Meat with a Side of Meat

Last week I was in Minnesota for work. Well, kind of for work. The fundraising event I was planning on attending was cancelled last minute (really last minute), but my client's development team felt just bad enough that I was flying out there that they offered to take me out for breakfast.

And, while I had been greeted by a disturbing chill upon exiting the sliding airport doors, and spent the night prior catching up with a dear friend over wine, it was not until that breakfast that I truly remembered what it was like to live in Minnesota.

When one of my Mid-west colleagues pointed out the meat loaf scramble on the menu, I started to laugh along with her. Until I realized she wasn't laughing. She was looking at me confused, and I attempted to disguise my laugh into a small throat-clearing cough. "Yeah, look at that." I was not committing to judgement one way or the other. I was, however, desperately searching for the asterisk beside the selection that would indicate the meat was free range and organic from a local farm, which--on Bainbridge Island--would be the only way that item would stand a chance in hell of survival.

The other Minnesotan at the table murmured what was, apparently, the correct response. "Yeah, mmm. That looks good...I think I might try that too. But do you think I can get that with a side of ham?" Turns out, she could. Of course.

Oh, Minnesota. Land of the 10,000 lakes, fried candy bars on a stick, and the meat loaf scramble. How I missed you.

Where There's a Will

Several times in my life, I have discovered significant gaps in my common knowledge. These blips have provided embarrassment for me, and enjoyment for my family members. The first that I recall, although I am sure there were earlier incidents, was during my senior year of high school. My AP English teacher told me he had put a book on hold for me at the local bookstore. I just needed to speak with Will Call. "Great. Is this Will guy expecting me?" At first, Mr. Dolan laughed as if he were in on my joke, and then his expression changed to chagrin as he realized I was being serious. "No, will call. Will call."

Then, a few years back, I decided to make Elizabeth a robe for Christmas, an undertaking I never would have attempted without knowing I had my mom for backup. And by backup, I mean that my mom would pretty much be charged with all technical aspects of the project. I strolled through the local B.I. fabric shop, doing my best to look like a seasoned seamstress. I ordered the amount of fabric my mom and I had rehearsed, and the women helping me asked if I had any other notions. "Um, well. No...this is my only idea for a project right now. I'm pretty new." She said, "No, notions. Anything extra you need for this project?" My face felt hot. "No, really. I'm just sticking to the pattern for this first one." I detailed my shopping experience with the pushy saleslady to my mom later, who found the whole episode hilarious. "Notions" apparently are the extra items aside from just fabric that a pattern might call for (buttons, etc.). I had no IDEA.

I have done my best to shore up any holes in my own children's knowledge base--but we've already experienced confusion regarding another famous Will:

E: We know two Will's--the guy in my class, and the nice guy with the truck that has all the stuff, right Mommy?

J: Um? I know Will in your class, but who is the other guy?

E: You know Mom. The nice Will. The Good Will.

These types of conversations have become some of my favorite, and it has me wondering if my parents kept me in the dark on some things purposefully just for their own amusement.

Inept

When I graduated from college and started working as an admissions counselor for the University of Portland, I was considered one of the more technologically proficient members of the staff. Indeed, I was responsible for finding a more "contemporary" way to communicate with prospective students--online chats. At 22, I scheduled and implemented the first demonstration "chat," and then delivered what I felt was a pretty impressive power point detailing the results to the Dean of Admissions and the Vice President. That was in 2003.

The University of Portland has since managed to maintain relevance as new social media emerged over the past decade. Unfortunately, I have not. While I have a facebook account, I am a high-risk user. (I was once searching for my sister's page and changed my status to her name. It could have been waaaayyy more embarrassing had I been searching for someone else....) I don't have a "smart" phone and I have an incredibly difficult time using my husband's, I recently asked a friend what cd she would recommend for me, and when I tell people I'll "pencil in" appointments and social engagements, I mean it literally. (On my paper calendar, obviously.) I also have yet to tweet one time myself, and am totally confused as to what the # symbol means in other people's tweets or when it is written on facebook. Anyone?

Thus--it was my husband who pointed out that changing the name of my blog is all good and fine, but when the web address of your blog is still your physical address, people are STILL going to have a good idea of where you live. Whoops. Please do not be surprised if my web address for the blog changes soon. I just have to figure out how to do it. Now I'm REALLY keeping you on your toes.

PS. Unfortunately, I realize that my technological shortcomings may be affecting my children. When Sam and I were walking back from dropping Elizabeth off at the bus stop recently, we passed a neighbor's house just as their garage door was opening. He stared in total wonder. "Oh my gosh, Mommy!! That is going up all by itself--no one is even pushing it!!!" It might be time to install that electric garage door opener....

Monogrammed Backpacks

While working on an RFP for a government contract this afternoon (and yes, that is as boring as it sounds), I inadvertently clicked on the bookmark for my old blog. And then I got slightly sidetracked reading. And then I became utterly motivated to blog again.

I know, many of you (or at least one or two of my 8 followers) are probably thinking that you refuse to believe what is likely to become another unfulfilled promise of consistent writing by Jeannie. Aunt Ginny--my inability to follow through at age ten on revitalizing the Stuyvesant family newspaper from your youth probably leaves you the most jaded. But--I implore you. Have (some) faith. Because I am set to start my new nonfiction writing class in a matter of days, I know that my writing juices will be flowing. So even if I don't have blog entries per se to upload, I should have some interesting writing to publish instead. I would publish my current writings right now, but I highly doubt any of you want to read my grants. Unfortunately, I think that goes for the foundations and county officials to whom I submit proposals as well. Sigh.

So, here I am. Again. With a new blog title. Why? Because I realized that my previous blog title was the equivalent of monogramming a child's backpack. Whenever I peruse the Pottery Barn Kids catalogs that are sent to our house with alarming frequency, I admire the children's backpacks. And then chide the imaginary parents, because come on! Why, oh why, would you put your child's name on their backpack? Obviously, the kidnappers lurking in bushes are awaiting just such an opportunity as knowing to call for "Aidan" or "Quinn" when trying to lure your child. Sheesh.

My previous blog title--that of my street address (what was I thinking?)--created a similar opportunity for all my lurking but adoring fans. Why should I have to surrender my coveted anonymity? So, my interim title "Bainbridge Musings" came about because 1). I live on Bainbridge. (But now you don't know where. HA!); 2). It is 4:30 pm on Friday and I have been writing aforementioned government contracts for the past 7 plus hours; and 3). I really should get downstairs because I hear my dear husband and children having a dance party to Paul Simon's Cecelia..and I really want to join 'em.

When I have the time, and the creativity, to think of a better permanent name, I will. Or maybe I will just keep changing things up to keep you on your toes.

And a few of the inside too....

Pictures

More updates to come later, but thought I'd post a few pics of the outside of the house. This will be more impressive when I can locate a "before" picture.

Who Has Time to Write?

It has been an incredibly long time since I’ve written, for several reasons. First and foremost, we have been so busy with all of this house renovation/moving out/moving in stuff that I am exhausted and my creative juices are running dry. Secondly, the little time and little juice that I do have has sadly been rationed toward my grant writing duties. Unfortunately, the monetary gains of that endeavor surpass those from writing this little blog. But, due to a surprising (albeit slight) demand for entries , I have decided to expend a bit of energy this evening providing updates on the house.

Because there has been so much that has happened since my last post on September 14^th (wow! It has been a long time!), I will break up the events into little chapters, the first being titled:

Home/Time Sucking Depot:

I cannot tell you how much time I spent en route to and at the Home Depot. And I cannot tell you how much time I would have saved had I known that there was a Home Depot located in Poulsbo, Washington, which is a good 15 minutes closer than the one we’d been traveling to in Silverdale, Washington. Sigh. At least we found out before we had completed all the home renovations, cause that really would have been hard to take.

Each location, however, has come to recognize me. I felt a twinge of pride when I walked through the door at one of the locations (I cannot even remember which), and an employee stationed at the front of the store said, “Oh, you’re back again.” This feeling was quickly replaced with embarrassment as I rolled the cart over my toe, but I digress.

Home Depot has provided pretty much everything and the kitchen sink. By the way, kitchen sinks are heavy and I strongly advise against any attempts to lift a boxed sink into your cart on your own. (My toe could have experienced much worse than an empty cart incident.) I picked out a beautiful bronze faucet to go with our sink, and a very helpful employee recommended that I pick out the drain at the same time. (Side note: why don’t kitchen sinks come with drains? Isn’t that like selling someone a car without a steering wheel? What good does that do me?) The employee recommended special ordering a bronze drain cover thing to match my faucet (because how embarrassing would that be if someone noticed the drain was silver and the faucet was bronze?). And then she told me the price. Seventy five dollars. As opposed to $20. I started laughing somewhat hysterically, and I think the employee recognized that the sale was about to disappear and she rapidly backtracked from her previous argument. “But I mean really, are you having your company do the dishes? How would they even notice the drain didn’t match? Ha ha. Ha ha.”

I also color matched my “Divine Paint Colors.” Our downstairs walls, if referred to by color name, sound delicious. We chose a “cocoa” for the kitchen and living room accent wall, an “almond” (which is deceiving – it is actually a shade of blue) for the family room, and a “vanilla” for the ceiling and hallway walls. The upstairs include Ellie’s “Grapes and Beans” – a lovely lavender, Sam’s “Full of Beans” – a lovely blue, the office’s “Birch” – yellow, and our room’s “Manzanita” – an awesome shade of green. Kind of Easter-ish upstairs, but I love it.

My Father the Hero

So, my Dad came up to help the week after we ripped out the carpets. He is amazing. The man’s work ethic is seriously unparalleled. He has tackled so many projects here at 201 Ihland Way, that I am embarrassed to say I can’t even remember what all he has done. Removing light fixtures, taping and painting many, many, many interior walls, including the aforementioned cocoa accent wall which actually is enormous and required some serious creative solutions. He will be a key player in the next several chapters, because he was pretty much there for it all. And, he came back for seconds, which is really impressive. I thought we’d never get him to come back, but after a short reprieve in Oregon, he made the trip back up to Bainbridge to paint again the following week and help with the move out/move in. I am seriously lucky.

El Gato No Es Una Parte De Mi Cuerpo

The previous owners here at 201 Ihland Way used the wooden stove. A lot. The downstairs walls in this place were completely covered with ash and soot. The outdoor painter that we contracted, Jose Ponce, had given us a business card that also included his wife’s cleaning business. We hired her and informed her to bring another individual to wash the walls with TSP which helps prep them to accept paint. Unfortunately, my high school Spanish class was not very good. We literally learned the Macarena dance for one full semester, when we weren’t learning very helpful phrases like the one that serves as the chapter title for this entry (it translates to: The cat is not a part of my body. I think.). So my attempts to communicate with Maria were comical – at one point I was trying to tell her that I’d be back but I had to first pick up my “ninos,” and I think she thought I was asking her to watch my kids. Anyway – she did a fabulous job, alongside her daughter-in-law. They each spent 8 hours ridding the walls of smoky remnants. They didn’t get a chance to finish the ceiling in the downstairs, so my Dad and I came back for the evening. What a job! We spent roughly two and a half hours on just the kitchen and the family room ceilings alone. My Dad came back the next day to work on the crazy hallway ceilings and the accent wall and living room ceilings, which were much too high for Maria. “Muy grande” she finally told me after several other attempts that left me clueless. Oh Seniora Mareno, you have failed me so.