Laura's Life

Grocery Shopping Pet Peeves

I’m not crazy about shopping. Especially when it comes to grocery shopping; my goal is to get in and out as quickly as possible. It’s an exhausting process to make all those decisions, so I try to be efficient. I make a list and ALWAYS try to eat something beforehand. Otherwise, you know what they say, you’ll grab anything in the store that looks like it would taste yummy. For me, that would be everything in the bakery department and the ice cream aisle!

Coupons have never been my thing, and I also don’t believe in driving around to a number of different stores to scoop up the specials. The wear and tear on my psyche navigating traffic and crazy drivers, along with the extra time it takes, is just not worth it. Unless we’re talking about wild salmon that arrives in the summer. I’d make a trip to the moon for wild salmon!

I have a system once I get to the store. I start at the back, work my way through all the aisles that feature our favorite items. Once in a while I have to circle back to find something I’d passed by without noticing. But it doesn’t happen very often. I hate retracing my steps.

So you can just imagine how frustrating it is when I get to the store and find they’ve reorganized all the shelves!

Good grief, why do they do that? You get used to a certain configuration and then they go and mix everything up. Is it because they want you to stay in the store longer, make more trips up and down the aisles and “discover” tempting new items? Or is it because some market research company figured out a better way to display foodstuffs so we vulnerable, unsuspecting consumers would spend more money?

It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.

But here’s another one: the 2 liter soda bottles they put on the top shelf, organized in some kind of rack that makes it IMPOSSIBLE for a short little person like me to wrestle them free. I struggle with it for a few minutes and then (horrors!) I stand on the bottom shelf. I know, I know, that’s a big risk because if I break the shelf, all those items will crash to the floor. And what if grocery clerks hiding behind those cameras in the ceiling look down and see what I’m doing? I just know they’d send out some kind of security person who would issue a shopping citation. “Code blue on aisle four!”

You can only get so many of those warnings before they ban you from the store and you have to find somewhere else to go. Then, you guessed it, you have to adjust to another new configuration. Until you do, it’s like wandering in the desert looking for the promised land!

So, I’m very cautious about standing on that bottom shelf. Ultimately, I look around and eyeball the tall people to find anyone who looks like they’d be willing to help me. Most people take pity on me as they watch me jumping up and down to dislodge some out-of-reach item.

Another pet peeve is when I buy ice cream and end up behind a person in the checkout line who takes FOREVER. I stand there watching the container slowly soften, then after the checkout, I race to unload it into the trunk of my hot car. A smarter person would bring an ice chest with them, wouldn’t they? But I like to live on the edge and am not about to change my ways at this ripe old age.

You know what else dives me crazy? The person who stops in the middle of the aisle to check their grocery list. Then they give you a dirty look when you politely say, “excuse me” and try to wiggle your cart past them. I do give a lot of slack to elderly folks and parents with a passel of kids hanging off their cart. But some people are just clueless. You know how you can sense if someone is standing behind you? Well, these people were either born without that chip or they just don’t care.

It occurs to me with all my whining that I ought to be thankful to have so much variety to choose from. I should appreciate the ability to find food on the shelves in great quantities. We have so much plenty in this country compared to other places in the world. I shouldn’t be such a complainer.

So I’ll stop. But before I go, one last thing. Am I the only one who ends up with the cart that likes to veer to the left or right, has one wheel that goes “thump, thump, thump” and slows to a skid when you least expect it?

I thought so. I’ll pray for us both.

Cooking With Pearls

My siblings and I have a talented Mom who turns tuna, noodles and mushroom soup into a feast fit for a king. Our memories are filled with bubbling pots of savory stews, creamy casseroles and mouth-watering desserts. Mom made liver look good. She dedicated her time and creativity to keep six stomachs full while my Dad worked non-stop to feed his happy horde.

My brothers watch the Food Network. For fun. They glory in barbecue, brisket, spices and sauce. If you want their attention, just whisper, “Talk foodie for me.” My sister will whip up a quiche at the drop of a hat and serve countertops full of delectable dishes at each family gathering.

But me? I’m not a cook.

I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and say to myself, ‘Well, that’s not going to happen!’ — Rita Rudner

You’ll never catch me floating around the house in an apron and pearls looking like June Cleaver or Julia Child. Before the wildfire, I had a few cookbooks and a recipe box I rarely opened. I make a mean banana bread, but will serve up the same simple fare for a long suffering sweetie who loves me for my conversational skills. I’ve been known to scrape and serve burned toast and disguise lumpy gravy with onions.

Of course, baking a birthday cake at 7500 feet can present some problems. But I wanted my son to beam with pride and family to swoon in delight at my scrumptious concoction. I would blush, careful not to steal the limelight, but bask in just enough glory and adulation to be memorable.

“What? Me? Another Julia Child? Aw, c’mon, you don’t really mean that! You DO? No, it’s nothing, really. I made it from scratch in my spare time from an old family recipe.”

The beep of a pre-heated oven snapped me back to reality. It was time to get down to business, so I read the high altitude tips on the back of the box. In went the extra flour with water and butter. I prepared the pans, poured in the delectable goo and popped them both through the oven door. And then I prayed. I prayed to The Pioneer Woman for just a smidge of success, secretly hoping one day I too could make it big from a blog.

The moment of truth arrived. T’was time to cast my eyes upon the miracle I’d made. Two golden orbs of sweet smelling deliciousness stared up at me. I carefully lifted them up and out of the oven, knowing a tap on the counter would free them from their buttery bonds. I would marvel at my skill as each layer fell gracefully (in slow motion) ever-so-gently onto the plate below.

But something was terribly wrong. The darned things were sticking.

If I wasn’t careful, I would soon have a crumbly mess. Large chunks would rip away, revealing grotesquely gaping holes. No amount of frosting would disguise it. I could see those family faces now — eyes wide in shock, mouths twisted in disgust at the senseless destruction of a perfectly good cake. My son would race from the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was time for drastic action. Deftly removing my pearls, I reached for my weapons and slowly walked towards whatever fate would deal me. Cold and unforgiving in my grip, these instruments of force were intricately carved, handed down from my great-grandfather through the generations — only to be used if there was no other resort. My son tried to intervene, but I shook him off, demanding he run for cover. I stopped and planted my feet on the hard, dusty ground.

(The theme song from Clint Eastwood’s The Good, The Bad and The Ugly played in the background.)

“This. Ends. Here.” I growled.

With a steady gaze and a lightening fast flip of my spatulas, the uncooperative cakes broke free and landed with a thud, lifeless and beaten. Overhead, turkey buzzards circled in the blinding sunshine and shimmering heat, waiting for a chance to attack their meal.

Oh wait, those were my guests! They came, they sat, they devoured everything in sight. My son looked at me differently that day and forever after. And I, dear reader, now knew how it felt to be tested, revel in the thrill of victory and take my place alongside bakery bastions, heroes and legends!

A Mechanically Challenged Cabin Mama

My husband brought home a tractor. It’s big, green and comes from Mr. John Deere.

And he’s as happy as a pig in “you-know-what” moving dirt around. I was amazed at how many levers and controls are on the thing. The owner’s manual is about three inches thick, but he worked his way through it in just a few hours. He’s an engineer, so to him, this how-to guide is like a romance novel to the rest of us. Then he hopped right up in the driver’s seat and took control of it like the macho man he is. (I can just imagine the book cover now!)

Me? I’m still afraid of my InstantPot. I got it for Christmas and have yet to cook anything in it. My daughter (who gave me the gift) encourages me by saying, “Mom, it’s not much different than cooking on the stove.” But still I hesitate. My guess is that once I use it a few times, I’ll want to InstantPot every meal we eat. Then, I’ll expect a blue ribbon and tons of praise for my efforts, thank you very much!

Yes, I admit it; I’m mechanically challenged. My daughter, however, spent 30 minutes on YouTube then changed the timing belt on her SUV. I was so proud of her I almost busted my buttons! Me, on the other hand, I never even learned how to change the oil in my car. (She can do that too.)

Yours truly has been known to drive around with the parking break on.

It’s not because I’m blonde (most days). It’s not because I don’t have enough grey matter — I’m a pretty sharp cookie (most days). I just have a healthy fear and respect for the risks involved should something go wrong. Let’s just say I’d rather not be thought a fool should I fail. If I do fail, I’d rather it be with devices that don’t do much damage or cost a lot to repair. Our manual can opener is a good bet.

When my oldest was five, he pushed me aside from a kitchen gadget I was trying to fix and said, “Here Mom, I’ll do that for you!” And by golly, he did. Even HE could tell I was in over my head. It’s moms like me who hate to admit, “So easy a five year old can do it!”

Even my 90 year old mother puts me to shame. She can wield a glue gun like nobody’s business and whip up a silk flower wreath in sixty minutes or less. Gosh darn, I’m lucky I can maneuver my curling iron.

The other day my husband asked me if I wanted to get in the driver’s seat and take the tractor for a spin. I rolled my eyes and reminded him I hadn’t even tried out the lawn mower yet.

Maybe I’m not so dumb after all!

Choosing Recovery: A Wildfire Remembrance

It’s now seven years since the Black Forest Wildfire swept through our community, destroying over 14,000 pine covered acres, burning over 500 homes (including ours), structures and killing countless pets and most tragically, two of our neighbors.

Tragedy manifests itself in different ways. For some, they can’t get past the lifetime of possessions they lost, as well as homes where some raised generations of family members. It may still haunt their dreams. For others, they’ve been able to move past the events of that day and the struggles we all faced to rebuild lives and homes.

We describe life by this one major milestone: “before the fire” and “after the fire” define segments of our lives. Weddings, memorable trips, when we got the new car, etc. are measured against the date of June 11, 2013.

Like chapters in a book, the wildfire is a dog-eared favorite we return to so we can make sense of it all and how the experience changed us. If not for the fire, (as the insurance adjusters often said) how would our lives be different now? What would we not have learned?

The “new normal” wasn’t normal at all. If you rebuilt, you were on familiar land but lived in unfamiliar settings. It was eerie; like living in an episode of the Twilight Zone. We got used to our new surroundings and memories of the old walls began to fade. Now, when we flip through old photos, it’s like looking back at another lifetime.

For some, tragedy struck twice with a new house fire, a serious health problem, an injury or death of someone dear. The fire was just another traumatic event on top of what folks were already trying to cope with. For others, the experience of rebuilding was filled with insurance and new construction complications that added significant stress to the recovery process. It compounded the experience and doubled the work.

The fire impacted people no matter what their loss, evacuation experience or whether they returned to the Forest or moved elsewhere.

Their reactions now, seven years later?

We’ve moved on and just tried to get over it.
You don’t get any do-overs in life, so there’s no use in stewing about it.
We don’t want to be reminded, so we don’t discuss it.
The Waldo Canyon fire took our first home and the Black Forest Wildfire took our second home a year later. We’ve moved back to town for good.
It helped me learn that people are what’s most important, not the “stuff” we fill our lives with.
We learned you can get through tough times if you take it one step at a time.
My neighbor is still struggling with the losses. I try to be there for them.
Our home is much nicer now. We miss our old place, but this is a great improvement.
That should be our goal. To aim for improvement, physically, mentally and emotionally in whatever way works best. Few of us have followed the same recovery path.

“We have a choice to make every day,” says Joshua Becker, the author of the Becoming Minimalist blog and numerous books.

I would ask, do we choose to move on and create a new life, or do we choose to carry negative experiences around our neck like an emotional boulder?

We always have a choice. Thankfully, the Black Forest community has chosen recovery!

How I Met the Man of My Dreams

I wasn’t looking. And despite my sister’s encouragement, I wasn’t eager to meet the guy she kept saying was a very nice man. She’d worked with him for decades and had even showed me his Facebook Page. Nice smile. Good looking. But I’d gotten used to being on my own lo’ those many years and frankly didn’t want the drama.

Then she invited me to a Military Appreciation Day concert. Mom, Dad and my sister were planning to go. She added, “Oh and Doug’s coming too.”

Great! Pressure. “Okay but just don’t make me sit next to him, I said.” I didn’t want a setup. I’d been in the new house just a few years after the wildfire burned my old one down and was happy to have some peace in my life. But just in case, I brought along my best friend – for protection ya know.

We all met for a bite to eat before the concert and I noticed how nice he was to my Mom. He was great fun to talk with, we had some things in common and I liked the stories he told.

The concert was wonderful. I sat way at the end of the row and he sat way at the other end next to my sister. After it was over, he gave me his business card and I gave him mine.

My sister told me that as he walked her out to her car, Doug mentioned he liked our family a lot. “Your Mom and Dad are great. Your sister was nice.” Then he added, “But I REALLY liked your sister Laurie!”

The next day we exchanged a polite, “Nice to meet you” email and then, well, then there was nothing. A month passed, so I went about my business, until out of the blue I got a text.

“Would you like to have supper with me sometime?” I said yes and within a minute he extended the invite. “How about this coming Monday?” The guy didn’t waste much time firming things up.

So we had dinner — once, twice, three times. He came to my house and I went to his. Before we knew it, we were a couple. It was gradual, but it was clear there was something there of substance. We got along well. He made me laugh. He asked me questions about my likes, dislikes, my life and my driving record. (He’s an engineer, after all.)

There were regular emails with links to romantic songs on YouTube and texts of “sweet nothings” that gave me the goosebumps. I loved being pursued and I swear there were days I couldn’t concentrate on work. At. All.

It was wonderful to finally meet someone who seemed to be as enthralled with me as I was with him. Truly, the sun shone brighter, the sky seemed bluer and the birds sang sweeter. Life was good!

Then my birthday came around. Wait till you hear what happened next!

Moving Out of the Townhouse and Into a Cabin

I can’t think of anything more fun than moving. (Did I just write that out loud?) It’s especially “enjoyable” when you’ve been in one place for decades and accumulated lots of stuff — kid stuff, office stuff, hand-me-down stuff, garage sale stuff, family heirlooms and day to day necessities. Yup, we’d pared down before, shrinking from a monstrous Victorian money-trap to a much smaller abode. I was ready. I knew how to do it. I girded my loins. (Can you hear the Rocky theme song?)

I figured a week between the cabin closing and renters taking over our townhouse should be just about right. Seven days seemed like enough time to clean, drag out the dirty shag carpet, install tile and redo the hardwood floors. We had a schedule and everyone had a part to play. I was pretty impressed with my organizational prowess.

Then they changed the closing date.

All of a sudden, my carefully laid plan looked like the candy conveyor belt scene from I Love Lucy. Now, we’d close late on Friday and renters would move in on Sunday

The race was on! Once I had those keys in my hot little hands, I skedaddled out to the woods and unlocked doors for the flooring guy. Back at the townhouse, a few hardy souls appeared, enticed by the offer of pizza and beer. They filled and stacked towers of boxes that swayed to the sounds of My Life Would Suck Without You by Kelly Clarkson. Cats ran for cover and cowered behind the dryer. We worked until midnight knowing our efforts would surely make the next day so much easier.

Morning dawned, full of hope and promise. I got the donuts, commandeered a truck and lurched my way back to the townhouse, expecting to see hordes of eager volunteers. Two lone relatives greeted me at the door, then turned their attention to the donuts.

Where WAS everyone? The clock was ticking and that truck was empty! Turns out, it WAS a great day for a friend to treat most of my movers to a leisurely breakfast. I ask you, what better way to ease into the day?

By Noon our gang was working like a well-oiled machine. We packed and loaded, hour after hour. But without knowing how or why, stuff magically reappeared in closets and corners we knew we’d already cleared. It was as if we were bailing water from a sinking ship. When would it EVER END, I cried in dismay!

Meanwhile, out in the woods…

Boxes were emptied into the dark and dirty recesses of a one-car garage. Furniture littered the driveway and deck. Only once did an inconveniently placed tree interfere with the truck’s front bumper. Slowly, the clutter diminished at one site and rose at the other, like bubbles foaming from a pot of pea soup.

Hungry and tired, we gathered for pizza under the pines. The piano was in the kitchen and the couch was outside by the front door. The only thing missing were a few corncob pipes, a jug of moonshine and a banjo.

As dark descended, my trusty movers drove off and I was left with the cats. They crept from one room to the next, lurking around corners and moaning like tortured souls. They jumped up on window sills, then leaped to the floor and took off like something was after them.

Those windows were big and bare, so I hurried to drape them before who-knows-what discovered I was in there — all alone. I tore open cartons and pulled out one blanket after another. Thankful to find a hammer and nails, my anxiety level dropped with every window I covered.

Time to sleep, but where were the rest of our blankets? I would freeze rather than take them down from the windows. So I curled up under some throw rugs, dozing and waking to the moans of two neurotic cats. They wouldn’t shut up; it sounded like a horror movie. I heard every sound that night.

And I kept telling myself, “Well, it WAS you who wanted a cabin in the woods.”

But soon morning dawned. Again, full of hope and promise.

I opened the front door to the smell of piney air and sunlight streaming through the trees. Dew glistened on the grass. The deer scampered about. Bluebirds swooped down and draped ribbons through my hair.

(I get carried away sometimes.)

If you’ve ever moved, you know how nice it feels to have the packing and stacking part over and done with. Then you sit back, look around at all those boxes screaming for attention, roll up your sleeves and…

…pour yourself a big glass of wine!

Save the Plants!

Throw out a plant? Never!

In our family, we do everything in our power to save them: repot, fertilize, move it to another window, take it outdoors or bring it in. We take a cutting and put it in water hoping it will grow roots. Then we can start a new plant all over again!

My brother has it bad. He collected a jungle of plants over the years, some of which grew up to be taller than most in my family. He fusses over his plants more than I fuss over my writing. He farmed his babies out to all his siblings for care-taking duty.

I was gifted with his schefflera (Umbrella plant), which grew so leggy, I gave it a haircut. Unfortunately the plant didn’t survive. My mom felt so sorry for my brother she bought him another one. I think she’s feeding his habit.

My brother also had a tall cactus which his dog chewed into bits. Mom rescued the pieces and now she has lots of these plants growing in her house and on the deck.

The biggest one is three feet tall. I don’t like cactus so it was easy for me to resist.

Dad’s office has been home to the biggest, ugliest plant in the entire household. You couldn’t pay me to adopt that one. Its days are numbered though. It’s bad if Mom plans to get rid of it. She’s afraid it’ll reach over and grab the nearest person.

Mom has so many plants in her gardens that it’s a major production if hail is predicted. And we get a lot of hail! Dad built a contraption with plastic sheeting so she can cover her plants when the skies darken. It’s like Mission Impossible trying to cover all her flowers.

Dad likes to cut things back. He pruned their corkscrew willow almost to the ground and put a bucket over it. He wanted to open up the view of Pikes Peak from their dining room window. But Mom noticed green shoots growing out from under the bucket. “Just a little fertilizer and water should do the trick,” she laughed. (Bwahahaha!) Now her corkscrew willow is ten feet tall and Dad is under strict orders not to touch it again!

Mom asked me recently, “Laurie, I’ve been rooting some plants. Would you like one?” She’s so sneaky! She can’t find places to put all her plants as the weather turns colder, and she can’t bear to throw out the babies. So she pawns them off on all her kids. Last year she gave me a small spider plant and it grew so fast, I split it into three parts. And here she is trying to give me more. She’s devilishly clever.

I’m careful about plants I bring into the house. I hate those pesky little gnats that lay eggs in the potting soil. That’s the only thing that’ll make me toss a plant. I’ve tried everything to kill them (the bugs, not the plants): soapy water, “green” insecticides and even rap music. Nothing seems to work.

Last year I had tons of day lilies and a beautiful clematis with purple flowers. But something ate all the blossoms. I suspect it was those adorable deer and rabbits. Or maybe the moles are to blame. They’re all evil. Evil, I say! So this year I told my husband, “I’ll fix those pesky varmints,” and planted lots of marigolds. There isn’t a critter around that will eat marigolds.

But now it’s like a scene from Sophie’s Choice. Decisions, decisions. Which plants will I bring indoors and which will die a horrid death during our wicked winter? My geraniums are beautiful right now, sportin’ a bevy of peach colored blossoms. I want to save them all but we don’t have the room.

It’ll be different at our new house. We’re almost done with the plans and hope to dig dirt in the Spring. (My husband calls it soil; remember he’s an engineer.) We’ve made sure there are wide window sills for all my plants. And I’ve already transplanted “hens and chicks” from our property into pots rather than lose them to the jaws of construction equipment. Once the house is complete, I’ll transplant them back to grow and prosper. They will live to see another day!

Yes, I’m a lost cause when it comes to plants. It’s in my genes. Dad grew up on a truck farm and Mom was in the local Garden Club. My sister has a spider plant the size of an elephant in her powder room. My other sister has a beautiful patio covered in flowers, bright foliage and mini-lights. My little brother has an eight foot ficus in his house.

We are all plant lovers!

Wild and Crazy Road Trip

Family road trips bring back fond memories, don’t they? Everyone would pile in the car and snuggle up together for hours on end. It was a bonding experience with our sweaty little arms and legs stuck to each other on those vinyl seat covers. Why, when I was a kid, we couldn’t wait for the chance to leave our friends and favorite TV shows for hours of uninterrupted time with sisters and brothers. Yes, it’s true. I’m not kidding.

So, when we moved from northern California to upstate New York and I learned I’d have to drive it alone with the kids, I jumped for joy. Why, what better way to solidify that parent/child relationship than four days in a Sprint in July with no air-conditioning? Yep, keep ‘em cooped up in a car so they have no choice but to listen to you. Nothing but 2600 miles of open road and four days of togetherness!

Somewhere in Utah we ran into road work. Two lanes gradually merged into one, squeezing us into a narrow channel that was blocked on both sides by concrete barriers. It was unsettling. There was nowhere to go except forward. And it went on and on for miles. Thankfully the kids were quiet and calm, so I could focus on keeping us off the walls. Just like a bobsled team, we swiftly sped down and around, leaning into the curves.

All of a sudden, my eldest let out a blood curdling scream and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Mom! Get it off me! Get it OFF me!

Panicked, I darted my eyes from the chute up ahead to the rear view mirror. What was terrorizing my child? What could I do to make it stop?

But in the reflection, all I could see was a ginormous 18-wheeler. He was right on our tail, bearing down on us. He was close. Scary close. He blasted his horn. I couldn’t see the driver’s face. For a moment, I felt like Dennis Weaver in Steven Spielberg’s movie Duel!

MOMMMMMMY! GETITOFFMEEEE!” My six year old’s lungs were piercing my eardrums. The baby was crying. My middle son was yelling, “Bug Mom. BUG!” (The last time he did that, he was inches from a tarantula.)

Pressure. What to do? What to do?

There was nothing I could do (They say the only time a woman feels totally helpless is when her fingernail polish is wet. I beg to differ!)

So there we were with 40 tons of metal cozying up to my back bumper and a car full of screaming kids, barreling down a concrete runway with no escape. The bug played a starring role, but like the driver of that truck, I still hadn’t seen its face.

With nerves of steel, I tightened my grip on the wheel and yelled for everyone to calm down. (Yes, you know that worked, right?)

Then the concrete barriers gave way and we made our escape down the exit ramp and onto a wide and welcoming shoulder. Not a moment to lose, I threw open the door, sprang from my seat and rushed to the aid of my eldest.

It was about the biggest bug I’d ever seen outside a movie theater! It had a huge body with long, waving antennae and at least 18 legs. It had crawled up his shirt and onto his neck. He was paralyzed in fear. Hesitating for only a moment, I did what any good mother would do.

I asked my four year old to shoo it away!