Page Twenty-Four.
Have you ever been a Personal Chef and had a job where you hated your own food so much that McDonald's was your regular stop on the way home? I'm serious. Let me tell you the story.
I was hired on by an otherwise pleasant household to come and cook a few days per week. I was also invited to always stick around and eat whatever I made. The job started out well enough and the money was much needed. Problem was, there was Asperger's in the home. At first I thought, "I can handle this, after all I've dealt with far stranger things in life". In fact, the person in question could be charming. But what caused the problem were the demands made on my menus. Shortly after I arrived, The family member in question convinced everybody else that an ultra-low fat diet was the healthiest way to live. Subsequently, I was told to make meals which contained no more than six grams of fat. Now, six grams of fat per meal is low. I mean that's LOW. LOW!!! Allowing for three meals per day that equals eighteen grams of fat per day. I bet an Anorexic tries to stay between five and ten. Weight Watchers, last I heard, allowed thirty per day to loose weight at a healthy speed. An average healthy-weight American needs, perhaps, forty to maintain their weight. One McDonald's Big Mac contains twenty-nine grams of fat.
This person acquired cook books and gave them to me. This person learned a lot about nutrition. I was then instructed on the assets of an ultra-low fat diet. I was gradually given stricter and stricter guidelines to follow. WOW! Was that food bad or what?
For the record, I'm in decent shape. Anybody meeting me might say that I could loose 6-9 pounds but no more. I'd like to loose two inches around my waste. I typically eat rather nutritious food. It's what I crave most often: salads, vegetables, fruits, lean meats, water and so forth. I also love the crap but I really don't crave it as often. I really do know and live healthy eating. (Plus, I exercise a fair amount.) So, I can be pretty objective about this topic. I'm telling you that the food I made just sucked.
There were also food allergies in the home which added a further level of complication. (I was told in advance that the food allergies were psychosomatic.) Additionally in the home: one vegetarian and one deer hunter who loved venison.
One day after I'd been there a year or longer, the phone rang and it was a relative. I took the message and then they began talking with me 'cause they'd heard about me. They said. "Jeremy, how do you feel having to make food that tastes like sh**?" I hemmed and hawed and tried to be diplomatic but they'd have none of it. They just went on and on about how people knew what I was capable of and how I was stuck making terrible food. I was also told that all the relatives had been looking forward to coming over on a regular basis to eat my food, but as the menu changed to accommodate the ultra-low fat requirements, family members were making more and more excuses not to come. I wish I were making this up.
That job lasted a little while. They would always give me a great reference if I ever asked for one. But I'll tell you, I probably ate more fast food food while working there than I have since becoming an adult. I simply wouldn't eat that stuff. I wouldn't give it to a dog.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Ace Ventura Pet Detective
Page Twenty-Three.
It must have been 1995 when others first told me that I should be canonized.
On page twenty-two of this blog, I mentioned that I recently gave a haircut to a very young lady after giving her grandmother and aunt haircuts first. Here's another story about that family.
I met them in 1986 as hairdresser. The story of how we met is great but that's for another time. By the early 90's they referred to me as a family friend. (Today they refer to me as a close family friend.) At the time, Mom stayed home to watch the kids and Dad was a doc, a rather famous researcher actually.Well, in early '95 Dad was invited to give a speech in Washington D.C. and Mom wanted to go too. This would be the first time that they'd leave the girls alone. Lisa was fifteen and Ann was twelve. (Lisa is the mom of the young lady who's hair I cut and talked about on page twenty-two.) They asked me if I would move in and watch the girls over this long weekend. I was thrilled as I really liked these young ladies and the money would be great.
The weekend was primarily uneventful, a score you always hope for when leaving your kids with a nanny. (Now-a-days, I do a ton of overnight house-sitting, dog-sitting, cat-sitting and elder-sitting. When I receive the phone calls asking "How's it going" I usually respond, "It's quiet and a little boring, a response you want to hear.") Anyhow, it was a little boring in spite of the fact that I enjoyed these girls. Saturday night, Ann convinced me to rent Ace Ventura-Pet Detective. Lisa had a girl friend over and they didn't join us. So Ann and I popped the corn and watched this movie. Just so you know, my movie taste runs closer to Fellini, Bergman, Godard and Lang. But with God as my witness, I sat through that movie for the sake of this twelve year old girl. Admittedly, I think I even laughed a few times. But Ann was highly entertained which is the most important thing.
When Parents came home and got caught up to speed on the proceedings, they told me that neither of them was willing to sit through that movie. They knew my cinema taste was close to theirs and they mentioned that I really should be sainted.
Lisa and her husband now teach English in South America and Ann is a chemist in NYC. I usually see them when they come home. At least once every couple of years some player reminds everybody else of the time that I sat through that movie. Oy!
It must have been 1995 when others first told me that I should be canonized.
On page twenty-two of this blog, I mentioned that I recently gave a haircut to a very young lady after giving her grandmother and aunt haircuts first. Here's another story about that family.
I met them in 1986 as hairdresser. The story of how we met is great but that's for another time. By the early 90's they referred to me as a family friend. (Today they refer to me as a close family friend.) At the time, Mom stayed home to watch the kids and Dad was a doc, a rather famous researcher actually.Well, in early '95 Dad was invited to give a speech in Washington D.C. and Mom wanted to go too. This would be the first time that they'd leave the girls alone. Lisa was fifteen and Ann was twelve. (Lisa is the mom of the young lady who's hair I cut and talked about on page twenty-two.) They asked me if I would move in and watch the girls over this long weekend. I was thrilled as I really liked these young ladies and the money would be great.
The weekend was primarily uneventful, a score you always hope for when leaving your kids with a nanny. (Now-a-days, I do a ton of overnight house-sitting, dog-sitting, cat-sitting and elder-sitting. When I receive the phone calls asking "How's it going" I usually respond, "It's quiet and a little boring, a response you want to hear.") Anyhow, it was a little boring in spite of the fact that I enjoyed these girls. Saturday night, Ann convinced me to rent Ace Ventura-Pet Detective. Lisa had a girl friend over and they didn't join us. So Ann and I popped the corn and watched this movie. Just so you know, my movie taste runs closer to Fellini, Bergman, Godard and Lang. But with God as my witness, I sat through that movie for the sake of this twelve year old girl. Admittedly, I think I even laughed a few times. But Ann was highly entertained which is the most important thing.
When Parents came home and got caught up to speed on the proceedings, they told me that neither of them was willing to sit through that movie. They knew my cinema taste was close to theirs and they mentioned that I really should be sainted.
Lisa and her husband now teach English in South America and Ann is a chemist in NYC. I usually see them when they come home. At least once every couple of years some player reminds everybody else of the time that I sat through that movie. Oy!
Friday, January 11, 2013
A Child's First Haircut
Page Twenty-Two
Have you ever been in a salon while a tiny child was getting their haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? Have you ever been the parent of a tiny child while they were in a salon getting a haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? May I tell you what was going on?
The first lessons we teach toddlers is don't go near the stove, don't stick things in outlets, don't touch knives, don't pull animals' tails and don't play with scissors. All of those things, you see, cause tremendous pain. The stove has a flame which can burn, the animal has claws which can scratch and scissors have sharp blades which can cut and draw blood. Kids start learning these things real early on. You know what I'm talking about.
Some children learn particularly well that scissors cause pain, 100% of the time. These are the kids who scream like Mrs. Curtis while being attacked by Mr. Perkins. Think about it. They've been trained to think a certain way about scissors, and now, all of a sudden, those medieval weapons are being waved around their head, ears and eyes. I know I'd freak out in that situation.
There are ways to alleviate this situation. Little Baby Janet or Little Anthony Jr. should accompany Mommy or Daddy to the beauty salon or barber shop a few times in advance of their own cut. They need to see, a few times at least, that in this context scissors are not lethal weapons. If possible, Janet or Anthony could even be introduced to Liberace, the stylist or barber, a couple of times over the course of a few months and maybe a little friendship should be encouraged. Little Janet needs to learn that Mommy enjoys having her hair cut and Mommy enjoys talking with Liberace. If Little Anthony sees that Daddy doesn't cry when the scissors are near his head, a few times at least, then he probably won't either.
It's all about education. I recently gave Miss Margaret her first haircut, Miss Margaret isn't yet two years old. I told Grand-mama that Madge needed to see me in action as much as possible prior to her own cut. So Grand-mama scheduled her own cut and then Madge's Aunt's cut over the course of a few days prior to Madge getting hers. Scheduling was complicated by the fact that Madge was only in town from South America a short while during the holidays. We had to work fast at getting Madge comfortable with me and scissors. I bent over backwards trying to become friends with that little girl. I think I was positively creepy, but everybody else seemed okay with my behavior (but then, they've known me since 1986). By the time Madge was getting her haircut she was as comfy with the whole situation as if she was laying down on the fluffiest cloud in the sky. All was right with the world.
If you don't want your kid being a terror in the salon and ultimately traumatizing themselves worse than anybody else, please take my suggestions.
Have you ever been in a salon while a tiny child was getting their haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? Have you ever been the parent of a tiny child while they were in a salon getting a haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? May I tell you what was going on?
The first lessons we teach toddlers is don't go near the stove, don't stick things in outlets, don't touch knives, don't pull animals' tails and don't play with scissors. All of those things, you see, cause tremendous pain. The stove has a flame which can burn, the animal has claws which can scratch and scissors have sharp blades which can cut and draw blood. Kids start learning these things real early on. You know what I'm talking about.
Some children learn particularly well that scissors cause pain, 100% of the time. These are the kids who scream like Mrs. Curtis while being attacked by Mr. Perkins. Think about it. They've been trained to think a certain way about scissors, and now, all of a sudden, those medieval weapons are being waved around their head, ears and eyes. I know I'd freak out in that situation.
There are ways to alleviate this situation. Little Baby Janet or Little Anthony Jr. should accompany Mommy or Daddy to the beauty salon or barber shop a few times in advance of their own cut. They need to see, a few times at least, that in this context scissors are not lethal weapons. If possible, Janet or Anthony could even be introduced to Liberace, the stylist or barber, a couple of times over the course of a few months and maybe a little friendship should be encouraged. Little Janet needs to learn that Mommy enjoys having her hair cut and Mommy enjoys talking with Liberace. If Little Anthony sees that Daddy doesn't cry when the scissors are near his head, a few times at least, then he probably won't either.
It's all about education. I recently gave Miss Margaret her first haircut, Miss Margaret isn't yet two years old. I told Grand-mama that Madge needed to see me in action as much as possible prior to her own cut. So Grand-mama scheduled her own cut and then Madge's Aunt's cut over the course of a few days prior to Madge getting hers. Scheduling was complicated by the fact that Madge was only in town from South America a short while during the holidays. We had to work fast at getting Madge comfortable with me and scissors. I bent over backwards trying to become friends with that little girl. I think I was positively creepy, but everybody else seemed okay with my behavior (but then, they've known me since 1986). By the time Madge was getting her haircut she was as comfy with the whole situation as if she was laying down on the fluffiest cloud in the sky. All was right with the world.
If you don't want your kid being a terror in the salon and ultimately traumatizing themselves worse than anybody else, please take my suggestions.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I'm Moving Out!
Page Twenty-One.
I started watching the three princes (and one princess) in February, 2010. At the time they were 6,8,10 and 16. The princess is now down at Ohio State but the three princes continue to make my life interesting.
The youngest, Fauntleroy, took to me rather quickly as he does with most people. I'm a youngest too, so I tend to know what makes us tick. We're an interesting breed. We're just so used to crowds that even when we say we want to be alone, we don't actually mean it.
About a year after I started... let me back up. The summer after I began, Fauntleroy began asking if he could move in with me. One day, he even told his mother that he was moving in with me. I politely replied by asking him who would take care of his mother if he moved out. (His mom was finishing her fellowship in Oncology. She needed taking care of.) I also told him that when I'm at home by myself I'm really quite boring. (Not super true, but whatever.) So he did have a history of wanting to move out. This, in spite of the fact that his middle brother is his best friend, he likes his oldest brother, he ADORES the princess, he just loves Grandma (who lives with him) and he squirms with glee when he sees his mom and dad. I think that I just paid him so much attention that he didn't know how to contain his excitement. So the best way he could express his feelings of comfort with me were by saying he wanted to move in with me.
Okay... about a year after I started, he got upset at his brothers. Really upset. And I think it was over something ridiculous, like someone took his book or something like that. He just began crying and carrying on like there was no tomorrow. This was minutes prior to my quitting time. I interceded and straightened out the situation. He then apologized to them for loosing his head. But then, when they didn't respond to his apology and offer up their own dubious apologies he lost it again. Oy Rebbenish Allelim! So it was time for me to leave. I decided that Grandma needed to earn her keep so she could deal with her three darlings.
When I got ready to leave though, Faunt announced that this time he REALLY was moving out and in with me. I put on a boot and he put on a boot. I put on a scarf and he put on a scarf. When I walked out the door, he walked out the door. You get the idea. While I was opening up the passenger door in my car to let him into the back seat, his best friend did open up the house door and yell to me wondering where I was taking him. I walked back and quietly said we'd be back in a few minutes as I was taking him around the block. He seemed satisfied and closed the door.
So we drove around the block. Thankfully, it's a big block. We talked. We talked. We talked.We talked. When we were about halfway around the block, he asked where we were going. I said we were driving around the block. "Oh." We continued talking. I reminded him how much everybody loved him and how lucky he was to have so many people care for him and watch out for him. You know... all the usual stuff.
When we arrived back in his driveway, he bounded out of the car and bounced with glee back into the house. I just left. Sometimes I'm not paid the going rate for a child psychologist.
Later that week, I asked Mom if she knew about this situation. She had no idea. It wasn't important enough to any of the principles to tell her.
I started watching the three princes (and one princess) in February, 2010. At the time they were 6,8,10 and 16. The princess is now down at Ohio State but the three princes continue to make my life interesting.
The youngest, Fauntleroy, took to me rather quickly as he does with most people. I'm a youngest too, so I tend to know what makes us tick. We're an interesting breed. We're just so used to crowds that even when we say we want to be alone, we don't actually mean it.
About a year after I started... let me back up. The summer after I began, Fauntleroy began asking if he could move in with me. One day, he even told his mother that he was moving in with me. I politely replied by asking him who would take care of his mother if he moved out. (His mom was finishing her fellowship in Oncology. She needed taking care of.) I also told him that when I'm at home by myself I'm really quite boring. (Not super true, but whatever.) So he did have a history of wanting to move out. This, in spite of the fact that his middle brother is his best friend, he likes his oldest brother, he ADORES the princess, he just loves Grandma (who lives with him) and he squirms with glee when he sees his mom and dad. I think that I just paid him so much attention that he didn't know how to contain his excitement. So the best way he could express his feelings of comfort with me were by saying he wanted to move in with me.
Okay... about a year after I started, he got upset at his brothers. Really upset. And I think it was over something ridiculous, like someone took his book or something like that. He just began crying and carrying on like there was no tomorrow. This was minutes prior to my quitting time. I interceded and straightened out the situation. He then apologized to them for loosing his head. But then, when they didn't respond to his apology and offer up their own dubious apologies he lost it again. Oy Rebbenish Allelim! So it was time for me to leave. I decided that Grandma needed to earn her keep so she could deal with her three darlings.
When I got ready to leave though, Faunt announced that this time he REALLY was moving out and in with me. I put on a boot and he put on a boot. I put on a scarf and he put on a scarf. When I walked out the door, he walked out the door. You get the idea. While I was opening up the passenger door in my car to let him into the back seat, his best friend did open up the house door and yell to me wondering where I was taking him. I walked back and quietly said we'd be back in a few minutes as I was taking him around the block. He seemed satisfied and closed the door.
So we drove around the block. Thankfully, it's a big block. We talked. We talked. We talked.We talked. When we were about halfway around the block, he asked where we were going. I said we were driving around the block. "Oh." We continued talking. I reminded him how much everybody loved him and how lucky he was to have so many people care for him and watch out for him. You know... all the usual stuff.
When we arrived back in his driveway, he bounded out of the car and bounced with glee back into the house. I just left. Sometimes I'm not paid the going rate for a child psychologist.
Later that week, I asked Mom if she knew about this situation. She had no idea. It wasn't important enough to any of the principles to tell her.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units
Page Twenty
From 1987 until about 1995 I was staff hairdresser to three Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units. I started at the first one because one of my hair clients worked as a Tech (read: baby-sitter) on the unit and she was corralled into cutting the kids' hair simply because somebody had to do it. That unit was at a local hospital and the kids were there for twenty-eight days of detox, evaluation and treatment. Some of those kids showed up in the first place with outrageous hair which would need to be cleaned up. Others simply needed regular cuts, as four weeks can be a long time to need a trim. My client didn't really enjoy the job so she asked me if I might be interested. I was and thus I began going there every Saturday Morning.
About a year later, that same hospital opened up an adolescent "halfway house" right on the campus. This halfway house, "The River," would be a place for the kids to live on average four months, so their new found sobriety could stabilize prior to going back home. There was a teacher, cook, classrooms, dorm rooms, dining room, living area and so forth. The administrator invited me to join that staff as well, so this would be my second unit. I went to the River every Wednesday afternoon.
Shortly thereafter, a private adolescent halfway house, ten miles east of here and already about five years old, heard about me and asked me to join their staff. With them, "Dimensions," I worked on call, but their kids stayed on average four-six months. So technically, I worked in one unit and two halfway houses. I just say I worked in three ACDU's, it's simpler.
Some of the kids from the ACDU went to the River but most went home. So the River which normally had a few dozen kids, got a lot of their kids from other hospitals and other states. Dimensions was also a magnet for various treatment centers. They too had a few dozen beds. At the time, this concept was new and insurance companies were more than happy to pay for all this hospitalization. By the mid-90's though, the insurance companies were saying "NO!!!" to paying for teenaged drug treatment. So most ACDU's and accompanying adolescent halfway houses around the country were shuttering up. The ACDU and the River would eventually close, in fact the entire hospital closed. Dimensions is still open but it's substantially harder to get in than it used to be. The kids have to go down much farther than 20 years ago. But I digress. My jobs ended at the hospital, obviously, when it closed and I would eventually tell Dimensions to take me off their roster because it got to the point where they only called me once a year anyhow.
I enjoyed those jobs tremendously. I liked the kids very much and valued spending time with them.Some of those patients I cut for five months, at a rate of one cut a month. That's enough time to get to know and like somebody. I also appreciated the feeling that I "worked somewhere." I hadn't had any co-workers since becoming a free-lance hairdresser in '86. And with those jobs, especially the River, I felt like I worked with other people. Very often, we'd schedule cuts around dinner so I could eat with everybody. (Eventually I'll write about the River's cook. The hospital intentionally built a kitchen on the unit and hired a cook. Big brass rightly recognized that they needed to feed hungry teenagers who hadn't eaten properly in years. Hospital food wouldn't do and brass knew it. That food was remarkable. Holy Moses! it was good.)
I sometimes think about some of those kids. I can still see them in my mind's eye. The odds were against them but statistically some of them had to have turned out okay. I'll write more about my experiences on these jobs in the future.
From 1987 until about 1995 I was staff hairdresser to three Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units. I started at the first one because one of my hair clients worked as a Tech (read: baby-sitter) on the unit and she was corralled into cutting the kids' hair simply because somebody had to do it. That unit was at a local hospital and the kids were there for twenty-eight days of detox, evaluation and treatment. Some of those kids showed up in the first place with outrageous hair which would need to be cleaned up. Others simply needed regular cuts, as four weeks can be a long time to need a trim. My client didn't really enjoy the job so she asked me if I might be interested. I was and thus I began going there every Saturday Morning.
About a year later, that same hospital opened up an adolescent "halfway house" right on the campus. This halfway house, "The River," would be a place for the kids to live on average four months, so their new found sobriety could stabilize prior to going back home. There was a teacher, cook, classrooms, dorm rooms, dining room, living area and so forth. The administrator invited me to join that staff as well, so this would be my second unit. I went to the River every Wednesday afternoon.
Shortly thereafter, a private adolescent halfway house, ten miles east of here and already about five years old, heard about me and asked me to join their staff. With them, "Dimensions," I worked on call, but their kids stayed on average four-six months. So technically, I worked in one unit and two halfway houses. I just say I worked in three ACDU's, it's simpler.
Some of the kids from the ACDU went to the River but most went home. So the River which normally had a few dozen kids, got a lot of their kids from other hospitals and other states. Dimensions was also a magnet for various treatment centers. They too had a few dozen beds. At the time, this concept was new and insurance companies were more than happy to pay for all this hospitalization. By the mid-90's though, the insurance companies were saying "NO!!!" to paying for teenaged drug treatment. So most ACDU's and accompanying adolescent halfway houses around the country were shuttering up. The ACDU and the River would eventually close, in fact the entire hospital closed. Dimensions is still open but it's substantially harder to get in than it used to be. The kids have to go down much farther than 20 years ago. But I digress. My jobs ended at the hospital, obviously, when it closed and I would eventually tell Dimensions to take me off their roster because it got to the point where they only called me once a year anyhow.
I enjoyed those jobs tremendously. I liked the kids very much and valued spending time with them.Some of those patients I cut for five months, at a rate of one cut a month. That's enough time to get to know and like somebody. I also appreciated the feeling that I "worked somewhere." I hadn't had any co-workers since becoming a free-lance hairdresser in '86. And with those jobs, especially the River, I felt like I worked with other people. Very often, we'd schedule cuts around dinner so I could eat with everybody. (Eventually I'll write about the River's cook. The hospital intentionally built a kitchen on the unit and hired a cook. Big brass rightly recognized that they needed to feed hungry teenagers who hadn't eaten properly in years. Hospital food wouldn't do and brass knew it. That food was remarkable. Holy Moses! it was good.)
I sometimes think about some of those kids. I can still see them in my mind's eye. The odds were against them but statistically some of them had to have turned out okay. I'll write more about my experiences on these jobs in the future.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Car Repairs - God Help Me!
Page Nineteen.
I know that this blog is supposed to be about my experiences with food and children plus my history with elder care. I feel though that since I've already strayed from those topics occasionally, if I really go off into left field sometimes it isn't a mortal sin. Clearly, this blog would have already blown up if there were some strict rule about adhering to your own parameters. But it's still here, so there you go.
I dropped my car off this morning to have some relatively minor work done. I needed a couple of new tires, new brakes, new wiper blades and an oil change. Neil then called me back and gave me a laundry list of things that need to be done 'else my car will explode, and take half of Ohio with it. For the record, I trust Neil tremendously. He's been doing my car for over twenty years. His brother-in-law was one of my best friends during my college days and I'm quite friendly with his father-in-law. Also, I decorate his garage for the holidays every December, for free. (That's a separate story.) He and I are buddies. But every single time I take The Golden Warrior in to be serviced, it needs an additional $43,769,753,008,178,264,938.61, plus tax, worth of work. I'm sick of it!
I'm very grateful for this car. It's a 2001 that I purchased from some current elder-care clients in 2010. When I bought it from them in November of 2010, this nine year old car had 16,000 miles and they essentially gifted it to me, charging me 1/3 of it's value. I'm quite thankful that right now I have the money to put in the required repairs. Neil is also putting the wiper blades and oil change on the house which is nice. (Most of my oil changes are on the house to say thanks for the free Christmas lighting.)
What did people do one thousand years ago when their cars needed work? I know that back then they didn't have as much disposable income as we do today, so how did they pay for their new mufflers, carburetors and broken air conditioning systems? I can't believe that British peasants of the middle ages were okay with the auto repair price fixing that we've come to terms with in the 21st century. Perhaps the Norman Invasion was really just a bunch of people looking for a cheaper place to get their cars repaired? Do you suppose that Richard III was really just pissed off over some car repairs gone bad? And I read on the internet somewhere that Joan of Arc was actually rebelling against the outrageous prices of transmissions, especially when she found out that the price is primarily labor as the parts themselves only cost a few hundred bucks.
But, again, I'm grateful for my savings account. I have the money stashed away, though I'd really prefer to spend it on an Asian getaway. I want to... oops... Neil just called for me to pick up my car. I'll continue this later.....
Neil promised me he'd keep the total under a predetermined amount, but he went over by $57.00, so he chopped that off. That was nice. As I was pulling out of the garage he rushed over and told me that yesterday was his and Kathleen's anniversary. They reminisced how I did her hair for the wedding. I have virtually no memory of that but I assume that it happened.
I know that this blog is supposed to be about my experiences with food and children plus my history with elder care. I feel though that since I've already strayed from those topics occasionally, if I really go off into left field sometimes it isn't a mortal sin. Clearly, this blog would have already blown up if there were some strict rule about adhering to your own parameters. But it's still here, so there you go.
I dropped my car off this morning to have some relatively minor work done. I needed a couple of new tires, new brakes, new wiper blades and an oil change. Neil then called me back and gave me a laundry list of things that need to be done 'else my car will explode, and take half of Ohio with it. For the record, I trust Neil tremendously. He's been doing my car for over twenty years. His brother-in-law was one of my best friends during my college days and I'm quite friendly with his father-in-law. Also, I decorate his garage for the holidays every December, for free. (That's a separate story.) He and I are buddies. But every single time I take The Golden Warrior in to be serviced, it needs an additional $43,769,753,008,178,264,938.61, plus tax, worth of work. I'm sick of it!
I'm very grateful for this car. It's a 2001 that I purchased from some current elder-care clients in 2010. When I bought it from them in November of 2010, this nine year old car had 16,000 miles and they essentially gifted it to me, charging me 1/3 of it's value. I'm quite thankful that right now I have the money to put in the required repairs. Neil is also putting the wiper blades and oil change on the house which is nice. (Most of my oil changes are on the house to say thanks for the free Christmas lighting.)
What did people do one thousand years ago when their cars needed work? I know that back then they didn't have as much disposable income as we do today, so how did they pay for their new mufflers, carburetors and broken air conditioning systems? I can't believe that British peasants of the middle ages were okay with the auto repair price fixing that we've come to terms with in the 21st century. Perhaps the Norman Invasion was really just a bunch of people looking for a cheaper place to get their cars repaired? Do you suppose that Richard III was really just pissed off over some car repairs gone bad? And I read on the internet somewhere that Joan of Arc was actually rebelling against the outrageous prices of transmissions, especially when she found out that the price is primarily labor as the parts themselves only cost a few hundred bucks.
But, again, I'm grateful for my savings account. I have the money stashed away, though I'd really prefer to spend it on an Asian getaway. I want to... oops... Neil just called for me to pick up my car. I'll continue this later.....
Neil promised me he'd keep the total under a predetermined amount, but he went over by $57.00, so he chopped that off. That was nice. As I was pulling out of the garage he rushed over and told me that yesterday was his and Kathleen's anniversary. They reminisced how I did her hair for the wedding. I have virtually no memory of that but I assume that it happened.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Thanksgiving '92
Page Eighteen.
Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
"I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
"Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
"WHAT?"
"Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
"Yeah, I know."
"Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
"Of course, I'll make it."
"Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
"Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
"Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
"I'm hungry."
"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
"Yeah."
So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.
Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
"I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
"Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
"WHAT?"
"Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
"Yeah, I know."
"Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
"Of course, I'll make it."
"Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
"Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
"Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
"I'm hungry."
"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
"Yeah."
So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.
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