Real Estate

Fannie in front of the fireplace

No one can accuse us of making a killing on real estate.
Actually, real estate has nearly killed us, financially anyway.
We decided to move to our economically depressed neighborhood near downtown Des Moines 5 1/2 years ago.
Yep.
Right at the peak of home prices and just before the fall.
Typical luck for us.

We are fortunate that our 108-year-old house was mostly benignly neglected. A $55,000 renovation made the house liveable (new bathrooms, remodeled kitchen, new radiator, wiring, and more). It really is a beautiful house and there are still many, many projects that need to be done including floor refinishing, basement waterproofing, front porch repair, window replacement...
Basically, we live in a money pit.
We just did a crazy-fantastic refinance - we're saving $600 a month and the house will be paid off in less than 15 years. With a few more years and perhaps another major project or two, I could be content to live in this house forever.
The house isn't the problem.
It's the neighborhood.

It's not that I don't feel safe here - I really do.
But I don't think it's safe for my daughters to go walking alone and walking the dogs can be dangerous as well - so far in the past five years we've been attacked by a Rottweiler and a Great Dane and followed by more dogs of varying breeds than I care to remember.

The people here are friendly and much depends on who lives in the rental houses. But there is gang activity and it isn't unusual to call the police to report gun shots or street violence. It's hard to make the decision to continue to invest in a house that might never appreciate in value no matter what we do.
I feel as if I'm in a stalemate and it's easy to get overwhelmed with what to do. We know we're here for another two years for sure, three to make a smart move, longer to save a ton of money. And yet, I can't live here without making improvements, both cosmetic and functional.
So I'm working on finding contentment in the here and now.

I live in a beautiful house with lots of potential. I'm trying to embrace contentment and leave the worrying for another day.
Kind of like Fannie.
She rarely worries, has plenty to eat (ahem), a family who loves her, lots of comfy laps to sleep on and perhaps best of all a fireplace for tummy toasting.
When you think about it, what more do we really need?

Cat in a basket

 What else are laundry baskets for?

Aqua - not!

I am not a fan of water.
Not drinking water, but large bodies of water.
Especially large bodies of water with waves or creepy invasive species growing on their surfaces, or ponds smothered in yellowy-green algae.
Just gave myself the shivers, there.
Maye it's because I don't know how to swim, though I'm a pretty good dog-paddler and can float with the best of them.
We lived on Long Island in New York when I was a kid and I particularly remember a trip made to Montauk Point at the farthest tip of the island.  Standing on the rocks as the waves crashed to shore, sea gulls swooping, cold mist spraying, gave me that same queasy feeling as climbing a ladder or riding a roller coaster.  You know that panicky feeling when your stomach has just dropped a foot lower than the rest of your body and you suddenly can't breathe?
Yep. That's it.
Funny, I've actually spent a fair amount of time in large to largish bodies of water for someone with such a strong phobic response.  I spent summers on my grandma's farm in Iowa and several times a season my uncle, cousin and I would go swimming in my uncle's pond.  I'd paddle in my inner tube all over the pond, even clear out to its deepest by the bridge and if I was really careful and didn't look around at all that water I was okay.  In fact, it was a highlight of the summer, except for getting in.  One could either jump off the small dock, though I don't remember anyone ever doing that, or wade in from the shore.  The really creepy thing about ponds is their bottoms.  I hated that feeling of cold, wet mud seeping between my toes.  That and thoughts of snapping turtles and snakes and whatever else might be lurking under the mud...
As a kid on Long Island there were occasional trips to the beach, though always with friends.  Now that I think of it, my parents never went to the beach.  Ever.  I think my dad had a phobia of down-time - I have not inherited this trait! - and my mom of bathing suits, which I can totally understand.  A beach full of people doesn't seem to freak me out.  Well, except for all the cigarette butts.  But maybe you can't smoke on New York beaches anymore?  I wouldn't know.
Even though the ocean is right there, stretching into infinity, somehow all the people break up the hugeness, making it much more manageable for my psyche.
So I'd troop right into the water, careful not to wade any deeper than my waist, and ride the waves in.  Oh, it was fantastic fun, jumping into a wave at just the right moment and being carried all the way back to shore.  Unfortunately, successful timing was only an occasional thing.  Most of the time the wave would slam over my head, pushing me down and under, scraping my body against the rough sand and seashells all the way back to shore.  That was often scary - and painful.
Thinking back on it, I can't believe I went in at all, especially since I can't swim.

Dangerous, for sure, and somewhat stupid.
Oh, and then there are bridges across large bodies of water.  I'm okay on walking bridges as long as I stay toward the middle of the bridge and away from the sides.  Then again, bridges built for cars usually traverse much larger bodies of water than smallish lakes and ponds. I don't know exactly what it is, but the height of a bridge combined with the expanse of water under it and around it, along with the need to stay out of the middle and in one's own lane, just about does me in.
It's springtime now in Iowa and spring usually brings lots of rain and a fair amount of flooding. There is nothing creepier than a creek or river that has risen over its banks. Especially if there are trees standing in flood waters. What's worst is driving on a bridge over a flooded creek surrounded by trees standing in water.
Geesh.
I have to just look straight ahead and watch the speedometer to make it across one of those.
Of course, my kids love knowing this about me and rarely miss the opportunity to call out, "Look, Mom, invasive species" or "Oooh, look at all that water, Mom."
Yeah, it's loads of fun.
My water phobia was brought to the forefront of my mind last month before the ice thawed on Gray's Lake. It was warm enough for my daughter and myself to go for chilly walk around the lake. As we huffed and puffed (okay, she was fine, I was the one breathing heavily) we saw some kind of strange unidentifiable water bird far out on the lake.
What was it?

Without binoculars I sure couldn't tell. Melissa decided to move closer to try to figure it out and before I knew it she was out on the dock amidst the cracking ice. I, of course, stopped right at the shore line - even that was giving me the willies.
After a few minutes of persistent prodding she came back to shore, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out onto the dock.
It wobbled under my feet.
Instantly I was not only surrounded by water but by an intense panicky feeling of complete and utter fear.
Needless to say, I was no help in identifying the bird.
I managed to scurry back to shore in time to watch my daughter leave her perch at the very end of the dock and saunter back to shore.
There's one thing for certain; if you don't share a phobia, you have no ability to understand it in others.
You'd think my height-phobic youngest would be sympathetic.
She tried hard.

But I saw her grin.
We never did identify that bird.

Kitchen wizardry

I was a kitchen wizard today.
I guess I should call myself a witch, as I'm sure many people have thought over the years.
Ahem.
However, no magic was involved.
With just a smidgen of organization and a little advanced planning you too can do zero to pie in under 60 minutes!
The first element is to decide you're going to do the dinner dash.
For greatest impact, I recommend waiting until barely two hours before dinner is to be served. Procrastination can be your best friend if you work well under pressure.
And zero to pie takes more focus than leisurely dessert baking.
First, zip to the basement to retrieve a bag of frozen peaches.
Ah, but not merely plain frozen peaches.
No sir, these peaches were purchased last summer at the height of the season at a fabulously low price, peeled, sliced and - now here's the advanced planning part - *mixed with flour, sugar and cinnamon before freezing in single pie amounts.
And there you have frozen pie filling in a bag.
This process can be done with apples, berries, virtually any kind of pie fruit.
I prefer freezing to canning peaches. They retain much more of their "fresh" texture and flavor.
Put the frozen peaches in the microwave to thaw. They don't need to thaw completely; I just like to be able to break them apart.
While the peaches are thawing, grab a food processor (making the crust by hand will add a few extra minutes) and throw in the makings of this super easy, tried and true, no fail pie crust.

Pastry for Two Crust Pie
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp of salt
2/3 cup shortening (I have used lard, Crisco, margarine and butter and have had good results with all. My favorite is butter-flavored Crisco. I know, I know... but come on, it's pie crust)
6-7 Tablespoons ice water

Pulse first 3 ingredients until well-mixed. Add water and pulse again. I usually have to add a titch more flour to get exactly the right dough consistency.

Roll out the crust to fit a 9-inch pie plate. Position bottom crust, add peach filling (if you have a lot of extra liquid from thawing you may need to add a bit more flour) and top with second crust.
Prick with sharp knife to allow steam to escape and sprinkle with sugar.
Bake in preheated 425 degree oven for 35-40 minutes.

From start to finish, this pie can be cooling on your window ledge in under an hour.
I recommend serving it warm with real vanilla ice cream.
Yum.

*Per bag: four cups peeled and sliced ripe peaches tossed with 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 1 cup sugar, 1/3 cup flour and 1/2 tsp. cinnamon.

Clear as Mud

So, I've worn glasses since I was two years old.
I don't remember life without glasses.
As you may have surmised, my eyesight is poor.
Yeah, really poor.
When I was little I had to wear a patch over my right eye, my good eye, to try to improve the vision in my left. Basically, I only use my right eye except for a sort of passive vision in my left.
I hated that patch.
I couldn't read, couldn't enjoy watching TV. It was awful.
My oldest sister had to watch me for a week once before I turned two. Apparently I wouldn't leave the patch on and kept burying it in the sandbox.
While I don't remember that, I do remember my relief when I no longer had to wear that patch.
Though of course this meant that the vision in my left eye wouldn't improve.
Ever.
To this day my glasses correct the vision in my right eye to nearly 20/20, but the left lens can only be brought to a level of correction that gives me a measure of balance. (Ha!)
This creates a depth perception issue that makes things like parallel parking virtually impossible.
I have been told that losing the vision in my right eye would make me legally blind and I believe it.
While I've adjusted to my poor eyesight, really I don't know any different, it can cause the occasion problem.
I now prefer to read on my Kindle since I can make the type extra large. I need especially good light for reading or crafting, and when a cat knocks my glasses off the bedside table in a ploy to waken me (it works, by the way) I might not be able to find them.
The other night, after one such awakening, I stumbled sans glasses to the bathroom to feed said annoying beast. Dawn was just beginning to peak over the horizon, so there was a sort of hazy grayish light.
What I saw took my breath away.
And not in a good way.

Was that a...?
It couldn't be..

A gigantic dead spider... right in front of me!
I dashed back to my room, groped for my glasses, and returned, fully prepared to be horrified by my discovery.

Oops.
Good thing I stifled that scream.
My giant spider turned out to simply be a crumpled leaf.
Whew.
That little jolt of adrenaline kept me awake until morning.
I might just have to start putting on my glasses to feed the cats in the night.
That or develop a tolerance for huge arachnids.
As if.

A tisket, a tasket...

a striped cat in a basket

Confessions of a lazy laundress

I hate doing laundry.
Actually, I don't mind the sorting and the actual machine loading.
It's the aftermath that does me in.
I hate folding.
Now, when the kids were little, I did fairly well.  At one point I even had four separate laundry baskets each with one child's name. I tended to keep up fairly well, low those many years ago.
Of course, I suppose that would depend on whom you ask.
There was the great Thanksgiving sock-folding standoff of 2002. My parents were visiting and my mom, also known as the laundry fairy, suggested rather strongly that we match and fold the laundry basket full of socks.
She had already folded all the other laundry, swept my driveway, and done up the dishes - and she wanted to tackle those socks.
Back then, a visit from my mom meant lots of straightening, sorting, folding, and cleaning. Never mind that I had done all that before she arrived - there was always more.
I know she did it to be helpful, and it was. Especially when a load of laundry put in to wash in the morning magically appeared folded and ready to put away before noon.
But that year, I had a bit of a bee in my bonnet.
I was finishing up my therapy and felt newly empowered - whether I needed to be or not.
And I decided I wasn't going to fold socks on Thanksgiving.
No matter what.
To say it was a Pyrrhic victory would negate the fact that I ended up with an entire laundry basket of matched and folded socks - a definite plus.
But I was decidedly uncomfortable as I watched my mom and my nephew, who spent his break from Iowa State University with us, do the work for me.
My girls tend to do their own laundry these days, though neither of them has a penchant for folding. I guess the fabric softener sheet doesn't fall far from the dryer... or something to that effect.
My boys bring theirs home from school in a suitcase - wash and dry it - then dump it back in the suitcase to take back with them. And I'm a little appalled that one of them doesn't fold.
Right now Mt. McLaundry awaits my attention on the couch in the living room. Every day another load is added and we rifle through to find what we need.
I really will get to it.
Eventually.

Just a flesh wound

Every time I swallow it feels as if I have one of these stuck in my throat.

I had the delightful experience this morning of hearing a doctor use the words "pus" and "goiter" in the same sentence.
And yes, she was referring to me.
While I definitely had one, the other is, thankfully, unlikely.
Last night I noticed my right knuckle was sore. It was hard to see for sure, but it looked as if I had a splinter. In my knuckle.
Now, you'd think someone would notice a splinter going into a knuckle, but I had no recollection of a sudden pain. The only contact with wood I remember having was putting logs in the fireplace and for that I always wear fireplace gloves.
Nonetheless, in the dim light of our CFL bulbs, it looked like a splinter.
I jokingly said to my girls, "Watch. In the morning I'll wake up and it will be swollen and full of pus!"
Ha ha.
I should know better.
This morning it was indeed swollen, red, tender, and undoubtedly infected.
I decided to head to a walk-in clinic rather than try to make an appointment - I had to be done in time to pick my daughter up from school at 10:44 and my husband was returning from two weeks in Chile around 9:30.
Somehow I managed to slip a glove on over my swollen and extremely tender finger. I had to drive with with my finger extended - did I mention it's my middle finger?
My apologies to anyone who saw me and was insulted.
The doctor took one look at my finger and launched into an explanation of MRSA a dangerous, drug-resistant from of staph. Apparently, my finger looks like a classic case. She took a sample of the infection (ow) and we'll have the results in two days.
Her method was not unlike how my Uncle Clarence lanced a pus-filled cyst on a cow. Yeah. That's a whole lot of gross.
Fortunately, my knuckle spurted much less.
Meanwhile, I am allergic to the best medication for staph (figures) so instead I'm taking cephalexin.
And my finger really hurts.
While I was there, I decided to try for a two-fer and mentioned the lump-like sensation I've had in my throat for the past several weeks. She took a quick look and all seemed fine. Though I've never had a doctor ask me to look down while she checked my throat - she was so short that as I sat on the exam table her head didn't even reach my shoulder.Then she asked if I'd ever had a goiter.
I burst out laughing, blurting "pus and goiter - just my luck."
I may have scared her a little.
No, I've never had a goiter, but I do have hypothyroidism.  Apparently, the lump sensation is right where the thyroid sits, and though my thyroid seemed fine, she suggested I have it checked out by my regular physician since "sometimes goiters grow in" creating pressure.
Joy.
Of course, I came right home and googled "lump in throat sensation."
This seems to be fairly common and is called "globus pharygis."
It's also been called "globus hystericus," as many people have no actual physical cause, rather the sensation is caused by anxiety.
Yeah.
Whoopee.
This just goes to prove that if it's weird, I'll get it.
I can honestly testify that my anxiety is quite well under control these days, so it's likely due to some simple inflammation. I have an appointment with my doctor in a week.
In the interim, I'm trying to ignore how much pain a stupid knuckle can cause and hoping it's not MRSA.
Oh, and did you know it's next to impossible to unscrew the lid from a two-liter bottle of pop when you can't bend your knuckle?
Try it.
Then you'll have to call for help, too.

Brewskie

With my renewed focus on mindfulness, I recognized that I am not the only one in my household who has let personal interests and endeavors slide.  

My husband used to brew beer.  It was a hobby he enjoyed but which fell by the wayside as our lives became "busier." There just never seemed to be time.

But making time for personal interests is vital to contentment.  Once I'd rediscovered this for myself it was time to grant the gift of time to my husband.

He works crazy long hours with loads of travel.  His weekends have always been filled with "chores" - stacking wood, making repairs, working in the yard, etc.  Those little tasks that seemed so important would suck up whatever non-work time he had.

Well no more.

As they say, all work and no play makes Mike a worn-out, unfulfilled, guy.

Or something like that.

So for Christmas this year I got him a gift certificate to a local brewing supply store. In the past he always made-do with barely adequate equipment. This gift allowed him to upgrade a little and purchase the raw ingredients necessary to brew a batch.

It was fun to watch him get back into his hobby.  I picked up a couple of basic brewing books from the library and about a month ago he brewed his first batch. He was concerned about fermentation, so the primary fermenter (I think it's called a carboy) was brought upstairs where it was a little warmer.

The girls and I, enjoying how much he was babying his batch, wrapped the carboy in a heating pad and hat one day.  I was upstairs when he came home and heard his somewhat frantic reaction.  Of course we didn't have the heating pad on!

It sat upstairs in the dining room for a week, protected from the light as you see above.

 It was ready to bottle the day before he left for a two-week trip to Chile.

 The brew is awaiting his return tomorrow, under wraps in the basement.

I can't wait for him to taste his inaugural brew.  It looks a little dark for my tastes, though I definitely will sample some.  After he makes a second batch, I think we'll brew some root beer for everyone to enjoy.

Spinster

Isn't this gorgeous?

My youngest daughter, Melissa, 14, learned how to spin nearly two summers ago.

She is quite the fiber artist.

For her birthday last year, in addition to several sheep's worth of roving, she received a small drum carder.  Actually, she paid for about a third of the carder - as with most things, spinning supplies and tools are quite expensive.

A drum carder allows her to custom blend fibers in spinning-ready batts.

Here is a fiber "sandwich" - various types of wools and colors are layered before carding.

These sandwiches are then fed into the hand-cranked drum carder.

It takes a fair amount of muscle to turn the crank.

As the fibers are run through the combs they are mixed and smoothed.

Henry is always willing to supervise; unfortunately he has a penchant for stealing whole hunks of roving.

Here you see a completed "sandwich' ready for the carder.

And here..

Here is the finished batt.

And another one.

Melissa then takes these batts and spins them into yarn.

The yarn with the blue and gray is what she spun from the batts pictured earlier.

She also spun all the yarn you see above.

For me!

This yarn represents a huge amount of time and effort on her part - and it's all for me.

I have a project planned.

I've been dragging my feet a little, but hope to start it this week!

Rainy Day

It rained last week

and it smelled like spring

Stagnant

Floyd knows exactly who he is: Gorgeous, that's who.

When my third child started college last fall I realized something.
I have devoted so much of myself to being a mom, a wife, an animal caretaker, and in dealing with chronic illness that I let myself stagnate.
I suppose I never really answered that iconic question of youth "Who am I?"
I just kind of avoided it as my life took off.
Who am I?
At 21, a wife.
At 22, a grad student.
At 24, a stay-at-home mom
At 26, stay-at-home mom of two.
At 29, stay-at-home mom of three.
At 33, stay-at-home mom of four.
Then I became a homeschooler, a sometime unschooler, a mom of high school kids, college kids, graduate student kids.
And while I hope to add grandmother and mother-in-law to that list someday (not necessarily in that order!), the pattern I've established is quite clear. I tend to define who I am through my relationships to others.  There's nothing wrong with that, but I need to know who I am individually as well.
Now, I don't mean to denigrate my role of "mom."  Being the mother of four incredibly intelligent, caring, funny human beings truly is the best part of my life.  Being married to the man of my dreams is the most wonderful, amazing, truly fortunate thing that has ever happened to me.
But I'm 48 now, and my role as mom, though constant, continues to evolve.  Let's face it, my kids don't need me in the same way they did as babies, toddlers, children, or young adults.
I love the relationships I have with each and every one of them.  And we are a strong and supportive family that truly enjoys spending time together.
So why do I feel as if I never figured out what I want to be when I grow up?
I'm fortunate to be able to continue to stay home, and I still have a daughter in high school who requires a lot of chauffeuring, among other things.
But I realized that I finally need to do more for myself than take the occasional (alright, nearly daily) nap, exercise (relatively consistently) and read a book here and there.
Folks, it's time to figure out who I want to be for the next half of my life.
I had grand plans this fall, including two art classes, attending the nearby Unitarian church, joining groups, volunteering, joining a book club...
Yeah, it was a little too much too soon.
Real life intervened as the specter of mental illness crashed into my children's lives yet again.  My train was completely derailed.
Things are looking a little brighter these days, and I've decided to acknowledge a few things about myself.
I am not a good "joiner."  I need to try one new thing at a time and give myself permission to quit or switch gears if it's not a good fit.  I haven't been able to force myself to attend many church services, but I joined a small group there that I dearly love!
I tried out the art class (one of them was cancelled), but recognized that I'm not comfortable "arting" in a group. Too much insecurity for that. So I've done a few artsy projects at home with my girls.  I plan to try to increase the frequency of these artistic endeavors and just allow myself to enjoy the process. As my youngest daughter told me, my self-worth should not be tied to the success (or failure) of an art project.  (How did she get so wise?)
I am the type of person who doesn't like being too busy.  Creating too many obligations for myself makes me want to run and hide my head under the bed with the cats and the dust bunnies.  And you know what?  It's okay.  I don't have to try to force myself to be busier than I want to be. I have always needed a lot of alone time (when in 6th grade I'd climb up into my closet and read the encyclopedia).  That's just who I am.  So I'm allowing myself to just stay home.  I like it here, you know?
While I love to cook and love to read, I really don't want to take cooking classes nor do I want to discuss books.  What do I want?  I want to try to new recipes and challenge myself to cook from scratch even more than I already do.  I want to take time - hours and hours - and just devour books.  For myself. Now, if I could only solve that little problem I have of staying awake longer than a chapter or two...
I still haven't found my volunteering niche.  I tried the local animal shelter with my daughter, but on our second tour of duty I came home with a kitten, upping our total to 6.  Yeah, I know.  Can you say hairball?  The rescue league is not a safe place for me.  So finding the right fit for volunteering is still high on my list.
I guess I'd have to say I am a work in progress.
While I haven't discovered that elusive answer to the "who am I?" question, I think spending the next 40 or 50 years finding out will be a pretty darn rewarding experience.

Confusion

My cactus is confused.
I bought it several years ago as a Christmas cactus but this year it just can't make up it's mind.
So far it has bloomed at Thanksgiving and Christmas, in mid-January and for Valentine's day.
Now, it's heralding spring.

It seems to be mimicking Mother Nature's confusion.  Little snow, record warmth, crocus blooming in February.

This week alone we've had rain, temps in the 50s, and right now big, beautiful snowflakes are drifting past my window.

Yesterday it got uncomfortably warm in the house just from the fireplace.  Today, I've already run the heat, the fire is blazing, and I'm cold even with a heavy afghan and two cats on my lap.

I'm not complaining, mind you.
I hate snow and ice and cold.

And as far as I'm concerned, my cactus can keep right on blooming.

Got Flowers?

Early in my treatment for depression, before my therapist knew me well, he tried lots of what I like to call "the little tricks" he learned in "therapy school."

The one that came to mind last week was when he told me to buy myself a flower.

Yeah.

Here I am, sitting in your office, paying you crazy sums, suffering from severe depression, and you want me to buy myself a flower?

Which is pretty much what I told him.  But I didn't stop there.  I let him know in uncertain terms that if I had to buy my own flower, for goodness' sake, I would only feel worse.

I believe this suggestion came shortly after his "go home and take a nice relaxing bath" idea.  At the time I was a mother to four children under 11, one of whom was a toddler.  My husband traveled, my bathtub was dirty, and taking a bath in the afternoon was about the last thing I could do.

I suggested he find out if these trite ideas actually made anyone happier or only increased the anger the patient feels for her therapist's lack of understanding of what life as a stay-at-home mom is like and that if I wanted to feel happier then tell somebody else to buy me a damn flower.

Ahem.

I might have been a bit of a challenge for him.

But that was then and this is now.

Ten years and a decade of selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors later, I have a higher set point of daily happiness.  

Or maybe it's that my depression threshold is lower?

What I mean to say is that now that I'm no longer depressed, I do occasionally enjoy buying myself flowers. Especially this time of year, when it just seems too long to wait for daffodils to bloom.

Ah, Spring.

You do make me happy.