Nein-One-One

I have a friend who doesn't believe in emergencies.

Do I really need to say that he's male, young, single and childless? In other words, he's free from the causes of most emergencies.

He also plans out his days with military precision and is able to stick to that schedule.

I plan out my days with the precision of a hyperactive rabbit on crack and I stick to that schedule for at least 30 seconds. Most of my days are a series of emergencies relieved by the occasional catastrophe. If I can get to lunch with just one major schedule change, I consider myself lucky.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should add that my friend has built his own successful small business, so the potential for emergencies is certainly there. Not to mention that he has to deal with me, so emergency-by-association is a statistical sure-thing.

In the interest of full, full disclosure, what he actually said was that he doesn't believe that every emergency has to be accompanied by a high level of drama.

Well, that just lacks a certain... dramatic flair.

At first I chalked it all up to his maleness, youthfulness, singleness, child-free-ness, and general Zen-like nature. Then I realized most of my emergencies aren't emergencies at all.

Well, I mean, they are emergencies. They just aren't my emergencies.

They only become my emergencies when I jump in with both feet to help. And they only become my emergencies when I rearrange my schedule to accommodate them, causing my back-log of things-to-do to become even more back-loggier.

Still, that doesn't explain the racing heart. The panicking. The worrying. The levitating.

Much to my chagrin, I realized I am a a drama resonator.

When you call me in a tizzy over your latest emergency and need my help I will abandon my plans in order to help you out. I can't help it. It's what I do. It's how I'm programed. It's a physical and psychological need. I don't mind. Really. I want to help. I have to help. Please let me help!

The helping isn't the problem. The tizz is.

When I offer to help, I also absorb a little of your anxiety. I tuck it away deep inside me where it starts to vibrate. Then my hyperactive planning rabbit taps his his lucky foot and shifts the schedule. Now I really have a thumping baseline.

As I fall further behind in my plans – meetings are scheduled, rescheduled and run late, a call goes out for volunteers, errands need to be run, appointments made and kept, deadlines shift and come due – my growing collection of anxieties join forces. They plug in the amplifier, turn it up to 11, and throw away the knob. After a while I feel like they will burst from my chest like that little critter from Alien, or my entire body will vibrate with such intensity I start to levitate.

I usually lean toward levitation.

The Queen Mother knew this about me (I had to learn it somewhere). Once, years ago, someone commented to her about how I remained calm when all about me was chaos. She just smiled and told them I was like a duck – unruffled above the waterline, but paddling like heck under water.

The problem with being a duck is that most people – myself included – don't realize when I'm one wrong-flavored tic-tac moment away from an epic meltdown. So if I go all head-spinning, pea-soup spitting, full-out wack-o on you, don't worry.

It's not you, personally. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The storm will pass quickly.

On the other hand, if I seem really, really calm....

Feb U

With all due respect to the great writers and philosophers...

February is the cruelest month.... The land lies dead, our memories dull. The warm blanket of forgetful snow shows bleak, broken grass in patches of despair. All hope is lost! Alas! Spring – and hopes of a Cubbie World Championship – are both denied. Cardinal fans needn't feel so smug.

One must be careful these days to avoid hyperbole, to take oneself too seriously. When one's extremities are frozen by a mere glance out yon window, there is shelter under red rock. With Travelocity, Expedia, and Hotwiredotcom, Kansas City becomes a tropic port.

February is the winter of our discontent.... February is the “not quite time” time. Holiday parties are finally over. The decorations are put away, except for that creepy Elf on a Shelf hiding between the couch cushions or at the far edge of the bookshelf watching... watching....

We half-heartedly throw Valentines' hearts around, making much ado about nothing. Filling up the nothing with something until... until.. until what?

We make plans. Plans for Spring and Summer, which will surely come, will they not? Home Shows, Garden Shows, RV Shows, Boat Shows, Car Shows, Motorcycle Shows, Dog Shows, Cat Shows, Hamster Shows and Dust Bunny Shows. The warmth generated by the over-coated masses, the narcotic effects of a day under flourescent lights, the smell of the fuel-oil, the roar of the generators ... all do little to dispell the fact that you have miles to go 'till you find your car. And it's all uphill. In the snow.

Both ways.

And the wind. The wind. The wind.

February is the best of times, it is the worst of times.... Mother Nature teases us relentlessly with brilliant sunshine, made even more brilliant by myriad tiny mirrors of accumulated snow. Her blinding radiance is accompanied by nose hair-freezing, sub-zero temperatures and breath-stealing wind-chills.

She is a tri-polar witch, melting snow today only to freeze it tomorrow and cover it with more snow overnight. Except for those patches of melty-freezy-mix lurking in the shadows on 40-degree days, masquerading as wet pavement, waiting to illustrate just how slick snot on a doorknob really is.

Go South, my friend, go South! Go South in February, while Snowbirds pack for migration North and Spring Breakers dream of beer-filled pools. While hoteliers ponder empty rooms and falling revenues. Go South while gas is cheap, and the last of the Christmas bills are pending. Go South before you regain your senses, realize your credit card is maxed-out, or try on last year's swimsuit.

Before the next freezing rain falls.

Go South.

February is the foulest Dementor,  draining peace, hope and happiness.... When the first snow fell (waaaaaayyyy back) in November, Facebook lit up with humorous photos, videos and cartoons of how we were tired of winter. By February all we can do is recycle old posts with a weak "lol." Caps Lock is too much effort.

We muster enough anger to curse the groundhog for a day or two, then slip back into our Febru-stupor. We rage, rage against the dying of the ligh…ehhhht. Why bother? Even daylight savings doesn't return until mid-March.

There may be some places where February is peachy-freakin' keen, but Eastern Iowa is not one of them.

So, with all due respect...

Feb-U.

Rary.

Wake me when it's March.

Told You Snow

There's nothing like an impending snowstorm to fill the grocery store with a mix of desperation-induced shoppers and adrenaline-rush junkies. Add in a bunch of last minute Superbowl snack supply runners, and they might as well hang the “abandon hope, all ye who enter here” sign over the entrance.

So there I was filling my cart with cat food (which I desperately needed), fruit (my contribution to the Superbowl party), and level two storm-survival foods: chips, dip, soda, cookies and wine. This last group looks a lot like Superbowl party foods, so I pretended that I wasn't getting a secret little thrill from preparing for the latest snow-pocalypse threat.

We Iowans are of hardy storm-preparation stock. We're not much prone to pantry-filling panic, or to believing a mid-week, long-range forecast calling for six to eight inches of snow over the weekend. We don't necessarily scoff at the forecast, but we certainly do consider it with a jaundiced eye. The weatherperson has cried snow-mageddon just a few too many times lately for blind trust.

Oh sure, we might pick up an extra gallon of milk on Friday, but that's only because we know we're running low anyway. And if worst comes to worst, at least that will keep us away from the grocery store when the Nervous Nellys decide they're short of... everything.

After all, what's six to eight inches of snow accumulation spread out over two days? A good excuse to try out the four-wheel drive, that's what.

It's hard to imagine being covered in a deep, fluffy blanket of snow when the sun is shining, it's a relatively balmy 40 degrees out, and you're standing ankle deep in the melted remains of last weekend's snowfall (which didn't live up to anyone's definition of a-snow-hilation).

We shop for storm supplies, not out of a sense of any real emergency, but because our Iowa-bred common sense calls for us to always be prepared. We still plan on getting out and driving through the worst of a snow-tastrophe if we have to/need to/want to or just to check on the crops.

But the clouds were taking on that creepy gray-green tinge and my knee was getting that twitchy feeling it gets whenever a low pressure system develops.

And we were almost out of cat food.

It's one thing to get caught without milk, or bread, or even salsa, but it's quite another to be running low on kitty kibble. I couldn't stand to be trapped in the house with a whiny cat for two days.

I fully intended to sneer in a very un-Iowan “I told you so” fashion as the “total inch accumulation” prediction plummeted.

But when the weatherperson said “beginning with freezing rain” and the “total inch accumulation” prediction actually increased, I started to see chinks in my larder.

Like cat food.

Even though the odds of this becoming the snow-taclysm they were predicting were slim to none, even though I felt foolish for giving in to the hype, I knew it would be worse to be caught unprepared.

The only thing better than the smug satisfaction I feel when the snow-vestation misses us, is the smug satisfaction I feel seeing our school on the list of cancellations as I sit with a full wine glass in my hand and a full snack bowl by my side.

And a warm, sleepy kitty with a full tummy on my lap.

In Heaven There Are No Jell-O Shots

The other day I needed to make a salad to take to a funeral dinner, so I did what any modern kitchen wizard would do.

I Googled it.

Usually I just take my go-to specialty for any gathering: orange sherbert/Jell-O salad. I even keep a supply of orange Jell-O and mandarin oranges in the cupboard in case of emergency.

The key ingredient, of course, is the pint of orange sherbert. That's just not something I'm willing to sacrifice freezer space for long term. And no one wants long-term orange sherbert, trust me. For some unfathomable reason, pints of orange sherbert can be very hard to find... especially when I am in dire need. This always makes me wonder: Is everyone else making this salad, too?

Do people actually eat orange sherbert by itself? Or is it like Cool Whip (the final ingredient), relegated forever to a supporting role?

As my wondering grows exponentially, eventually I arrive at: Do grocery stores on either coast even stock Jell-O and pints of sherbert?

We in the Midwest do love our Jell-O. Jell-O and sherbert seem to go hand in hand, at least when it comes to salads. Would I want to live in a world without Jell-O? Or sherbert?

This orange salad is a tradition in my husband's family. His grandmother used to make it for him and, as he was the only boy-child in the family, his mother and sisters followed suit. I'm more than happy to join the enablers because it is an easy, easy recipe. One that I have only screwed up a couple of times.

I have even been entrusted with the special bowl that Grandma always served it in. Or not. That's the problem with family recipes. There's a certain amount of built-in ambiguity – or as the hubby calls it “revisionist history.” Everyone remembers a different bowl and/or salad. (But if either sister is reading this: You are right. Your sister is wrong.)

While I happily make the salad, I draw the line at using The Bowl. Despite years of marriage, I carry outsider guilt. What if I break The Bowl?

Some family members think The Bowl was used for the other salad – a strawberry concoction that (may or may not have) had a pretzel crust and layer of cream cheese. Then again, either of the salads (orange or strawberry) may (or may not have) been made in a ring mold.

Of course it's not just my husband's family who perpetuate the whole recipe/serving dish family tradition.

My grandma always made what (I swear) she called “Heavenly Hash,” although if you Google it, you'll need to look for “Waldorf Salad.” Her version featured Cool Whip, mini-marshmallows, apple chunks, pecans, and swearing whilst halving the red grapes to remove the seeds. And it was always – always – served in a white milk-glass bowl.

My mom always made Four-Layer Dessert for funerals and other functions. She usually made chocolate (topped with chocolate curls) or coconut (with toasted coconut), but she was also known to make the occasional banana version (with real banana slices) if she was feeling wild and crazy.

My first memory of this dessert was a pistachio version made for a 4-H meeting, back when we always had color-coordinated refreshments served on glass snack trays. The punch (usually featuring sherbert) was served in matching glass cups, ladled out of an honest-to-God (glass) punch bowl.

The hub's family calls this dessert Texas Special, and it is almost exclusively chocolate. Not that I'm complaining. Everything tastes better when someone else make it.

I, myself, am a complete and total failure when it comes to making this dessert. I am unable (no matter how many tips my sisters-in-law give me) to successfully make the crust. However, I do double up on the cream cheese/Cool Whip/powdered sugar layer to compensate. In my humble opinion, this layer should be designated a salad in its own right and served in the Holy Grail.

But I digress.

My Google search for “funeral salads” was both surprisingly successful (apparently “funeral salads” is a popular search term), and dishearteningly un-varied. I am currently taking a class in nutrition, so I am victim of a nagging little voice that poo-poos all the traditional funerial salads: mayonaise, Cool Whip, mini-marshmallows, Jell-O... ewww! All of these are comfort-food – and thus funeral-salad – staples.

The problem is that in a pot-luck setting, everyone has their own speciality. I could have tried to branch out to broccoli salad, but someone always brings one of those. I could have tried pasta salad – ditto. Don't even think about pea-salad or macaroni salad, the market is covered. And potato salad straddles that fine line between side dish and salad. Better to commit a mortal sin than to annoy the church kitchen ladies.

Then there are my own personal food rules: no mixing veggies and fruit. Or veggies and Jell-O, if I can help it. God forbid you combine veggies and Cool Whip. Lime Jell-O deserves its own special ring in Hell. And, although I like raisins in theory (and by themselves), please keep them out of my salad. I will eat them in a broccoli salad provided it includes bacon, but I won't be happy about it.

While we're at it, the only Jell-O I want at my funeral dinner is Jell-O shots.

Let's just make this easy on every one and order pizza.

And beer.

And let's do it before I die.

Random Running Ramblings

One of the things I like about running is that it gives me an excuse to let my mind wander. Not that I really need an excuse. My mind is pretty free-range all the time. It's just that I don't even try to rein it in while I'm running. For example, I had my own “Ugly Sweater Run” through West Branch on New Year's Eve day, because I totally spaced off the start time of the official “Ugly Sweater Run” in Coralville (the downside to a free-range mind). My train of thought while running, ran like this:

Warm up, .25 mi. brisk walk: HOLY CRAP! The wind is blowing right through this ugly sweater! It is surprisingly not warm. This may not be the best idea I've ever had.

Sullivan St., distance run 0-.3 mi.: Hmmm, wonder which is crazier: my crush on Billy Joel – who is right now preparing for a concert in sunny, warm Orlando – or that I'm running 3 miles wearing an ugly sweater in 22 degree Iowa instead of sitting stage-side?

Base of Orange Street Hill, .31 mi., elevation 730.27 ft.: The best part about starting a run with the Orange Street Hill is that it's all down-hill from here. Heh, heh, heh.

Apex of OSH, .56 mi., elevation 785.23 ft.: Oxygen deprivation sure makes me giddy. Whew! The really best part about running up Orange Street Hill is that it heats you up. This ugly sweater is surprisingly warm!

Descent OSH, first stage, .56-.67 mi., elevation 785.23 to 743.04 ft.: Controlled descent. Don't fall now. Controlled descent, don't fall now. Controlleddescentdon'tfallnow.

Descent OSH, second stage, .67-.96 mi., elevation 743.04 to 708.87 ft.: Wonder how many layers I need on my ears to keep them warm?

Mile 1: Wow! After Sunday's six-mile run, this is gonna be cake!

North Fourth St., 1.17 mi.: Speaking of cake, am I burning enough calories for two pieces?

Orange Street Hill Part 2, 1.26 -1.34 mi., elevation 737.37 to 749.88: The best part about OSH Deux is... oh crap. There is no best part to this hill. I hate this friggin' hill.

OSH2, 1.34-1.42 mi., elevation 737.37 to 749 ft.: You know, I could have told the kids I was going for a run, hitched a ride to the bar, slammed a couple beers, hitched a ride home, and no one would be any the wiser. Why didn't I think of this...

Apex of OSH2, elevation 780.45 ft.:...UNTIL NOW!?

North Sixth St., 1.5 mi., elevation 769.9 ft.: DO NOT spit into the wind. Any wind. Controlled descent, controlleddescent, controlleddescent!

North Sixth and Main St., 1.68 mi., elevation 723.96 ft.: Look out for traffic crossing Maaaaaaiiiinnn StreeeeCRAP! The sun's in my eyes! I can't see! Stupidcarsgetoutamyway!

Main St., 1.68-1.93 mi., elevation 711.37 ft.: Ahhhh. The flat part of town. And windy. Windy part of town. Good thing this ugly sweater is warm.

Main St., 2 mi., elevation 710.93 ft.: But it isn't moisture-wicking. Holy Crap! I have sweat-cicles between my.... I have one big, flat, chest-cicle!

Main St., 2.04 mi. @ 718.43 ft.: This end of Main Street is...

2.16 mi. @ 744.55 ft.:...nothing but...

2.23 mi. @ 735.44 ft.:...one little hill...

2.3 mi. @ 752.98 ft.:...after another.

2.43 mi. @ 719.85 ft.: “Iowa is flat” my ass.

Main and Pedersen St., 2.58 mi., elevation 721.27 ft.: Where did this traffic come from? Gotta cross, gottacross, can't stop, can'tstop and... GOFASTSPRINT! SPRINT!

Pedersen St., 2.6 mi., elevation 727.08 ft.: That *gasp* might not have been the *gasp* smartest move since there is ….

Pedersen St., 2.66 mi., elevation 739.76 ft.: ...one last *gasp* friggin' hill. At least I don't have to run up Hilltop Drive (short side elevation change 24.57 ft. in 88 yards).

Pedersen St., 2.81 mi.: Wonder how much snot these gloves can absorb?

Pedersen and Orange St., 2.84 mi.: Almost done and my hands are sweating. At least I hope that's sweat.

Orange and Greenview, 3.02 mi.: If you can sprint to the end, you didn't run hard enough. I think I caaaaaannnnnnnn'T SPRINT, can'tsprint, CAN'T. SPRINT. No sprinting, Sir! After six miles Sunday, these three were awful.

Greenview and Sullivan St., 3.1 mi.: And breath! Phew! Time? What?! I knew I shoulda used the Billy Joel playlist!

Breath. Just. Breath.

Cool down, .25 mi. stagger: Running today?

Best.

Idea.

Ever.

Tomorrow? Hill Top Drive.

I'll be Home (Ec) for Christmas

Google “Home Ec -- I mean Family Consumer Science -- Christmas Lesson Plans” and what do you get?

Christmas Cookie Lab. Christmas Cookie Bake Sale. Christmas Cookie Sampler. Christmas Cookie Comparison. Christmas Cookie Swap. Healthy Christmas Treats (there's one in every crowd).

Ask the students, right after they fill out the Spooky Halloween Treat Lab evaluation, what do they want to do next?

“Make Christmas cookies.”

So when the principal asked me “Would your classes like to make cookies to serve during semester tests?” I said yes. (Actually, I gave him the “are you kidding?” look.) Then I asked my students.

Do you want to bake Christmas cookies? “Yes!”

For the other students? “Ummm....”

You can have some, too. YES!

I was feeling pretty confident in their abilities. After all, they made snacks for a conference-wide, school administrators' meeting last month. AND had recipe requests. All semester these kids have done incredible work in the kitchens. Sure we hit a rough spot with the “healthier options” recipes, but I think whole wheat Snickerdoodles are an acquired taste.

Some students have… contributed more than others. Some have... put forth more effort than others. But each of these students has made me incredibly proud at least once this semester.

All that ended with The Great Christmas Cookie Catastrophe.

I'm not blaming the kids. I should have known better than to use untested recipes (stupid Google search). I should have watched the oven timer more closely (and made sure they used it).

I should not have tried to buy Billy Joel concert tickets on-line as soon as they went on sale while trying to supervise the creation of a batch of festive, fudge-brownie cookies.

I felt like Goldilocks. One batch of cookies was over-cooked. One batch was under-cooked. One batch was... why did I approve an anise-flavored cookie anyway? And there is not enough time in a 45-minute class period for the students to do all the baking and cleaning.

To top it all off: I didn't get a ticket for the Billy Joel concert in Minneapolis.

Ouch. Way to kick a girl when she's down, Target Center ticket program. (It's not sold out yet, but I haven't liked the “best available” tickets they've “suggested” for me. I'm gambling here. Really, you think there's not gonna be one single, odd seat left on the floor? )

Final. Straw.

Camel's back? Broken.

So I stood, forlorn, in the kitchens as the students filed in for homeroom. I was stressed, surrounded by piles of inedible cookies, mountains of dirty dishes and flour-covered counters. And I was ticket-less.

There were tears.

Yeah. No. Really.

I cried.

Over cookies.

It was a brief, silent, ragged breathing, just a couple of tears overflowing type of cry. Not my proudest moment.

Wound. Too. Tight.

But one sweet boy talked me down. “Are you ok, Mrs. Salemink?”

He helped clean up the mess – a mess he didn't make! – and helped me sort out and salvage more cookies than I thought possible.

Santa's weepy elf might have to fill in a little around the edges (I'm just not sure high schoolers are ready for anise-flavored cookies. I'm not sure any one is, no matter what the Albuquerque Convention and Visitors Bureau says.) But it looks like the Home Ec – I mean Family Consumer Science – classes will help make semester tests (and Christmas – I mean winter – break) just a little brighter at West Branch High School.

Now if the Target Center would just cut to the chase and pony up a front row, center stage ticket we could put this whole ugly scene behind us.

And have a Merry Christmas. Cookie.

Be Good for Goodness Sake (Or Not)

The Queen Mother has always had a bit of an ornery streak. So I shouldn't have been surprised by her conversation with Santa at the nursing home Christmas party this afternoon.

“Dorothy, have you been a good girl this year?” Santa asked.

“Nope.”

That's my mom.

Santa was momentarily taken aback. He didn't immediately re-check his naughty/nice, but there was definitely a split-second of speechlessness. This 89-year-old, wheelchair-bound, white-cotton-candy-haired, quiet, gentle lady just told Santa she hasn't been a good girl this year?

Who would expect such honesty with Christmas looming on the horizon? Who would expect such truthfulness with a sleigh-full of goodies hanging in the balance? Who would expect such a midwest-candid “nope” delivered straight to Santa's rosey-cheeked face while he is still clutching her present in his gloved hand?

Me. I would. Yup. That's my mom.

After they recovered from the initial shock, everyone at our table had a good chuckle. None more so than The Queen Mother herself.

I laughed too, although I was more than a little disapointed in Santa's timing.

You see, Santa stole my speaking role. The Queen Mother and I have our set patter -- our little shtick -- and he horned in on my part. Each time I leave after a visit we go through the same routine: I kiss her cheek, hug her and squeeze her hand. I tell her “I love you. I'll be back soon. Be good.”

She wrinkles up her nose, sticks out her tongue and laughs.

So I squeeze her hand, hug her again, kiss her cheek and whisper “Be good. I love you.”

The second time I usually get a begrudging “I'll try,” accompanied with an exaggerated sigh and an eye-roll that rivals that of my teen-age daughter for theatricality.

Such drama begs my rejoinder: “Good, because someone has to do it, and it's not gonna be me!”

We do mix it up occasionally. Sometimes I'll tell her “No dancing on the tables!” This never fails to get us a strange look from whichever unexpecting nursing assistant is within earshot. Not that The Queen Mother ever danced on a tabletop (that I know of), and neither have I (that I remember). Although there was that one time she balanced the empty tortilla chip bowl on her head....

Sometimes she beats me to the punch and she tells me to be good. Then I get to deliver the world-weary sigh, roll my eyes and whine “Well, I'm so busy I guess I won't have time to get in trouble.”

The curtain call is always the same: One more hug, one more hand squeeze, one more kiss.

I pause in the doorway for one more goodbye. One more glance at this familiar stranger.

I search for that spark of orneriness that is my mom.

Her eyes shine. She is still there.

One more “I love you.”

Don't behave.