>It’s easy to find. Just take I702 to Rt. 87 and that becomes Hamilton Avenue.</em></p><p>2. You assume every route in this part of the country becomes Hamilton Avenue at some point. </p><p>3. As you plan your vacation trip, your husband reviews the map with your ten-year-old son suggesting you sit in the back and entertain the other children. </p><p>4. You live in Fairfield and are meeting some friends at Tri-County. The friend living in Kenwood offers to pick you up saying it’s not out of her way. Bonus point if you believe her. </p><p>5. You drive to Cincinnati for a meeting. You use the directions your husband wrote—directions that include exits to I211 and Rt. 62 which then turns into Hamilton Avenue. You make it there in under an hour. After the conference you realize said husband has not reversed the directions to get you home. You turn the Cincinnati notes upside down, drive with your head at a neck breaking angle. You arrive three stress filled hours and two fill-ups later with grease spots on your windows from station attendant who told you to try Hamilton Avenue. Said husband is waiting for dinner. </p><p>6. You write Alex Trebek demanding they eliminate Jeopardy’s Geography category. </p><p>7. You buckle your 5 year-old grandson into his seat and he asks if you’re going to get lost again today. </p><p>Tally your score. 1 Point for Yes. 0 Points for No. Remember #3 bonus point. </p><p>0 - Get a job with Mc-Nally Rand or Rand-McNally, whoever those guys are.<br />1 - Wander at will.<br />2 - Find a good map of Hamilton Avenue.<br />3 - Make right turns only. Find your way back making left turns.<br />4 - Travel with a friend.<br />5 - Add a GPS to your Christmas list. Embrace technology!<br />6 - Allow your license lapse.<br />7 - Join my support group. I live just off Hamilton Avenue.<br />8 - Become a cloistered nun/monk.</p><p>Disclaimer: These are all hypothetical situations used for diagnostic purposes only. I am in no way suggesting or admitting that these things have happened to me.<br /></p><p></p><p></p>Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378240844508764090.post-53351891591805826682009-07-26T11:48:00.000-04:002009-07-27T09:26:15.517-04:00Blog Land - Here I Come!In the days of saddle shoes and sock hops, I made a promise to myself. I vowed I’d never ever become one of those old fogies who is so far behind the times that to them history reads like a diary.<br />Assuming the Beatles would live forever, I saw myself aging gracefully with the titles of the top 40 hits on the tip of my tongue. Off the record, don’t you just hate that racket that shakes your car and puts a buzz in your hubby’s hearing aid when you hit a red light on the way to Bob Evans? Okay, I’ve got a way to go with the music thing.<br />In my world, the Oscar for best picture went to The Sound of Music. I saw the world of cinema as family friendly and viewed in a theater and had no doubt it would always be that way. I would never have imagined watching films in the privacy of my own home. Where, I must say, a fair number of the current day ones should be viewed. Without your children I might add. I have adjusted to having a VCR and am proud to admit that unlike a number of my friends, I know how to program it. My next conquest will be the DRQXR or whatever it’s called. Anything that goes by initials puts me off. I’m still adjusting to viewing a TV hanging on the wall. Time was, that was reserved for hospitals.<br />In my youth, I watched my parents’ generation mutter about the numerous colors of the new fangled touch-tone phones, arguing that the old black rotaries were good enough. They struggled to remember 7 digit phone numbers instead of the 5 digit ones they had memorized. This, I swore, would never happen to me. But, alas, it has. I’ve renewed my oath to keep up with technology.<br />Many moons ago, I tossed my carbon paper and I now have two (count them, two) computers. One is a laptop and one is not. The exact term escapes me now. I email. I google. I have a facebook page. I also have friends. Some of whom I even know.<br />The land of blog remains foreign to me, but I’m determined to overcome my fear of words that aren’t listed in my copy of the dictionary and that provoke my computer to underline them in red. Thus, this blog. There’s that annoying red line again. I thought about a number of names and finally decided on Janie Jabbers—the name of the column I wrote for my high school paper when I thought I knew it all.Jane Biddingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08376106972870903306noreply@blogger.com3