My life seams to be dominated by list these days, filled with things that are needed but are not possible due to financial constraints. Doctor’s appointments put off, items that need to be replaced or repaired, basics that worn beyond acceptable standards and the ever growing list of ways to spend my tax refund money – which of course is much more expensive then the money I will receive.
After hearing about all the great deals being offered by the retail community, I decided to tackle one of my lists today, the one with the clothes and personal items I need. Now I know what you are saying – how can I need any clothes? I have a ton, and that is true, but I have not bought anything for over a year and there are certain things, like layering pieces that get worn out after a couple years of wear. So I took $100 of my baking profits and set out to get everything on my list. I have to say I think I did pretty good! I was able to get 1 sweater, 3 long sleeved t-shirts, 2 bath and body works creamy body wash, some unmentionables, a pair of slippers and a pair of jeans. All for $76.69. Oh, did I mention the jeans are Ann Taylor Loft jeans that I got for $17.49, beating my previous best ATL jean purchase of $19.99. If I had paid full price for all of my items it would have been $190. A discount of 60% - not bad! The only thing on my list I didn’t get was some socks – I will have to keep looking for some – socks are expensive.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Once in a life time...
I remember exactly what I was doing one year ago tonight when the breaking news hit, I was in my room folding laundry. The local news had recently finished and suddenly they broke in the national news to announce the death of President Ford. At that time I knew the next week would be memorable for me, but I have no idea what a lasting impact it would have. It was truly a once in a life time experience and one I will never forget. I often think I should write a book about it, and maybe some day I will. But today I am a just a bit sad. One year ago today we lost a great man. Personally I had only met him a few times, have a few brief conversations with him and helped out on his 90th birthday celebration. Yet he his death and the anniversary of it has hit me hard. He had given so much to West Michigan and to our nation, much more then I ever realized until his death, and in the end his death was his final gift. During the events in Grand Rapids we became a showplace to the entire world and the people of West Michigan not only put their best forward they surpassed everyone expectations! They showed the world what it means to be an American. I do not think that I have to words to describe the emotions I felt the first I witnessed this. During much of the time I was in a small room in the Amway hotel, but one of my duties was to staff the museum arrival ceremony. One of my responsibilities was getting the VIP guests from the hotel to the museum. Stepping on the bus was my first time out and seeing the crowds of people that had come out to pay their respects brought tears to my eyes – to the point that I had to stop delivering my instructions because I was crying. Walking through the crowds that night, seeing the individuals who waiting for hours in line, covering miles of roads, crossing three bridges, to pay their respects while President Ford was in repose was unlike any crowd I have ever seen before and will ever see again. It was just amazing, especially when we learned that over 60,000 people had gone though, we were planning on somewhere between 20,000 and 30,000. But West Michigan showed their true colors and exemplified patriotism. Just thinking about it brings back so many memories and emotions! Oh the stories I have! I don’t have a whole lot going on this weekend and I think I am going to watch the two days worth of news coverage I have taped. I have never sat down and watched it – I am sure many of you have seen more coverage then I have, yes we had the TV on in the office, but we were too busy to really watch it. We lived it. Until this point I have not wanted to see it, but I am ready now, to watch this historic event that I had the amazing honor to be a part of.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Merry Christmas
Wishing you a wonderful day spent with loved ones and a time that is rich with blessings.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
It's the Holidays
That has been my mantra for what feels likes weeks now. This holiday season has just been busy! But the other day I pulled out my favorite David Sedaris Christmas essay and read it out loud. I have yet to make it through with out laughing out loud – so I thought I would post it. I am sure I am missing some copy writing information, but it happens, it’s the holidays…
Six to Eight Black Men by David Sedaris
I’ve never been much for guidebooks, so when trying to get my bearings in some strange American city, I normally start by asking the cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest census figures. I say “silly” because I don’t really care how many people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus Ohio. They’re nice-enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second question might have something to do with the average rainfall, which, again doesn’t tell me anything about the people who have chosen to call this place home.
What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a concealed weapon and, if so, under what circumstances? What’s the waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were recently divorced or fired from my job? I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to lead into this subject as delicately as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and enclosed in a relatively small area. Bide your time, though, and you can walk away with some excellent stories. I’ve learned, for example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and Michigan. In Texas they must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but I heard that in Michigan they’re allowed to go at it alone, which raises the question: How do they find whatever it is they just shot? In addition to that how do they get it home? Are the Michigan blind allowed to drive as well? I ask about guns not because I want one of my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state. In a country that’s become increasingly homogeneous, I ‘m reassured by these last charming touches of regionalism.
Firearms aren’t really an issue in Europe, so when traveling abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals. “What do your roosters say?” is a good icebreaker, as every country has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark “vow vow” and both the frog and the duck say “quack,” the rooster greets the dawn with a hearty “kik-a-riki.” Greek roosters crow “kiri-a-kee,” and in France they scream “coco-rico,” which sounds like one of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. When told that an American rooster says “cock-a-doodle-doo,” my hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.
“When do you open your Christmas presents?” is another good conversation starter, as I think it explains a lot about national character. People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit more pious and family-oriented then those who wait until Christmas morning. They go to Mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to eating another big meal. Gifts are generally reserved for children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It’s nothing I’d want for myself, but I suppose it’s fine for those who prefer food and family to things of real value.
In France and Germany gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while in the Netherlands the children open their presents on December 5, in celebration of St Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.
Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as the bishop of Turkey.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but could you repeat that?”
One doesn’t want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn’t used to do anything. He’s not retired and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. It’s too dangerous there, and the people wouldn’t appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicolas currently resided in Spain, which again is simply not true. Though he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn’t have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit he’d most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn’t speak Spanish. “Hello. How are you? Can I get you some candy?” Fine. He knows enough to get by, but he’s not fluent and he certainly doesn’t eat tapas.
While our Santa flied in on a sled, the Dutch version arrives by boat and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I’m not sure if there’s a set date, but he generally docks in late November and spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.
“Is it just him alone?” I asked. “Or does he come with some backup?”
Oscar’s English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a term normally reserved for police reinforcement.
“Helpers,” I said. “Does he have any elves?”
Maybe I’m overly sensitive, but I couldn’t help but feel personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque and unrealistic. “Elves,” he said. “They are just so silly.”
The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as “six to eight black men.” I asked several Dutch people to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always “six to eight,” which seems strange, seeing as they’ve had hundreds of years to get an accurate head count.
The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves until the mid-1950s, when the political climate changed and it was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good friends. I think that history has proved that something usually comes between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by cookies and quiet hours beside the fire but bloodshed and mutual hostility. They have such violence in the Netherlands, but rather then duking it out amongst themselves Santa and his former slaves decided to take it out on the public. In the early years if a child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would beat him with what Oscar described as “the small branch of a tree.”
“A switch?’
“Yes,” he said. “That’s it. They’d kick him and beat him with a switch. Then if the youngster was really bad, they’d put him in a sack and take him back to Spain.”
“Saint Nicholas would kick you?”
“Well not anymore,” Oscar said. “Now he just pretends to kick you.”
He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it’s almost more perverse then the original punishment. “I’m going to hurt you but not really.” How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the element of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain old-fashion fear. What kind of a Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course you’ve got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on.
“Six to eight, did you say?”
In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping, it’s not much different then hanging your stockings from the mantel. Now that so few people actually have a working fireplace, Dutch children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator, furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At this point I guess they either jump back down and use the door or stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical cords. Oscar wasn’t too clear about the particulars, but really, who can blame him? We have the same problems with our Santa. He’s supposed to use the chimney, but if you don’t have one, he still manages to get in. It’s best not to think about it too hard.
While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our Christmas story remains relatively dull. Santa lives with his wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year traveling around the world. If you’re bad, he leaves you coal. If you’re good and live in America, he’ll give you just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his children, “Listen, you might want to pack a few a things together before going to bed. The former bishop of Turkey will be coming tonight along with six to eight black men. They might put some candy in your shoes, they might stuff you into a sack and take you to Spain or they might pretend to kick you. We don’t know for sure, but we want you to be prepared.”
This is the reward for living in the Netherlands. As a child you get to hear this story, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs and prostitution – so what’s not to love about being Dutch?
Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was an amiable guy – very good company – but when he offered to wait until my train arrived I begged off, claiming I had some calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast, vibrant terminal, surrounded by thousands of polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn’t help but feel second-rate. Yes, the Netherlands was a small country, but it has six to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter. I was edging toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off alone into the Michigan forest. He may bag a deer or he may happily shoot a camper in the stomach. He may find his way back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before stumbling through your back door. We don’t know for sure, but in pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.
Six to Eight Black Men by David Sedaris
I’ve never been much for guidebooks, so when trying to get my bearings in some strange American city, I normally start by asking the cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest census figures. I say “silly” because I don’t really care how many people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus Ohio. They’re nice-enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second question might have something to do with the average rainfall, which, again doesn’t tell me anything about the people who have chosen to call this place home.
What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a concealed weapon and, if so, under what circumstances? What’s the waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were recently divorced or fired from my job? I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to lead into this subject as delicately as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and enclosed in a relatively small area. Bide your time, though, and you can walk away with some excellent stories. I’ve learned, for example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and Michigan. In Texas they must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but I heard that in Michigan they’re allowed to go at it alone, which raises the question: How do they find whatever it is they just shot? In addition to that how do they get it home? Are the Michigan blind allowed to drive as well? I ask about guns not because I want one of my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state. In a country that’s become increasingly homogeneous, I ‘m reassured by these last charming touches of regionalism.
Firearms aren’t really an issue in Europe, so when traveling abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals. “What do your roosters say?” is a good icebreaker, as every country has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark “vow vow” and both the frog and the duck say “quack,” the rooster greets the dawn with a hearty “kik-a-riki.” Greek roosters crow “kiri-a-kee,” and in France they scream “coco-rico,” which sounds like one of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. When told that an American rooster says “cock-a-doodle-doo,” my hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.
“When do you open your Christmas presents?” is another good conversation starter, as I think it explains a lot about national character. People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit more pious and family-oriented then those who wait until Christmas morning. They go to Mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to eating another big meal. Gifts are generally reserved for children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It’s nothing I’d want for myself, but I suppose it’s fine for those who prefer food and family to things of real value.
In France and Germany gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while in the Netherlands the children open their presents on December 5, in celebration of St Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.
Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as the bishop of Turkey.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but could you repeat that?”
One doesn’t want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn’t used to do anything. He’s not retired and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. It’s too dangerous there, and the people wouldn’t appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicolas currently resided in Spain, which again is simply not true. Though he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn’t have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit he’d most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn’t speak Spanish. “Hello. How are you? Can I get you some candy?” Fine. He knows enough to get by, but he’s not fluent and he certainly doesn’t eat tapas.
While our Santa flied in on a sled, the Dutch version arrives by boat and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I’m not sure if there’s a set date, but he generally docks in late November and spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.
“Is it just him alone?” I asked. “Or does he come with some backup?”
Oscar’s English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a term normally reserved for police reinforcement.
“Helpers,” I said. “Does he have any elves?”
Maybe I’m overly sensitive, but I couldn’t help but feel personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque and unrealistic. “Elves,” he said. “They are just so silly.”
The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as “six to eight black men.” I asked several Dutch people to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always “six to eight,” which seems strange, seeing as they’ve had hundreds of years to get an accurate head count.
The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves until the mid-1950s, when the political climate changed and it was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good friends. I think that history has proved that something usually comes between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by cookies and quiet hours beside the fire but bloodshed and mutual hostility. They have such violence in the Netherlands, but rather then duking it out amongst themselves Santa and his former slaves decided to take it out on the public. In the early years if a child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would beat him with what Oscar described as “the small branch of a tree.”
“A switch?’
“Yes,” he said. “That’s it. They’d kick him and beat him with a switch. Then if the youngster was really bad, they’d put him in a sack and take him back to Spain.”
“Saint Nicholas would kick you?”
“Well not anymore,” Oscar said. “Now he just pretends to kick you.”
He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it’s almost more perverse then the original punishment. “I’m going to hurt you but not really.” How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the element of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain old-fashion fear. What kind of a Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course you’ve got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on.
“Six to eight, did you say?”
In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping, it’s not much different then hanging your stockings from the mantel. Now that so few people actually have a working fireplace, Dutch children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator, furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At this point I guess they either jump back down and use the door or stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical cords. Oscar wasn’t too clear about the particulars, but really, who can blame him? We have the same problems with our Santa. He’s supposed to use the chimney, but if you don’t have one, he still manages to get in. It’s best not to think about it too hard.
While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our Christmas story remains relatively dull. Santa lives with his wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year traveling around the world. If you’re bad, he leaves you coal. If you’re good and live in America, he’ll give you just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his children, “Listen, you might want to pack a few a things together before going to bed. The former bishop of Turkey will be coming tonight along with six to eight black men. They might put some candy in your shoes, they might stuff you into a sack and take you to Spain or they might pretend to kick you. We don’t know for sure, but we want you to be prepared.”
This is the reward for living in the Netherlands. As a child you get to hear this story, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs and prostitution – so what’s not to love about being Dutch?
Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was an amiable guy – very good company – but when he offered to wait until my train arrived I begged off, claiming I had some calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast, vibrant terminal, surrounded by thousands of polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn’t help but feel second-rate. Yes, the Netherlands was a small country, but it has six to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter. I was edging toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off alone into the Michigan forest. He may bag a deer or he may happily shoot a camper in the stomach. He may find his way back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before stumbling through your back door. We don’t know for sure, but in pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Big Day
I had a few ordered that needed to be delivered today. When I say a few I mean a ton. Since I was gone on Friday night, it meant a long day of baking and making candy yesterday. After a run to Meijers and Family Fare to get my ingredients (great sales on some of them!) I spent the next 14 hours in the kitchen making 24 loaves of bread, 12 dozen cookies, 2 batches of fudge, 2 batches of heath, 1 batch of peanut butter balls and 1 batch of peanut clusters. I am very thankful for all the orders, but have to admit my body is feeling it a bit today. Of course the weather today was not the best, but it was not the roads that gave me a scare, it was one of the people shoveling my sidewalks. He was trying to be helpful by carrying my bags full of my orders to my car, but thought they were trash and walked over to the dumpster – I almost had a heart attack as I yelled out, those are not trash! I would have cried if he had thrown those away!
Thankfully I do not have as many orders this week, and I am hoping to visit with some friends.
Thankfully I do not have as many orders this week, and I am hoping to visit with some friends.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Prayer Request
Yesterday was a day of not so good news. My sister and brother in law’s 15 year old nephew found his cancer had returned. In May, Kyle was diagnosed with Hodgkins disease, at that time the cancer was in stage 4, so the doctors decided on a more aggressive 6 round chemo plan. Scans after the 2nd treatment showed wonderful progress and the cancer was almost gone. They continued with the remaining 4 treatments and upon completion he was considered cancer free.
The last treatment took place 6 weeks ago. Yesterday they got the results of the 6 week post chemo scan and they found multiple spots of cancer. Kyle is now faces six months of a more invasive chemo, radiation on some of the larger spots and a bone marrow transplant. The doctors are optimistic that they will be able to harvest his marrow for the transplant, but more test need to be run to fully determine this.
Please keep Kyle and his family in your prayers.
The last treatment took place 6 weeks ago. Yesterday they got the results of the 6 week post chemo scan and they found multiple spots of cancer. Kyle is now faces six months of a more invasive chemo, radiation on some of the larger spots and a bone marrow transplant. The doctors are optimistic that they will be able to harvest his marrow for the transplant, but more test need to be run to fully determine this.
Please keep Kyle and his family in your prayers.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Better then expected
I am in the middle of fulfilling all of my Christmas orders. I have to say I have been pleasantly surprised on the number of orders I have received. One of my orders last week was for some chocolate chip cookies. Now I have been making chocolate chip cookies for over 20 years and they are one of the recipes I don’t even think about when I make them, I just go on auto pilot. But since these cookies were for an order, I wanted to take a little more care in making these and I have to admit they turned out really well – so much better then I expected and the customer was definitely satisfied!
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Another Birthday
Today was my nephew’s 10th birthday – it is hard to believe that he is so old. It took him a while to decide what he wanted on his cake. He finally decided on a red wings jersey – Nick Lidstroms of course. I am not sure I would classify this as cute, but the birthday boy was happy with it.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Finally…Success
Over the years there have been a few things that I have tried and tried to make, but they just don’t turn out. Some of these are not that big of deal to me, it is not something I really like, but one of these I was bound and determined to figure out. I am happy to report that over the weekend I, for the first time ever, successfully made a batch of meringue cookies. Much in thanks to my new mixer! That success was worth the cost of the machine, well almost. :)
Here is the light fluffy delicious goodness with the hidden surprise of chocolate inside.
The reason I chose to make them was due to my extended family’s Christmas gathering on Sunday. I figured they were a safe test group. They enjoyed them, included one family member who shall remain nameless who took 3 of them!!
Here is the light fluffy delicious goodness with the hidden surprise of chocolate inside.
The reason I chose to make them was due to my extended family’s Christmas gathering on Sunday. I figured they were a safe test group. They enjoyed them, included one family member who shall remain nameless who took 3 of them!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
