One Month Anniversary...Bring out the Bubbly!

We made it to our first full month of IDVA!

I still occasionally feel clueless with what I'm doing but I don't feel nearly as inept as when I first started. That has to count for something. I am still in tact. There has been no bloodshed. We're actually on track–relatively speaking. I have even taken on the task of volunteering as a booster chairman for the Rexburg area. To top it off, our one month anniversary falls on a Friday preceding the local school district's  week-long Fall Harvest Break so Anni and I are going to just take it easy these next seven days since I pushed her to catch up as much as possible in the last two weeks.

The stars are surely aligned. From our window, I see the grass waving with the breeze. It's a beautiful Fall day and I'm looking forward to a laid-back week to contemplate, catch up on my own personal projects, and enjoy a little more me-time.

Canning Madness

Anni finally learned to make jam tonight. Only she didn't learn it from me. For two weeks, I've been canning at a frantic pace with little help from the kids.


I think it was less than a little for that matter. I still haven't figured out what possessed me to do it considering how long it's been since I've handled a canner. It started out with a batch of canned peaches and spiraled out of control to preserves,  anaheim peppers, green chile sauce, the free batch of pinto beans that turned into several batches and I'm about to break new ground into canned sweet and sour sauce because a friend gave me a recipe that I couldn't resist. But my continued late nights and droopy eyelids have been due in part to the lack of helping hands other than my own.


Anni went to an activity tonight and I learned they were canning jam. Had I known that they were doing a hands-on demo, I would have volunteered my kitchen and the girls could have finished the rest of my canning chores. Needless to say, that didn't happen and I faced a pressure canner and a motherload of pinto beans. It was a good thing that I was down to my last batch.


On the plus side, Anni proudly told her friend recently that our pantry is well-stocked. The downside is obvious. The shelves didn't just happen to stock themselves. There sure was a heck of a lot of work put into it and–unfortunately–the work involved was all mine.

Be Breast-Aware

As if the general population wasn't aware enough of it already.

But the reality is that, perhaps we, ladies, should be more conscious of it than ever before.

Take the brassiere, for example. It's a universal fact that a significant number of us wear the wrong size bra due, in part, to vanity. This wardrobe basic has been around long before Miz Scarlett tightened those stays on her corset but our voracious appetite for frilly delicate confections–on the cheap–has supplanted proper fit.

One manufacturer touts "18-hour comfort" with their products but that pales significantly in comparison when compared to those with affordable sex-appeal and the promise to "lift and separate." As women, we sometimes put more value on form over function and we allow ourselves to suffer as a result.

The realm of sports bras has not escaped this value judgement either and yet it's even more critical to have supportive comfort to make a workout a pleasant recurring experience. A $30 investment on a sports bra may seem high but the benefits outweigh the price. Proper fit with excellent support, moisture wicking properties and quality construction will sustain you through an active lifestyle and repeated washings.

Breast awareness–specifically–breast cancer awareness is no less important in our efforts to maintain a healthy lifestyle. With a sobering statistic that one out of eight women will develop breast cancer, it is something not to be taken lightly. Like the brassiere, fit-ness should not be compromised. Early detection is important whether it's a simple self-check or a yearly mammogram for those 40 and over. Though uncomfortable at best, examinations are an important part of awareness and critical to making proper assessment.

So in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month, let's take the time to think about the value of our choices. Consider a re-fit and invest in a great bra at your local retailer or have a thorough breast examination done this month through your health care provider.

We have a saying at my fitness club and I think it qualifies as a golden rule: you can't manage what you can't measure and there's no better time than today.

Parenting 101: Wisdom is a Relative Term

Being a parent is much the same as being the president.

The buck stops with me.

The irony is that I don't even get the buck. If I did, I would have hired a surrogate and removed myself from the line of fire a while ago.

In theory, I ought to have the wisdom and the glory. Instead, I have the thankless job of housework. Cooking is apparently a divine calling with my name on it. As for the cause of all things bad? Strife? Hardship? Well, that would be me too.

It's no easy task and I am finding that fact magnified tenfold with a home-schooled hormonally challenged tweener.  Between the daunting task of navigating our way through this curriculum and Annika's penchance to turn the spigot on, I have reached the thin edge of reason.

A few nights ago, I was tempted to sling a glass or two against the wall just so that I could relieve the stress but why add to the drama? She was inconsolable. Her history essay came face to face with my gentle, though constructive, criticism. Add to that my careful non-judgemental efforts to correct her problem-solving math errors from the day before–and once again, I had inadvertedly opened the tap of her ultra-sensitive feelings even further.

I am at risk of creating my own private lake at the rate she's going.

All sorts of options rolled into my head, the least if which was to scream. Depending on my mood, I would have sternly admonished her about the futility of crying or coddled her out of misplaced guilt. That day, I dredged enough patience to leave on a  neutral position and told her that I was there for her when she was ready. I would like to think that frequent meditative exercises are helping because I need every ounce of calm I can muster for home-schooling and that day was no exception.

I tried to talk to her but that fell on deaf ears. I wanted to vent my own anxieties but that would have obviously been counter-productive although it was an interesting solution, don't you think? Shouting could have drowned out her crying.

So what was I to do? I was reminded this morning that it's all about the approach.

Be as wise as serpents–and as harmless as doves.

And sometimes, the wisdom is in just being able to walk away.

An Omen?

Growing up, my parents would tell stories of creatures in the forest and supernatural occurrences. My siblings and I would listen in rapt attention, wondering if some mythical beast would pounce on us from every dark corner or if a recently deceased relative would visit from the grave to bestow upon us a measure of comfort or vengeful wrath (either way, I didn't want them to visit me).

We were also raised in a swirl of superstitions. Apparently, everything you do–or don't do–has moral consequences and it doesn't have to be some major act of grace or greed. Heaven forbid that I slept with my hair wet, or I ironed clothes before washing dishes, or I broke a mirror, or I gave an empty purse for a gift, and on and on and on.

As much as I would like to think that I am beyond all that, so much of what they have taught us still lurks in my mind and defines my actions, either consciously or unconsciously. In many ways, these were lessons. I am still hesitant to throw away rice, in part because my mother believes that to waste rice is bad luck, but I also do believe it is wasteful. When I am alone in the house, I will occasionally feel a creepy tingle run down my back though I won't turn around because I will likely close my eyes and find myself someplace I'm not supposed to be when I open them.

(Okay, I haven't quite figured out what the lesson is on that one.)

And from stories, we learned too. My dad loved to tell us of his boyhood growing up at the family farm in Lucena. His scarier tales were the most memorable. He would describe encounters with a fearsome aswang (a vampire witch) who stole babes from the womb or a kapre (a tree demon) smoking his pipe tobacco in the woods while playing a prank on an unsuspecting passerby. I think it is no coincidence that I don't care for vampire shows (they're a waste of time anyways), hate the smell of cigarette smoke (bad for your health) or use garlic in virtually every dish I make (good for your heart).

Recently, Annika and I drove down to the local animal shelter to volunteer. On the way there, she noticed a grasshopper anchored to my side window, its antennae bending with the wind, as we traveled the distance from our house to the shelter. I had expected it to fly off or be taken away with the force of the moving air but it remained stuck unfazed on the glass through the ride.

It was an odd sight. My experience with grasshoppers on my car runs more along the lines of bug-splatter on the windshield. This particular hitch-hiker was not what I had expected. It stayed with us even after I had pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car and closed the door. I walked away in wonder. Are those littler buggers supposed to do that?

Maybe it's because of my upbringing but I believe in karma and that everything happens for a reason. So I looked into my Google crystal ball to see if there is some meaning behind this visit or if it really was just hitching a ride to to an unknown destination.

They have been know to be harbingers of doom and the all too realistic locust plagues. On the flip side, grasshoppers are also symbols of good luck and new beginnings. Should a grasshopper appear to us, "we are being asked to take a leap of faith and jump forward into a specific area of life without fear."

I'll take a leap of faith for $1000, Alex.

Homeschooling, canning, volunteering along with a few others come to mind and, quite frankly, a positive spin to this omen is far more palatable than dismal news from a six-legged bug. And should my departed kin see it fit to visit me, I still would prefer that they leave me a letter or a will instead. Please, no floral scent or tobacco smoke to tell me if my moral compass is working or not.

I am fearless but I will keep garlic handy...just in case.

The Cult of Homeschooling

Something has been bothering me since last week.

I consider myself a fairly liberal thinker. I gave up the notion of pursuing a career in the military after my second year stint in college ROTC when I finally reconciled with a senior cadet's assessment of me as a quibbler. My dad once said I was a maverick but please don't assume that my sentiments are in anyway similar to Senator John McCain. When my son, Colter, asked me today if I followed the recipe for the canned peach preserves that I slaved on for the past few days, I unrepentantly said no–and it was still damn good, wasn't it?

Looking back, I admit that I rarely followed the rank and file, never drew within the lines and always pushed the limits of my insanity. So to find myself encouraging online home schooling would appear out of character for me. Never mind that I have always been proud of my food pantry and that I once voted republican in support of Bush No1 along with numerous mistakes I've made along the way.

But homeschooling?

I think that I mentioned something along the lines of stark raving mad. If you had asked me what I knew of homeschooling ten years ago, an image of women in home-made long dresses would have come to mind. My knowledge has broadened since then but I still regard homeschooling as a realm for über-dedicated mothers who had more time in their hands than I barely had in one finger. Plus, I don't subscribe to conservative notions of cloistered education. So it was as much a surprise to me as it was to everyone else.

It was buyers remorse from the moment I filled out the paperwork to enroll the kids into Idaho Virtual Academy. Technically, it is a state-chartered online public school. Still, in my head it was home + kids = homeschool so I schlepped through the process, unwilling to believe that I really did what I had done. Despite my misgivings, I wanted to give it an honest try so I told my inner nag to shut the hell up. I joined online parent forums that seemed interesting and "followed" everyone like a virtual stalker. I bounced from one conversation to another–eavesdropping in search of other sites that could give me more insight into the school, the curriculum and the homeschoolers themselves.

What I learned re-adjusted my perceptions. On one hand, I don't doubt that there are those who fit the homeschool stereotype replete with their own dogmas, anti-establishment beliefs, and other even baser, if not criminal, motives. Yet on the other, this was as diverse a group as I have found anywhere with a striking variety of circumstances that brought them together.

Some parents sacrifice careers to homeschool, while others balance their kids' needs with work and even their own schooling.  Add to that the admirable number of single parents along with families who walk this path to accommodate special needs. Heretofore, my knowledge of learning disabilities were limited to ADD, OCD and TAS because of my son. Suddenly, I had a wider vocabulary base consisting of acronyms–a veritable word salad of letters that makes texting look like child's play.

Differences aside, they hold that common goal to provide their children a more individualized, arguably better, education and it would appear that I have joined the ranks of these very determined people.  Daily, in parent chat rooms and Facebook, I hear their calls for support and people respond. We come together and share ideas for success and commiserate through the melt-downs, the resistance, the enormous amount of time it takes to finish a school day. It comes with a great reward but it is hard work. As the cliché goes, this is not for the feint-hearted.

Recently, I found myself wearing the other shoe, the strange object of curiosity to another. A conversation with a Frenchwoman lead to the subject of homeschooling. In retrospect, I  realize now that, like many in her country, she shared that view of homeschool as a social anomaly. Only a very small segment of the population opt out of the highly centralized education system in France. Though it holds legal status, homeschooling is heavily regulated and families often face greater restrictions in the government's attempts to guard against cults.

"Do you also teach Annika the same social values of your community?" the Frenchwoman asked.

That question threw me off guard and it made me wonder. Did she really think I was one of those crazy people? Was that how others saw me now? That I suddenly checked out from reality and went around the bend? In the back of my head, I could think of a number of people who may see this as a potential for intervention. It probably didn't help my image that I have been fast and furiously canning in the last week.

But I have to get over that. I did what I had done for the benefit of my kids. Homeschooling is increasingly becoming a little more mainstream in the US. Twice this month, two K12 virtual academies were featured in local and national news. Such positive exposure should help increase awareness and dispel the insidious effects of long-standing stereotypes and misinformation.
 
Lately, I have been careful to refrain against what Tom Brokaw, in a recent interview, spoke of as great sweeping judgements. There is a tendency to over-generalize and over-simplify. I am not a stupid democrat any more than a republican is an idiot. Mexicans are no more lazy as all Muslims are terrorists. And despite the occasional skeletons in our closets (and everybody has one),  homeschoolers are no more "crazy" than the rest of us who share the same dreams and aspirations, faults and fears that make up the never-ending character of our human condition.

Fresh as a Daisy

When you're living with two tweeners, a husband who drags his grease-covered work clothes home, and a chocolate lab who appears to be perpetual shedding, something eventually happens.

It starts to stink.

Of course, who am I to talk. I have some clothes in the closet that gets repeatedly hung back on the rack after each use and shoes that ought to be aired out. And that's just in the bedroom. Cooking odors never seem to go away no matter how many times I clean the house. Those invisible grease particles have taken up permanent residence on walls, cabinets, and every other surface they can latch on to–giving new meaning to "you are what you eat" and we apparently eat a lot of delectably artery-clogging stuff.

Hey, admit it. I bet you never came home to a salad dinner and told the cook it smelled heavenly.

But the combination of sweat, food, dog and my son's 14 year-old aroma gets to me after a while. It isn't that the house really smells like the local transfer station though it sure feels like it's coming in a close second. Maybe that was what caused my anxiety level to spike up this morning.

I love the smell of a new car and I am convinced there are special cleaners that give even used cars in the lot that new car smell. Walking into an empty new house is an olifactory delight with only the distinctly separate odors of freshly painted walls, stained wood and unspoiled carpet to invade my nose.


Of course, that's my OCD talking so I had to forcibly set that impulse aside and find a more constructive solution to my dilemma. I wanted to throw open all the doors and windows in the house and purge that well-used, lived-in smell. Unfortunately, it was damn windy outside and I really didn't feel like having to add dusting to my cleaning chores.

Forget Febreze. At about five bucks a bottle, I wanted a more economical way with ingredients I already had in the house. Google saved me. (for that matter, it always saves me). I found a recipe online and decided to create a homemade brew to deodorize the house. Once mixed, I sprayed what I considered the big offender of the moment.

No, it wasn't my son. He just needs to actually use the deodorant we bought him and, as we point out. it has to make contact with his skin to work.

I went to my bedroom. I sprayed the closet, the bedding, the rug, I stepped out and stepped back in a few minutes later. I sprayed again. I left. I came back. In the closet, I wasn't assaulted with the smell of sneakers and leather. That was promising. I lay on the bed and waited. I detected a faint smell of fabric softener and I my anxiety lessened.  The solution seemed to be working.

Aaahh, that blessed clean smell and my world was alright again.

And at just a modest cost, this ought to get the Good Housekeeping Seal stamp of approval.

2T Snuggle • 2T Baking Soda • Water • 24oz spray bottle

Lessons Learned Along the Trail

Nothing like a Monday holiday to start the week. For that matter, every Monday should be a national holiday. All in favor?

With the long weekend behind us, we went for a lovely hike this morning that jump-started our official week. We joined a group of ladies along the Aspen Trail at 7am for a mild upward climb along this singletrack bike trail. The group split–with others heading for the steeper route–while Annika and I joined my French companions along the less strenuous path. They chatted away, rapid-fire in their native tongue mixed with English, while I struggled to just keep my lungs open. Annika was the center of their curious questions about "homeschooling" as we walked, itermittently stopping (gratefully) along the way to enjoy the views of the valley below, the ripe serviceberries, and for Dominique to gather seeds to try and grow back in France.

Dominique, Annika, Simone and Janine

The trail leveled out and the topic soon turned to other subjects–travel, plants, snippets of our histories. I enjoyed talking with them but I enjoyed listening to them even more as they spoke softly with those distinct glottal and nasal stops that make the language sound "romantic" to many.

It certainly had appeal and I hoped that Annika found their company equally enjoyable and reinforcing. They were enamored with her and eagerly praised her choice to learn a language–German nonetheless.  I suspect that she was just as fascinated with them no matter her response when I asked of her thoughts about our French-speaking trail mates.

"After a while, it just started to sound the same!" she said nonchalantly. Maybe she won't be saying that as she gets further into her German lessons.

We parted ways after the hike. Anni promptly took a nap shortly after our return home. Later, I noticed that she was watching Andrew Zimmern in a Bizarre Foods episode featuring, of all places, Paris. So maybe she was paying attention, after all.

I planned on putting this two-hour hike under PE attendance. Maybe I could count this time well spent under her Language Arts class as well.

My eBooks Soapbox

Don't get me wrong...

I have moved on with just about every avid reader I know who has switched to an e-reader device or app. Which does incite a twinge of guilt because I used to work for, and understood the inner workings of, an independent bookstore.  But just as with dinosaurs, I suppose that Darwin's Theory will take hold in this arena too though I doubt that bookstores will completely disappear. The big stores have a foothold on e-books right now and I suspect that a few of the smaller independents will adapt and survive in some manner. Hey, the cockroaches did–for what that's worth.

We have a sentimental–if not speculative–attachment to our history. We nurture it. We hold on to it. We pass it on. In the case of books, I don't doubt that there will be, still, a continuing demand in the future. There's still nothing like the ability to touch, feel, and see centuries-old stitched and bound volumes. I love my collection of first edition and autographed books from favorite writers and artists. Photo books are increasing in popularity. I sure can't seem to part with my old English textbooks and I continue to add to my stick-built bookshelf despite my growing database of e-books.

At an average price of about 10 bucks a book, corporate predictability is getting me pretty pissed off. Add to that their systemic logic of locking my books with DRM is enough to send me over the edge. And, NO, I'm not talking about having an "entitlement" behavior. I respect authors rights to be paid for their work. I have little liking for the Walmart mentality. I am certainly more than willing to pay for my book, in digital or hardcopy format.

But when I am paying for an e-book that, though a decade old and still in print, is costing me almost as much as a new release and equal to that of its trade or paperback counterpart, it gives me pause. When I find that it is locked with DRM, my bitter behavior comes to the surface.. Illogical? Unreasonable? Unjustified?

Maybe.

DRM is a digital rights management software. It controls who reads a book and how it is read. I suppose that the theory behind DRM is to prevent commercial piracy. The reality, however, is far from accurate. Piracy can happen outside of DRM and it really just comes down to the pimp and the money–and publishers have multiple bed partners to please.

Now put that in your pipe and smoke it. I just spent the better part of the day trying to figure out the ins and outs of DRM removal. I don't have a nefarious plan to open up a black market shop. Over the last few years, I have paid for a number of e-books using Stanza with books from Fictionwise. I also used eReader, Amazon's Kindle and, finally, I have settled on the Nook. With so many places in which these e-books are scattered in, I merely want to consolidate my collection and I sure don't want to have to pay for them all again just because I used different readers at one point.

I do have a bone to pick with Barnes and Noble because both eReader.com and Fictionwise are Barnes and Noble companies. I had to remove the DRM off of these particular books so that I can read them on the Nook. You would think that cross-integration would be allowed.

But that would just be too logical. Too reasonable. Too justified.

Pedigree Isn't Everything.

I admit. I'm a CONSUMER with a capital "C" right along with the remaining 7 letters of the word. Does that make me a Joneser? Probably. But I crave a bargain just like everybody else.

I've been know to shop the high-brow stores. I am an Mac addict and with the exception of my cellphone, I've poured thousands of dollars into their products (let's face it, they don't call those other computers PC's for nothing) and only from the Apple Store. I strolled into a Coach Store on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and bought a $500 purse on a whim. I can't begin to number the boutique stores I've shopped in to fill my ever-expanding closet.

On the other hand, I don't hesitate to search the bargains. Next to TJ Maxx, the thrift store has been an occasional friend. I also shop online, cut coupons, and when I see something in a friend's closet, I trade. When it comes to household basics and food, I'm even more brutal.

As I sit here, half of what I am wearing is from the local See n' Save–terrific DKNY jeans and casual J-41 suede shoes that are still in awesome condition. God bless those meticulous, unknown, ladies for bestowing me with stylish, near-new clothes that would have set me back a good couple of hundred dollars, yet cost me a mere five bucks last week.

So I still put on a good show and you would have been none the wiser.

Oh, Shoot!

Okay, I am really getting tired of having to red-line articles in my local newspaper.

I am baffled by the persistent spelling and grammatical errors. Don't get me wrong. I occasionally misspell and I often worry about my sentence structures. But I also re-read my writing to check myself.

Unlike our local rag which–like other periodicals–I hold to a higher standard.

"...the people responsible for the damage gained entry through the boiler shoot located in the back of the building..."
 
Annoying still is that the writer spelled it this way on two occasions. If you want me to take you seriously, don't waste my time having to tell you that shoot is a verb and chute is a noun.

It's my Fault?!?

Well, that's hardly fair–what did I do?

I was just blamed for Annika's poor math skills. Sure, blame it on Mom. It must have been me because who else could it be. I'm the only other person here.

This is the process of elimination at work. The chocolate lab doesn't count so, since I am the only one here, it is summarily my fault.

I can see a pattern here. I am going to be a moving target for my kids in the next year. Forget that I have only been a learning coach for a week. Or that she has only asked for my help twice in the last week. I can only hope that next week is going to be better.

Please Excuse my Dear Aunt Sally

I don't recall an Aunt Sally on either side of my family. I don't think there's a Sally on DH's side either.

But today, I wish I knew dear Aunt Sally as I sat next to Anni while she worked on her math lesson. My headache was building at the same pace as Anni's frustration and tears. She wasn't getting the Order of Operations concept and I desperately needed for Sally to be there because I really never did like math–and quite frankly, I sucked at it.

In college, I changed my major from Accounting to English when I realized that my aptitude for numbers was less than stellar. Forget following my parents' footsteps. Today, I hire a bookkeeper to keep track of my business and the best trait I picked up from my Dad was his great mechanical engineer's penmanship that I use when called upon to design my clients' kitchens and bathrooms.

So in the end, we just plowed through it together. Unfortunately, I was apparently a bit of a hindrance as much as I was some help because I screwed up one of her assessment questions. She made a point to tell me that, I got it wrong. She wasn't about to lay claim to that mistake and I don't blame her.

On the other hand, you'd think that because I have managed to make mistakes on the order,  she would have figured out that I am dear Aunt Sally.

If I was Stranded in an Island

... or if I found myself the only one left in this planet.

... or if I accidentally time-travelled back in time to the medieval ages.

... or if I found myself suddenly facing a permanent slow food movement along with loss of advanced medicine as we know it and surviving a socio-political breakdown à la Mad Max.

Sure, I've imagined these scenarios. I have even been forced to sit through one or two conversations about post-apocalyptic survival. One camp wants to create their own munitions depot in their backyard. The other wants to put more emphasis in food storage and preparing now with a regimen of iodide anti-radiation pills.

I prefer to find that third camp–the one that has managed to salvage the search engine servers and kept them going. Presumably, they're also the smartest. That said, I hope to be left in this planet with the internet still intact, and travel back in time with my laptop in the hopes that I can still get five-bar-signal from those satellites in space.

It should be obvious. Guns kill people and I don't care what the NRA says. My cooking methods run less by memory and more along the lines of semi-homemade. First aid to me means a trip to the local clinic or someone bleeds to death. So when the shit hits the fan, and I have to quickly decide if I am going to join those who duck and run for cover because they don't know what to do or join those who take away your cover because they don't know what to do, I'd just as soon make the choice knowing that I have Google on my side–better yet, accessible through my brain.