Kay's Blog

All I Want is Fruitcake

It's almost Christmas, and the holiday goodies are pouring in. So far I've been given fudge, frosted sugar cookies and homemade toffee...NONE of which I want. What I want is Fruitcake - and so far I haven't received any.

C'mon, people. Keep your tempting treats and irresistable desserts to yourself...give me fruitcake - really horrible fruitcake. I want the kind of fruitcake you need to handle carefully, because if you drop it, you'll crush your foot. Fruitcake that's loaded with neon-dyed, gummy chunks of a substance formerly known as fruit. Fruitcake so dense, it doesn't even understand fruitcake jokes.

Forget "willpower." This time of year I need "WON'Tpower," and fruitcake gives me lots. Fruitcake is the one thing I say "no" to before I'm even asked. Only about 1% of the population actually enjoys fruitcake. I'm part of the 99% - and we hate it.

Other holiday treats? They have a frightening power over me. When I'm offered fudge, cookies or candy, my mouth quickly says "yes" before my brain - which works much slower  - can say "no."  Soon I find myself chomping away, unable to utter a word of protest (as my mouth knows, I can't talk when it's full).

I need help. Because even though I admire Santa's spirity of generousity, this time of year I find myself emulating his very generous shape. Therefore I want the most unappetizing fruitcake you can come up with. I've even adopted a slogan, borrowed from Hallmark (and slightly modified): "When you care enough to send the very worst."

Bring me fruitcake, and I'll think you're the kindest giver of all - a person who understands I want fruitcake, because I don't want fruitcake.

 

Our Christmas Tree - a REAL Family Tradition

(I wrote and published this in 2002)

Some people can't wait to get started on their holiday decorating. Like my dad - he always calls right after Thanksgiving. “Is your Christmas tree up yet?” he asks. “Because mine is already completely assembled.”

Every year he and I have a friendly Christmas tree debate. Last year dad (a retired accountant) bragged that his tree, purchased in 1980, was down to $2.94 per year on an amortized-cost basis. I argued that we live in Washington—the Evergreen State. It’s covered with trees, and one of them should spend the holidays in my living room.

“Besides,” I added, “I don’t like things that are artificial.”

“Does that mean you’ve stopped coloring your hair?”

“I’m talking about Christmas trees, dad."

“So you want one that’s dead?”

“No, I want one that’s real. I want an old-fashioned evergreen that’ll make the whole house smell good.”

“My house smells great,” he said. “I just mopped the kitchen with Pine-Sol.”

Everyone looks for shortcuts during the holiday season, and I’m no exception. I make Christmas cookies using dough from a tube, mail my holiday letter by clicking “Send Now,” and buy Starbucks gift cards by the deck. But every family needs traditions. Even though it’s a lot of work, one of ours is to bundle up and head outdoors for a real Christmas tree. It always goes something like this:

We’re barely on the tree lot before my husband, Steve, points. “That one looks good.”

“You can’t pick the first tree you find!” I tell him.

“I don’t want to be here all day,” he answers. “Besides, you’re too indecisive.”

“I am not indecisive. Well, maybe sometimes…but not always…I suppose once in awhile…”

“Let’s just find a tree.”

We wander the lot, but it’s hard to tell. They all look dreary and plain without lights and shiny ornaments. “Trees without Decorations” are about as attractive as “Movie Stars without Makeup.”

We end up choosing one and tie it to the roof of our car. In the garage, we screw the trunk into the stand. Then Steve lugs the tree inside and deposits it in front of the living room window.

That’s when I stand in the middle of the room, study the tree, and frown. “This side doesn’t look good,” I say. “You need to turn it a little so the good side faces the room.”

Straining, Steve lifts the tree, and slowly turns it.

Where is the good side? I wonder, as his face turns red from the effort. “A little more…a little more….” I say, as veins pop out on his neck. Somehow every angle exposes a new flaw.

Finally, he drops the tree and glares.

“Um, that’s good,” I say, even though the tree seems to be in the exact spot it started.

Next, I water the tree. This is suspenseful, since a tree is like a horse: you can lead it to water, but you can’t make it drink. Sure, the guy at the tree lot made a fresh cut in the trunk. But we’ve had trees in the past that refused to imbibe. Will this tree stay green and fresh? Or will it turn into a six-foot piece of kindling, keeping me awake with visions of fire trucks dancing in my head? I fill the stand with water, and hope this tree will be a "heavy drinker."

Finally it’s time to trim the tree. Scissors aren’t used for this kind of trimming, and that’s a good thing. After the frustration so far, having sharp objects around could be dangerous.

When it comes to decorating, I believe in having a theme. The beautiful themes you see on magazine covers are nice, but ours is different. Our theme is always the same: “Decorated by Kids.” Every year our daughter, Kelly, and her best friend, Kayla, decorate the tree together. Their favorite ornaments—the ones Kelly made when she was little—go in front. These include a one-eyed reindeer, Popsicle stick figures and toilet-paper rolls scribbled with crayons. At least the tree-decoration line has reached higher as the girls have grown taller.

The rest of the decorations are added in a haphazard fashion. These are the keepsake ornaments we’ve collected and creative ones given to us by friends. There’s the skiing Santa with the Band-Aid on his knee (a reminder of the year Steve blew his knee out while skiing), a tiny chalkboard (to keep track of the number of days until Christmas) and the naked Santa (which gives them giggling fits every year).

Once it’s time to clean up, the girls run off. Steve and I plop down on the couch. In the middle of the mess, we admire our tree, with its hodgepodge of ornaments and homemade decorations, hung with youthful enthusiasm.

I close my eyes and inhale the aroma.

It smells just like Pine-Sol.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Kelly and Kayla December 2002                                                        Kelly, Kayla and Hercules

Stop procrastinating? Maybe tomorrow.

I recently signed up to receive emails from Brian Tracy, who’s a Personal Development Guru. Like most people, I’m interested in self-improvement. Last week I got a link to a free video on Procrastination, which was great. Although I procrastinate a lot, I'd like to learn to do it even better.

Then I found out the video was about how to stop procrastinating.

Are you kidding? I like procrastinating! If I didn’t procrastinate, I’d have do icky things like cleaning out the garage, exercising and balancing my checkbook.  Instead, I waste time (Facebook is an excellent tool for procrastinators - I'd much rather check my facebook than face my checkbook).

For a fun-loving person like me, procrastination is crucial. If I start to feel guilty about the things I should be doing, I simply put them on a To Do list! A To Do list is a procrastinator’s best friend - my favorite category is called “not sure when/maybe tomorrow/some other time."

I’m a gifted procrastinator - I can do it for hours. I can even multi-task while procrastinating. For example, I often combine eating, watching TV and procrastinating, all at the same time.  Talk about efficient!

It’s a good thing I don't mind being a procrastinator. Because even if I decided to watch the video on how to stop procrastinating, I’d procrastinate.

Black and Blue Friday

The holiday season is always hectic, and this year it started out with a bang. The day after Thanksgiving, Kelly convinced me to go “Black Friday" shopping. (In my defense – my brain was still bogged down by the lingering effects of a food-coma.) Then on Saturday, the whole family went to the Apple Cup - the annual football game between the University of Washington and Washington State University (my alma mater). It’s an emotional rivalry that’s extremely intense.

I expected things to be rough, but it got downright violent. I saw holding, kicking and serious injuries – all before we left Macy’s.

Wait…you thought I meant football? No, although the protective gear would’ve been helpful. Shopping on Black Friday is a full-contact sport. 

I’ve never shopped on Black Friday. But I was desperate to spend time with Kelly while she was home from college for the holiday break. She and some friends had already shopped at midnight (that's when she saw the “Doorbusters” – people literally busting the doors to get in).

After she completed round one, she came home for a long winter’s nap. Then she wanted to go back to the mall with good ol’ mom - maybe because she's been missing me (or possibly my money).

When we got close to Macy’s, the traffic was thicker than a Mocha Java Chip Frappuccino with Extra Whip.

“What’s going on here,” I said, “Occupy Macy’s?”

The parking lot was completely full. Like a certain young couple traveling on a winter’s night long ago, we were about to be turned away.

“Look Mom,” Kelly said, “there’s room in Valet parking.”

Ah yes.  Valet parking. I'd start my “day of deals” $10 in the hole.

We dropped the car off, then fought through the sea of people to get to Macy's. In the crowd I saw people of every size, shape, race, and gender. There were even people who were mentally ill. I could pick them out, because they were pushing kids in strollers. (Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, this woman may have murdered her husband but consider the following proof that she is, in fact, insane: she went “Black Friday” shopping – with a stroller!”)

If you know me at all, you know I hate crowds. I avoid them at all costs. I don’t even eat food that's been in crowds - I buy free-range chicken! And yet there I was, in the thick of it, getting jostled and pushed and bumped. If you're a parent, you know why: when it comes to our kids, there's no sacrifice too great. Whether it's taking an extra job to pay for their college, donating a kidney, or going Black Friday shopping, we do what it takes. So I persevered.

At Macy's, we rode the escalator to the second floor. Kelly shopped while I looked around. The clothes were piled everywhere, and seemed to be arranged “Tornado-style.”  I've never seen anything like it - except maybe on the show, “Hoarders.” I was overwhelmed. I couldn't even think straight. (On a positive note, my head was spinning so fast the centrifugal force may have removed a few wrinkles.)

Kelly found lots of things on sale, but only one she liked (it turned out the good stuff wasn't on sale). Her one find: a Ralph Lauren denim shirt that was marked down. I was happy, because the discount covered the Valet parking (unfortunately, it didn't cover the Starbucks drinks we'd had or our lunch at the Nordstrom Bistro).

If you're wondering what I ended up with, when I got home I counted. I had thirteen. Not packages – bruises.

Thanksgiving Jeans

Have you heard of the South Beach Diet? On the South Beach,            you don’t eat any “bad” carbs – no white flour, pasta or sugar.

During the holidays, I go on the NORTH Beach Diet.

I start training for my annual marathon around Halloween – my marathon of eating, that is. I call this high-carb season the “Holidaze." Even if I’m somewhat careful, I’ll gain a few pounds (over the last 30 years, my weight has pretty much tracked with the stock market: day-to-day fluctuations, trending higher over time).

My husband, Steve, is lucky.  He barely has a sweet tooth - I have a whole mouthful. Besides, Steve's almost 6 feet tall. If a guy his size gains a few extra pounds, you can't even tell.

On me, the extra holiday pounds are more obvious. But don't worry, I'll take them off in January (LOL)! Seriously, extra weight is bad for your health. How bad depends on whether you’re apple-shaped or pear-shaped. Not sure which produce item you resemble? Neither was I. So the other day, after my shower, I decided to find out.

I studied my reflection in our full-length mirror. First I pictured a smooth shiny apple, then a gently sloping pear. Which one am I? I wondered. 

Neither, I decided.  I look more like Cauliflower - unevenly round and lumpy. After seeing myself naked, I couldn’t wait to get dressed. I’m not alone. Women have been covering up figure flaws since the beginning of time - I'm pretty sure Eve fed Adam that bite of apple just so she could put some clothes on.

I grabbed my jeans, but there was a problem - I could barely pull them up. Dang, I thought. The holiday season has barely started! My jeans are already too tight. I struggled for a few minutes but they wouldn't zip. I gave up and switched to some comfy yoga pants.

I was bummed, and called my friend Cheryl. “I've been eating too much. Now my jeans are tight!"

“Oh for crying out loud,” she said. “Just buy bigger jeans. What size do you wear, anyway?”

Good question. I wear the same size I did way back in college, and that was over 30 pounds ago. But nowadays, clothing companies make their jeans bigger. People wear smaller sizes, even though they’re heavier. It makes no sense. Not unless you’re trying to sell jeans, anyway - in which case it’s brilliant.

“I can’t buy bigger jeans,” I told her. “When I eat too much, my jeans squeeze me like a tourniquet – kind of like a lap band, without the surgery. I only eat until I can’t breathe. Then I stop.”

“Apparently you don’t,” Cheryl pointed out. “Because now your jeans don't fit.”

“But if I buy bigger jeans,” I argued, "pretty soon I’ll need even BIGGER jeans. Where does it end? It ends with me weighing 600 pounds, shopping for clothes at Seattle Tent and Awning.”

That shut her up. Either that or there was a dropped call.

I don’t care what Cheryl says - I refuse to buy bigger jeans. But get this: on Thanksgiving morning, I found a pair of bigger jeans hanging in my closet. I’ll never buy bigger jeans, I thought, but if I find them in my closet, why not wear them?

I took the jeans off the hanger and slipped them on - first one leg, then the other. They were roomy and comfortable. I spent the whole day eating, and even after stuffing myself, the jeans didn’t pinch, bind, or feel the least bit tight. I relished the freedom of those wonderful jeans all day.

Then Steve made me give them back.

You Can't Have Just One. Unless...

People often ask why Steve and I only had one child. A picture is worth a thousand words, and I think this one answers that question nicely. Here I am with Kelly - just three days old. I'm attempting to follow written directions on "baby's first bath."

Kids don't come with instruction manuals, they say. It doesn't matter - either way I'd have been lost.

Inflicting myself on more than one poor kid would have been downright cruel.

(August 19, 1992)

The day my Keurig appeared

I remember the first time I saw a Keurig coffee-maker. What a waste of money, I thought. An individually brewed cup of coffee...two hundred flavors...no waiting. Does a person really need all that?

It turns out – YES.

I have a Keurig, and I love it. That's a problem, because technically, the Keurig belongs to our daughter, Kelly.

Let me explain. I’m a huge coffee-drinker, and so is my husband, Steve. We’ve had the same coffee-maker for years. Every morning I make a pot of coffee. Then we share it, from the first sip - hot and fresh - to the "bitter end" (now you know where that saying comes from). I always thought the coffee from our coffee-maker was fine, as long as I didn't swallow the last mouthful without chewing.

I wouldn't have paid for a Keurig, but one day a Keurig landed in my kitchen. 

I blame Kelly.  She bought a Keurig with some of her high school graduation money. (When I graduated from high school I got a modest sum of cash. Times have changed - Kelly took her grad money to the bank in an armored truck.) As I said, she decided to spend some of it on a Keurig, for her dorm at Portland State University.

The day after she bought it, she lugged the box from her bedroom into the kitchen where I was sitting. “Bummer!" she said. "It turns out I can’t have this in my dorm. I guess I'll have to leave it at home for now."

I have no idea why. Kelly told me, but I couldn't hear over the noise as I ripped the packaging off. I grabbed at styrofoam and cardboard, bits of paper and plastic flying. Kelly was still rambling on when I reached into the box and removed the sleek black machine. It was beautiful. There were even samples of different flavored K-Cups! (In case you don’t speak Keurig, allow me to translate: K-Cups are individual “brewing packs” for making coffee/tea/hot chocolate. Yes! Even hot chocolate!)

I sifted through the various flavors. Southern Pecan…Wild Mountain Blueberry…Chocolate Glazed Donut. I settled on Caramel Vanilla Cream. I put the Keurig together and skimmed the “quick start" guide, then  popped a K-Cup in and pressed “Brew.”

I've always loved the idea of something being created, effortlessly, while I relax (this concept sold me on the idea of pregnancy - unfortunately, I was grossly misinformed). Just like I'd hoped, the Keurig went to work, playing a sweet melody I decided to call “Brewing a cup of coffee just for Kay.” I love this song, I thought, as the kitchen filled with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee.

I know - I shouldn't get too attached. Steve and I are just “babysitting” the Keurig until Kelly gets her own apartment. But that could be next year...or the year after...who knows...who cares? Besides, I've spent some time studying the legal system. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” according to Judge Judy.

After a few short moments, the coffee was ready, and I savored a perfect blend of coffee, caramel and vanilla.

Kelly interrupted my blissful reverie. "What will I use to wake myself up for class? An energy drink? In the morning? Ewww!”

Kids these days, I thought, they have no idea.

“Kelly, when I went to college, we didn’t have so-called 'energy drinks.' We had coffee, period. My mom and dad sent me to Washington State University with a stupid travel coil. It was nothing more than a bare electric element - I’d stick it in a mug of water and wait until the water boiled.”

“Well, there’s always Starbucks," she said. “There’s a Starbucks on the first floor of my dorm. And I LOVE their mochas.”

“Starbucks?  Mochas?  I wish!” I cried. “After the water boiled, I’d add a spoonful of Folgers crystals. That was my only 'energy drink.' It kept me going when I had early morning class - or when I pulled all-nighters.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you stayed up all night studying…” she said, impressed.

(Okay, I never said anything about studying - I went to Washington State University. But I decided to move on.)

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. We’ll get a small coffee maker for your dorm. And yes, there’s always Starbucks…energy drinks…whatever. You’ll be fine.”

And so will I, I thought, taking another heavenly sip.

So will I.

Broke(n)

I've broken two teeth in the last two months. Bummer, huh? My teeth have more cracks than a roomful of plumbers. I have no idea why. I brush...I floss...I eat rocks. 

Just kidding! I eat just like everyone else - in the car or in front of the TV. And yet I've lost TWO teeth in TWO months. (Tooth fairy? Are you out there? Hellooooooo???)

I'm not all that picky about my looks, but I draw the line at "toothless." Plus, to be brutally honest, I love food - I'm in the "live to eat" category. Food's my passion - teeth my instrument.

So. Twice in the last two months, I've gone to the dentist for very expensive crowns. Not the kind with jewels - those might have been cheaper.

Prepping for each crown took several hours. It didn't seem like it - maybe because I was breathing Nitrous - commonly known as laughing gas. (If you think I'm funny now, you should see me on Nitrous. You'd laugh your gas-mask off.)

Anyway, when it was over, I looked at my watch. I'd been sitting there for three hours. It felt more like one...week.

Now I have two new crowns. I feel like royalty. Like maybe the Queen of England - right after she paid for Kate and Will's Wedding.

Broke.

Clam Nectar

“A rose by any other name, would smell as sweet.” 

- William Shakespeare

Here's Shakespeare's theory: it doesn't matter what something is called, but only rather what it is. Makes sense, right?

Sorry, Will. Some people can be fooled by a name. And I can prove it with two words: Clam Nectar.

The word “nectar” conjures up something delectable. But the word “nectar” in conjunction with the word “clam?” That’s a stretch so big it leaves marks.

This story begins – and ends - many years ago. Steve and I were newlyweds, and were invited to a picnic on the shores of the Puget Sound. A friend of ours, Ted, promised fresh clams, cooked on the beach. A large group showed up on a typical, blustery northwest day, prepared to eat and drink. While mingling before the main event, Ted turned to me and asked, “Hey, do you dig clams?

“Yes!” I replied. I LOVE clams.”

Only he wasn’t asking if I liked clams. He was asking if I’d ever dug clams. From the sand.  With a shovel. You're not familiar with the procurement of clams? At the risk of destroying your ignorant bliss, here’s a primer from the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife: “Clams show at the edge of the surf line when you pound the beach with a shovel handle or your foot. They may squirt sand and water out of the hole where they are located. You need to be quick when digging in the surf as (razor) clams dig quite fast in the soft fluid sand."

Yuck. But once they're cooked and presented on a platter, they're delicious....

On this day, Ted tossed freshly-dug clams into a big iron pot on the rocky beach. There they simmered over an open fire. The clams, possibly trying but failing to “keep clam,” burst open, were cooked to tender perfection, and piled into bowls for our enjoyment.

I was munching away, when, mid-clam, I saw Ted reach back into the pot. Retrieving a stray clam, I wondered, accidentally left behind?

Unfortunately - no. With a ladle, Ted reached in and scooped up some of the murky, gray liquid left in the pot. He ladled the salty fish-water - dotted with flecks of seaweed and shell -  into a mug. He held it out to the group. “Who wants some Clam Nectar?” he asked.

 Excuse me? "Clam Nectar?" I thought. You've got to be kidding. This is more like “Dregs of Boiled Mollusk!”

I could see right through the ruse, if not the murky brew. You'd be a fool to drink that stuff! I thought, confident Shakespeare would agree.

"No...thanks..." I managed. I stood next to Steve, dumbfounded. First one person, then another, accepted a steaming mug and sipped it like it was.... good! Were they crazy? Apparently they were blinded by the fact that Ted was calling this disgusting brew "nectar." This was a deception a kindergartner could recognize. This was The Emporer's Invisible Clothes! A Pig in Lipstick! Superman's Clark Kent disguise!

The next day, it was back to reality and the plain fare I knew how to cook in those days. As a new bride, I kept meals simple (twenty-four years later, some things haven't changed). That evening I boiled some hot dogs from the fridge.

As I was dishing them up, I had an inspiration. “I have something to serve with the hot dogs," I told Steve.

"Potato chips?" he asked.

"Nope." I set a steaming mug next to his plate. “Hot Dog Nectar."

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "No way."

At least I didn't marry a fool.

Hanging Loose

We have two dogs. This one is named Shaka, which means "hang loose."

Steve took this picture of him tonight. I'd say Shaka's living up to his name.