Category Archives: Ann in Real Life

Our Sunny Valentime (Strategic Spontaneity IV)

Posted on by
Reply

Four year old “Sadie” looked forward to this grandpa/grandma/grandchild  date ever since we started the tradition with her oldest sibling last August.  Six months is a long time to make a four-year-old wait.  In fact, she cried a puddle of tears when she learned that her other sister and her cousin (grandchildren #2 and #3) would be in line before her.  We hadn’t considered how difficult the concept of seniority would be for a child.

On our car ride to her house, I tapped my husband on the arm and sighed, “This will make a little girl extremely happy.”

My husband patted my hand and winked.  “And, I think it’ll make Sadie happy, too.”

Grandchild #4 forfeited her favorites for this experience.  She didn’t wear her 12 hour/day, seven days/week pink outfit. She didn’t bring her blankets.  And, she even let her mom wash, brush, and put a barrette in her hair.  This made us feel colossally  important.

The best thing about Sadie? She’s an exuberant conversationalist.

She bit her corndog and pointed like a miniature Vanna White to the red and pink decorations around Culvers.  “Hey! Gwamma, do you know why there’s heawts eveywhere?”

I took a wild guess. “Because they love us?”

“No, sillllly! ” she laughed like it was the best joke ever, “It’s because it’s almost Valentime’s Day!”

As my husband buckled her into her car seat, she pointed out the window, “Hey! Gwampa, what does that water tower do?”

“I’m thinking it holds water.”

“Silly!  It has a super dooper drain so it can go to all our sinks!”

On the way to the Mall of America, “Hey! Let’s sing songs!  I’ll start. Boom chicka, boom chicka…”

On the ferris wheel, “Hey! Sometime can we come here with my flamily?”

Eating ice cream, “Hey! Sanks  for bringing me to the Mall of the Merika.”

On the car ride home, in the middle of an I Spy game, “Hey! Gwamma!”

“Yes, Sadie.”

“When will I die?”

Uurch!  It’s lucky I wasn’t driving.  I might have braked or jerked the car into the next lane.  My husband and I looked at each other. Where did THAT question come from?  Either she assumes her Grandpa’s the crazy driver or she thinks we’re really old.

Me, trying to match her tone of enthusiasm: “I don’t know, Honey.”

Grandpa: “None of us knows when we’re going to die.”

“Oh.”

Then Sadie broke into a flamboyant and cheerful song about dying and Jesus and Heaven and friends and “Tree”.  (Tree is her favorite blanket.  It has trees on it.)

“Hey! Can I have Tree in Heaven?”

Me: “Absolutely, Sweetheart! Jesus knows the desires of your heart.  I’m sure you can have Tree and everything you love — all your blankets and more.”

“I would like to have Tree in Heaven. Hey! Can we have food in Heaven? Hey! I would like to have corndogs  and ice cream in Heaven  Hey! And, my flamily?  I would like my flamily to be in Heaven.  Hey! Let’s sing a song. I’ll start.

Boom chicka, boom chicka…”

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Posted on by
Reply

Happy birthday, Mom! Mildred Lucille passed from this life into the next almost seven years ago.   We miss her, but know she’s very much alive, loving us in ways we can’t yet appreciate.
Recently my husband and I attended a Rediscover: faith talk where the speaker challenged us to join him in considering our purpose in this world.  Then he got our attention. “Every action reveals our answer. Every action is an investment we can never get back bringing us closer to or further from who we want to become… Will we leave an inheritance that will last?  Are we building lasting value?”

Mom lived a modest life. Based upon the world’s standards she’d be considered an utter failure.  She didn’t obtain a college degree.  She died with no sizeable estate.  She never had a powerful job.

But, by otherworldly standards, she was our family’s most productive stock broker.  She left an inheritance that will last. She invested in faith, hope, and love — and then gave it all away.

From all of us: Thanks, Mom! We LOVE YOU!

Strategic Spontaneity III

Posted on by
Reply

Cowabunga!  We are on an unexpected roll with our grandparent/grandchild dates.

January 25 I received a 2:50 a.m. phone call from our daughter-in-law that her water broke.  We rejoiced when grandchild #6 (“Spidey 2”) arrived without complications around 11:30 a.m. late that morning.

Spidey 2 came into the world only three days before his big brother’s (Spidey 1’s) fifth birthday, so we had two occasions to celebrate.  After meeting Spidey 2, birthday festivities,  sledding with Spidey 1, and helping the exhausted parents for three days, I offered to take Spidey 1 to our home for three more. This would give the parents some alone time to rest and bond with Spidey 2.

As we traveled, it occurred to me that Spidey 1 would be disappointed upon arriving at our home, because “Papa”, my husband, wouldn’t be there. He had to attend a meeting. That’s when I remembered Strategic Spontaneity.  Spidey 1 was due for a date.  After all, he was third in the grandchild line of progression, after his seven and six year old cousins.

As the Mall of America sign came into view I asked Spidey, “How’d you like to go to the Mall of America to eat?”

“No, I don’ wanna eat. I wanna see Papa. Look! An airpane!”

“Mmhmm, an airplane. You have to eat. And, you could pick whatever you want.”

“No, I don’ wanna go to the Ma of Amer-ca.  I wanna see Papa. Is that biwding a hopsital? A baby came out of Mommy’s belly at a hopsital.”

“No, that’s not a hospital. But it looks like a hospital, doesn’t it? Papa won’t be home until later.  How would you like to go on a Nanna date?”

“A Nanna date?”

“Yeah, a Nanna date — where you eat at Burger King or McDonald’s or A & W Rootbeer and go on rides.”

“Rides? I like Nanna dates.”

Spidey 1 is less complicated than the girls.  He would have been ecstatic spending the entire excursion on the escalators. But people (security) started to get annoyed.

Once he saw the amusement park, he let out a sigh like he’d seen the Great Pyramid of Giza.  He found Nirvana.  He declined the customary sibling gift shopping.  (After all, he’d already bought a Kit Kat for Spidey 2.)

He only stopped to eat his chicken nuggets after I bribed offered the choice: eating them = more rides or not eating them = going straight home.

He even chose one more spin in lieu of ice cream.

On the way home, Spidey sat in his carseat in the dark back seat, covering his head with his favorite blanket, so he could suck on his index finger in private. I heard the suction popping noise as he pulled his finger out of his mouth. “Nanna, I like Nanna dates.  Can we go again t’morrow?”

We didn’t, but Spidey 1 didn’t notice.  Instead, he enjoyed three more glorious days of dates with me, Papa, and his aunt, uncle, and three cousins.

We returned Spidey 1 to his home and family over the weekend and assured Spidey 2 that we’d be back soon for his turn, which would involve a bottle and a diaper change — kind of like what Papa and I will enjoy in a few years.

Now, as I sit at my desk, I realize that I’ve missed some submission deadlines.  At first this made me sad. But then I consider, there will always will be conferences to attend and agents, editors, and publishers to meet, but Spidey 1 will only be seen in public with his Nanna until — um — well, I’ll keep you posted…

Strategic Spontaneity II

Posted on by
Reply

As posted in September, my husband and I committed to individual dates with our grandchildren. We’d intended to do this twice a year with each child.  But, with five grandchildren, and another making his debut any minute, we needed to step it up.  So, we finally enjoyed our first date with our second grandchild.  Coordinating around runny noses, holidays, work, school, and family time becomes more challenging as they grow.

Our date with “Tinkerbell”, granddaughter number two, age five, was even less spontaneous than our date with “Katie“, granddaughter number one.  Tink wanted to do everything we did with her sister — only, with amusement rides.  One thing we hadn’t thought about: 5:30-7:30 p.m. in January is a lot darker than 5:30-7:30 in August.  Also: 5:30-7:30 p.m. in January is a lot colder than 5:30-7:30 in August.  So, our repeat environment seemed a bit dreary in comparison to the first.

To add to this dismal atmosphere, once we found a vacant table in the Mall of America food court, a maintenance man had a seizure. Our five-year old granddaughter sat with her mouth gaping open as my husband rushed to assist the fallen, convulsing man and I dashed to the nearest concession for assistance in calling the mall emergency line.  Once we and Tink were assured he’d be okay, our cold food didn’t seem very appetizing, so we whisked her off to Nickelodeon Universe.  There, we would have to have fun in a hurry.  We only had time for three rides.

Since Minnesota time moves according to the thickness of molasses — teenage amusement ride attendees move much slower in January.  By the time we got on and off the Merry-Go-Round, we only had time for one more ride.  Tink’s selection: the Hot Air Balloons.  We thought we remembered the entrance location.  We didn’t.  Grandparent’s minds work slower in January, too.  We walked the perimeter of the indoor park one and a half times before we found it — at the hour we should have taken her home.

While we stood in line, I asked if she’d like both of us to ride with her or just Papa, since I joined her on the Merry Go Round.  “Just Papa,” she said.  “Otherwise, who’s going to take pictures?”

The attendant had a broken foot. Oh no!  The good news: the ride held approximately 20 big and little people.  The bad news: Tink and Grandpa were  customers 21 and 22.  After 12 and a half excruciatingly slow rotations, they boarded.

Tink had a funny incident descending the American Girl Doll escalator before, so I was happy for her uneventful ride with Grandpa.

After 12 and a half more flights around the pole and 25 blurry pictures, we swept Tink off to the nearest escalator to the ice cream concession.  No time to ask what dessert she preferred.

As we enjoyed our sweets, a little girl, about seven, sat beside Tink.   Obviously, a serious dance competitor or child beauty contestant  in her short sequined dress and giant bow, the girl polished a small trophy, hoping to win Tink’s adulation.  Unsuccessful, she batted her false eyelashes — the ones below her blue eyeshadow, and above cheeks of rouge.

“Oh, brother,” I thought, “Tink’s parents are going to kill us if Tink decides she needs make-up or false anything.”

Luckily, Tink’s half of a mint ice cream chocolate cookie sandwich won her adulation instead.

Even though we knew it was late, we couldn’t forego the dollar store sibling gifts.  Tink selected a bottle top necklace kit for sibling number one, a paint set for her younger sister, miniature dinosaurs for her toddler brother, and Tinkerbell coloring pages for herself.  She even found Valentine candy for her parents.  (Coincidentally — Tink’s favorites.)

As we drove her home, I thought about how Tink had rarely been anywhere without a sibling.  I’m sure it seemed weird, riding alone in the dark back seat with Grandpa and Grandma up front, so I turned and mouthed “I love you” with each passing mile — amidst insincere, giggly protests.

We thought Grandpa and I would be grounded for missing Tink’s curfew by an hour, but her parents were surprisingly calm.  The whole family swarmed us as Tink proudly distributed her gifts.

Tink and Katie hugged — an atypical occurrence. “Do you like your present?” Tink asked.

“I LOVE it,” Katie gushed.

Tink beamed. Grandpa beamed. Grandma beamed.

Hmmm…Strategic spontaneity still works — even when it’s a repeat performance in the dark.

Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda

Posted on by
Reply

Now is the season to change our Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda blues to Do-I-Did-I-Did-I’ve-Done-‘N-Did-That-Too (sung to the tune of Doo-Wah-Diddy by Manfred Man, of course).

For instance, I wanted to listen more and talk less in 2012. (Part of the whole “love better” goal.)

  • I shoulda. Listening isn’t rocket science.
  • I coulda, if I’d have just shut my pie hole.
  • I woulda, with a little discipline.

I just could not shut up for the life of me.  Obviously, I need to go to Wal-Mart for the Ears of Steel DVD.

A friend told me a story that offers the motivation to remedy my verbal diarrhea problem, but I hadn’t listened well, she doesn’t answer my calls (since I never let her talk), and I can’t find the story on the Internet.  Nonetheless, I’m going to share my flawed, paraphrased  understanding of her story, because it inspires me and I hope it will inspire you.

Once upon a time a female reporter enjoyed the prestigious honor of sitting between two extraordinary men at a banquet.  On her left was the most interesting man she had ever met.  He fascinated her with colorful stories of African safaris, world leaders he had influenced, and global events he had affected. Despite this man’s astounding accomplishments, her favorite dinner companion was on her right — for he was most interested — in her.

The man on her left:                                              The man on her right:

On a similar note, years ago I asked an author friend, “How can I become a better writer?”

Her answer? “Write.”

I expected something more philosophical and complex, like: “Climb a mountain, jump out of an airplane, walk in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway, contemplate the pyramids, then pat your head while making circles on your belly.”

“Write” is so simple, yet so hard.  I just cannot shut off my distracted mind for the life of me.  A typical morning at my desk:  “Did I forget to shave one leg?  Oh look, the neighbor’s on our front yard, bringing his adorable dog to leave a present. I’ll have to bring our adorable grandson and his potty chair (without the ‘catch receptacle’) to the neighbor’s yard to return the favor. Ouch! What’s that on my chin — a cactus sticker?…”

Sigh. It’d be easy to become discouraged.  But, my wise, successful friends stand as beacons of light. My Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda defeats of 2012 can be changed to Do-I-Did-I-Did-I’ve-Done-‘N-Did-That-Too victories in 2013 via profoundly simple solutions.  Hence, my annual to-do list looks just like a best-selling book cover/Julia Roberts movie title — only the list has different words — in different order — and there’s no one around here who looks like Julia Roberts.  Here it is: Drumroll please.

Love
Listen
Write

See. What’d I say?

In my hopeful zeal, I’ve even added a sublist — items that should improve my prospects of accomplishing the first list.  This list looks more like orders from Mr. Miyagi (Pat Morita) in Karate Kid:

Shut Up
Wax
Move

Sugar Regret and Rationalization

Posted on by
Reply

Sugar Regret or Sugar Rationalization? It’s all in the way you look at it.

Okay, I’m still recuperating from my New Year’s Eve Christmas cookie/candy clean-up tradition.  I awoke January 1, 2012 with a sugar hangover — a Pepto Bismol nightmare — not the visions of dancing sugar plums I’d aspired and clung to.

You may be wondering — why do I insist on consuming so much junk food every December 31st?

  • Because I wants it. I needs it.  I likes sugar and chocolate, My Precious.
  • And, doggone it, I worked hard to make those Christmas delicacies.
  • Wasting is wrong.  My dad said so.  There are starving children in Bangladesh — and my mom taught me that cream cheese won’t keep well in the mail, so we can’t mail homemade Oreos to them.
  • And, there’s usually a positive outcome.  For instance, snacking now seems disdainful; hence, keeping my New Year’s resolution of moderation has been easy — at least for the first day or two.
  • Celery and carrots now makes me salivate.
  • Starting the new year with a clean fridge and a clean slate — no problem. My husband and I just pack the leftover leftover cookies and candy and give them to someone else.  They thank us for our generosity.  We smile, inwardly congratulating ourselves for our superhuman willpower, and wait at least a week before we ask if they have any snacks they don’t want.

Don’t knock our New Year’s Eve Christmas cookie/candy clean-up tradition until you try it.  And, by the way, can we stop by your house?  We have some Christmas treats to give you.

G-bye 2012

Posted on by
Reply
My idea of a New Year’s Eve party.

It’s New Year’s Eve and like Alicia Keys, this girl is on fi-ya.  Luckily the hot flashes don’t last long.  I know — you were hoping for something more glamorous, but I’m lame at New Year’s Eve celebrations.  Since mid-life, fuzzy footies, a warm blanket and the television remote have replaced high heels, dancing, and sparkling beverages in my New Year’s tradition.  My idea of partying looks more like “Fat Tuesday”. I snarf up prime rib or lobster or steak and as much of the leftover Christmas cookie and candy stash as I can.

My motivation?  Umm — to lessen the caloric temptations for the world in the following year. It’s a sacrifice, but someone’s gotta do it. Also, by making my January 1st weigh-in high, the weigh scale numbers have nowhere to go but down. This raises the bar for weight loss potential.  It’s a win-win!

And, we go to bed early, so sugar plums can dance in our heads one last time before the stuffy New Year’s resolutions kick them out.

Fan your “on fi-ya” self and have a cookie or three this New Year’s Eve!  Consider it your end-of-the-year moral obligation.

My Favoritist Charity

Posted on by
Reply

Our 1983 family Christmas photo.  We celebrated Advent anticipating the birth of Jesus and our third child.

As much of the world prepares to celebrate the birth of THE  Most Special  Baby,  we’re reminded  that  God saw fit to have His only begotten Son  raised on earth by an adoptive father (St. Joseph) so that the rest of us could become His (God’s) adopted sons and daughters.  Maybe this is why I’m so  psyched about a  charitable institution called Holy Family Catholic Adoption Agency (HFCAA). HFCAA  gives hope to women in  crisis pregnancy situations by offering loving homes for their babies.

Last year HFCAA hosted a ten-year anniversary celebration where I met and fell in love with some of the delightful children and their adoptive parents.  One little girl with bouncy curls hugged me as I stood in line for lunch.  Her affectionate nature seemed unusually bold — especially since I’d never met her before. Then she twirled, curtsied, and asked if I liked her dress. Once convinced of my — and everyone else’s — adulation, she pulled over her shy older sister (also adopted) and asked if I liked her dress, too.   “Our mom made them,” she said, pointing from the dresses to her adoptive mother, who waved, embarrassed but charmed by her precious, precocious child.

Teenage volunteers took the adoptive children to another area to make art projects as fathers and mothers shared stories of the priceless gifts they had received in their adoptive children. They wept with thankfulness — I wept — we all wept. It was a profitable day for Kleenex on Wall Street.

In this year’s HFCAA Christmas update, Mary L. Ball, Executive Director, shares, “One of our adoptive couples who opened their loving arms to a special needs baby is so happy to be blessed with this precious child.  This baby was a twin in the womb.  Now that the baby is with this adoptive couple the baby is a “twin again” so to speak because last year the couple adopted another baby born in the same month.”

Typically, when it comes to adoption, the most extraordinary act of sacrificial love comes from the birth mothers. Through HFCAA birth mothers receive the non-judgmental care and guidance they need. You can hear about two birth mothers’ journeys on the HFCAA website. One, Cesili, shared, “When I placed my baby for adoption I never considered myself any less a mother than raising my own child.  I feel like being a mother you need to set aside your own feelings and your actions and what you want to do in life, put those aside and put your child’s needs and feelings first.  I knew I could be a good mom and give my son all the love in the world, but I knew that I couldn’t give him everything I wanted him to have.  I was not going to settle for anything less.  The best option for my child was adoption.  I realized that there are good, loving families out there who would welcome my child in and love him as their own.  I found Holy Family Adoption Agency…I feel he is loved twice as much.”

Holy Family Adoption Agency is a 501 (c) 3 non-profit organization. Gifts can be sent to:
525 Thomas Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55103
(651) 298-0133
www.holyfamilyadoption.org

Peanut Bristle–er–Brittle

Posted on by
2

My initial attitude about making peanut brittle was similar to my concept of writing children’s books:  Phhh — I can do that.  Mix some corn syrup and a handful of peanuts/write a couple of simple sentences and whallah! How hard can it be? Well — I’m in the hands-on-the-ground-I’m-not-worthy position begging mercy again — this time from peanut brittle chefs.  The creative process is not as easy as they make it look.

I started the way any self-respecting chef does.  I Googled for a recipe with the word “best” in it.  Mom’s Best Peanut Brittle rose to the top of the Google chain.  The word “mom” offered a comforting bonus.

I ignored the video portion. I didn’t need it. Phh — how hard could it be?

In the text, Amanda, the generous gal who submitted the recipe, said to move quickly to get the mixture out of the pan once it reaches 300 degrees.  I didn’t have a candy thermometer, so I tried to guess when it was 300 degrees.  I stirred in the butter and baking soda per the instructions and poured it in the pan to cool. I assumed it magically turned the desired peanut brittle color.

Peanut brittle try #1. Too soft

Two hours of running in and out of our cold garage to check the status, I learned it doesn’t.  I obviously hadn’t heated the mixture to 300 degrees.  (Kind of like some my half-baked manuscripts that I’ve sent to agents, family, and friends.)

So, I Googled Salvaging Undercooked Peanut Brittle and followed Tiffany’s helpful instructions to throw the pieces back in the pan, turn the heat up and stir, stir, and stir to a raging boil and wait to pour it in the pan until it reaches 300 degrees.  I had to take the pan off the burner midway, because I forgot to grease my aluminum foil, but eventually I had a boiling mixture that turned the color of peanut brittle. This looks better, don’t you think?

Peanut brittle try #2. Too chewy.

I thought so, too. I pried the last glob off the spoon with my teeth before preparing the spoon for the dishwasher.  The mixture burnt the roof of my mouth.  Then, my teeth stuck together and I had to wait until it melted, so I wouldn’t pull off a crown. I had considered sending some in a care package to a relative in the nursing home, but I envisioned her pulling out her sloppy upper and lower dentures, cemented together by my peanut brittle…and I changed my mind.

Again, I set the mixture on a shelf in the garage.  It did eventually cool enough to break.  I was so excited I put some of it in a holiday bag on my counter and the rest in the freezer.  The stuff in the bag melted together to make one big glob.  (In the writing stage, this is when I submit the manuscript at draft #781 and I should have waited until draft #962.)

Peanut blob square pants

Not to be beaten down by a blob of peanut brittle, I scoured the pans, slopped some butter on more aluminum foil and threw the obstinate concoction on the stove again.

Brittle Disposition

Burnt peanuts — not so tasty. The pan — and my temper — too hot, so the pan and I chilled as I chisled the brittle from the burnt pan into a mellower pan. Then, I stirred and stirred and stirred some more — until my right bicep popped out of my shirt.

Brutal brittle workout

…and the tip of my spoon melted.

Peanut brittle casualty

Now we’re going to die of plastic spoon poisoning.

Peanut brittle try #3.  Just right!

The concoction hardened immediately and shattered when I looked at it cross.  Ta da!  I ran up my stairs with the Rocky Balboa theme song in my head.   Then I forgot what I went there for.

Hopefully some of the peanut brittle will stay separated enough for our son to taste at his military base.  If not, he can throw it in the air for skeet shooting practice.

Peanut brittle Survivor spear

Or, he could tie it to a stick and use it for spear fishing. (I watch Survivor.)

Second thought — there’s not much fishing where he is.

Next year: less peanuts, more patience, a wooden spoon, and a candy thermometer.

Or, maybe I’ll just buy peanut brittle from someone else.  Then I’ll have ten extra hours to be humbled writing children’s books.

Twisted Paparazzi Christmas

Posted on by
Reply

Don’t trust a spouse with an iPhone camera.  If he/she suddenly takes an interest in snapping pictures of you, don’t be flattered too quickly. If he/she then snickers while running away — you might consider confiscating his/her electronic weapon.  Or, you, too, could soon be wearing candy cane tights and green, pointy shoes.

Anyway, Merry Christmas — sigh — from my twisted husband.

BY POPULAR DEMAND. ALL IT TOOK WAS A LITTLE EGG NOG…
Click here to get elf to dance. Wait a few seconds for the video to download.

On a good note: I do look slimmer in horizontal stripes.