Um . . . This IS Florida, Isn't It?

I live in Florida, where this morning it was 32 degrees . . . Fahrenheit. And I don't believe that even took into account the wind chill factor.

Last night we had our first freeze warning of the season, so I tried to cover our hibiscus plants. We have one hibiscus tree next to the front walk that blooms ruffled, multi-colored blossoms, and two bushes at the corner of the house with huge, red and yellow flowers. A year ago I used old twin sized sheets with cartoon characters from Baby Bear’s bed to cover these plants, but no matter what I did to secure them, the wind blew them off. Fortunately the bushes came through with those flying colors of red and yellow, but the tree has struggled since last year’s freeze, and Mr. Lucky talks of replacing it with something else, though he hasn’t decided what.

The bushes, in fact, have grown and thrived so well in the past year, that last night I had to pull out the floral print king-sized sheets in hopes of covering them. But that blasted, biting wind blew the sheets off even as I tried to drape them over the hibiscus.

Mr. Lucky told me to forget about it. No doubt he wants to replace those bushes, too, just on general principle. He loves changing and replacing things just on general principle. Heaven help me if he ever thinks of replacing me.

(On the other hand, heaven help the replacement who thinks she can deal with him and Baby Bear!)

The hibiscus bushes survived the night again, none the worse for wear, but what about tonight? The weather guy said something about a “hard freeze” warning, as opposed to the mere freeze warning we had last night.

In the meantime, on MLK day, we took Baby Bear to Apollo Beach, along Tampa Bay. We were all bundled up in long pants and zipped up jackets, and I found myself wishing for one of my old knitted, hooded scarves I wore two decades ago in Germany, to wrap around my head, but they’re buried in a trunk somewhere out in the garage.

There was neither a Speedo nor a thong in sight on that beach. Aliens landing their spacecraft on one of the dunes wouldn’t have guessed it was the balmy Sunshine State, and surmised there was something screwy with their navigational system. I was reminded of the old Bugs Bunny cartoon where he burrows out of the ground in his swimsuit shrieking, “Miami Beach at last!” only to realize moments later he’s above the Arctic Circle, and probably should’ve taken that left turn at Albuquerque. Indeed, everyone at this beach was bundled up as if on a polar expedition.

And they weren’t all locals, either. One lady stood at the water’s edge repeatedly proclaiming to her husband, “That must be St. Petersburg over there. St. Petersburg is the one with the dome. Tampa doesn’t have a dome.”

Definitely from out of town; in fact, I would wager from out of state.

Yes, it was a clear day and sweeping our gaze from right to left, we could see the skyscrapers of Tampa; MacDill Air Force Base where Mr. Lucky served his final years in the military; the city of St. Petersburg with the distinctive dome of Tropicana Field; and farther on the horizon, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.

Baby Bear loved running the length of the beach. Fortunately, he showed no interest in plunging headlong into the water, which was a concern of mine when Mr. Lucky suggested we visit the beach.

Perhaps even our Bear knows when it’s too cold.

The Saga of My Bad Hair Life Continues

Fellow writer Vicki Lane recently blogged about her adventures in hair coloring here and continuing here. I could certainly identify and empathize with her, having blogged about similar mishaps of my own here, just over a year ago.

The hair stylist in that blog entry was so determined to see my hair highlighted, that for the rest of 2008, I didn’t dare go near that particular salon for fear I wouldn’t get out alive—or at least with my hair un-highlighted.

Yes, it sounds like a subplot from a Seinfeld episode. Yes, I’m still too easily intimidated by people and need to work some more on asserting myself. And yes, I’m being ridiculous.

Especially when a couple of months ago, I went to another hair salon to get my bangs trimmed. I like my bangs straight and the rest of my hair one length. All that feathering and layering doesn’t work for me. I have absolutely no aptitude for fixing up my hair, so the simpler the style, the better. As I write this, my hairstyle is very much the same as it is in my official portrait here.
Not everyone likes my "Anne Baxter as Nefretiri in The Ten Commandments" look. Fine. But I like it, and Mr. Lucky (almost as bald as Yul Brynner, who played Rameses in the same movie) likes it.

Getting back to that other hair salon two months ago. Without asking if it was all right with me, the stylist trimmed those bangs in half a dozen (maybe more) different lengths “to get you away from that schoolgirl look.”

I didn’t have the guts to say, “But I like that schoolgirl look. Why can’t I have my bangs the way I want them?” Better yet, WHY COULDN’T I TELL THE STYLIST EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED? I would’ve done so had she not launched her pre-emptive strike by belittling the look I already had. Did it not occur to her that I had that look for a reason—because I liked it? For that matter, did it ever occur to me that she wasn’t a mind reader, but a human steamroller to my asphalt?

No, because that day I was an ass—and it was my fault.

When I walked out of there, my bangs didn’t look as if they’d been trimmed at all.

By the holidays, they were not only hanging in my eyes again, but because of the varied lengths they were even hanging over my nose, so last week I went back to the same salon I visited last January. Surely that same stylist wasn’t there anymore?

She was.

All right. Surely she’d be busy with another client?

She wasn’t. In fact, she was the only stylist available.

Very well. Maybe she wouldn’t remember me from last year, and hold me hostage to highlights.

Alas, she did remember me, and she did indeed ply me with all their current specials on highlights. On the plus side, she did trim my bangs the way I wanted them, so I’m back to my Nefretiri/schoolgirl look and all is right with the world.

She thinks “caramel” highlights would look great on me. I was able to put her off with truthful pleas about a tight budget, which Mr. Lucky appreciated. Resourceful soul that he is, he’s offered to buy a bag of caramel candies, then melt them down and put them in my hair.

I think I’ll wait for the economy to improve. So let it be written . . .

There's a Scream in My Breakfast Cereal!

After pouring cereal into a bowl for Baby Bear this morning, I noticed one of the pieces silently screaming at me in gaping terror:

"No! No! Not the milk! It's LOW FAT!"

After shooting the above photo, I wanted to get a closeup of our freaky little Edvard Munch. But just as I was about to click, Baby Bear--he of the non-existent patience, voracious appetite, and deadly impeccable timing--dipped his paw into the bowl and scooped up a handful of cereal, cramming The Scream into his mouth.

Fortunately, Mr. Lucky was able to fool around with the one photo and get the desired closeup:

Make that one more reason to stay married to him.

New Year's Resolutions

January is the time of year when Mr. Lucky goes out to walk the dogs as usual, only to find he barely has room to maneuver because of all the hordes of humanity out there jogging, walking, cycling and rollerblading.

Then he goes to the gym for his daily workout, only to discover membership has suddenly quadrupled, and now he has to wait in line to use any of the equipment.

But he remains patient, for he knows by the end of January, those crowds will have thinned out and come February, everything will be back to normal. The streets will be desolate and the gym so deserted, he can go there and dance in his underwear, lip-syncing to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” while using one of the barbells as a pretend microphone, and no one will ever know.

When will people learn what he and I have long since figured out—that it takes more than hanging up a brand new calendar and opening one’s annual greetings from the IRS to keep resolutions?

For my part, I need rewards, threats, and blackmail.

Like the time a few years ago when I had trouble getting started on a new book. Julie Leto said if I didn’t write the first three chapters by a certain date, that I would have to apply for a job at Wal-Mart. I wrote those chapters by the specified deadline, and to this day I remain off Mr. Walton’s payroll.

On the other hand, when I was in my twenties I smoked, and every January I made the same futile resolution to quit, but to no avail. Only after Mr. Lucky, an avowed non-smoker, indicated an interest in marrying me, did I finally have the needed impetus to quit. And I didn’t need patches or Chantix or twelve-step programs, or to be strapped into a chair and my eyelids forced open like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange while I was subjected to a slideshow of blackened, cancer-ravaged lungs.

All I needed was the promise of True Love and Happily Ever After.

New Year’s Resolutions? Ppfft! If I relied only on that new calendar and greetings from the IRS, then I’d still be single, smoking, and working at Wal-Mart.

And I would still be just as snarky as I am here, if only because it would take more than a mere resolution to cure me of that.

Portrait of Our Christmas Tree

Santa brought me a small pink digital camera for Christmas. Being married to a professional photographer for over two decades, I've had little occasion to handle a camera all these years, so this--believe it or not--is my first hands-on experience with a digital camera. So far it's taking a heck of a lot of getting used to. I keep wanting to press the LCD screen on the back of the camera against my eye (Mr. Lucky: "WHAT are you DOING, Karen?") instead of holding it out and trying to focus on the perfect shot the new way.

"Christmas Tree Up!"

Our Christmas tree is up and ornamented, and if I had a camera, I would post a photo of it here. (I’ve asked Santa to bring me a camera so simple to use that even I, of the many thumbs and wits so dim, can figure it out.)

For over fifteen years now, we’ve had an artificial tree—or as Mr. Lucky calls it, “the tree that saved our marriage.” When he was in the Air Force and we were stationed in California back in the early 90’s, he insisted on driving from one end of the San Joaquin Valley to the other in search of the perfect tree—by his definition, a tall, lush fir that didn’t lose a single needle when he shook it, boasting a retail value of at least $35.00, but sold to him for less than $10.00 because he had a nice face.

We had some hideous arguments that once nearly got us into a car accident. After a whole day of searching in vain for his idea of the perfect tree, we came home without one, and weren’t speaking to each other. After dinner, he stormed out by himself and came home an hour later with the $35.00 tree that earlier that day almost landed us in divorce court.

Two days after that Christmas, he went to Sears and found an artificial tree on sale. It more than paid for itself the following year. It lasted for many years.

A couple of years ago we bought a new artificial tree that stands 7 feet tall, as no one chez Lingefelt is shorter than 5’10”. And God bless whoever came up with the idea of a pre-lit tree! It’s spared me a ton of aggravation. Every January when I put the ornaments away, I would carefully coil up the lights as neatly as possible to no avail. They’d spend the next eleven months in the box tying themselves into knots. Come the following December, I’d spend hours trying to untangle them, laying them out in long trails all over the house, plugging one strand into another to see if all them still worked (every year at least one had managed to strangle itself to death), before they could be added to the tree.

For many years we had musical lights that played seventeen Christmas carols over and over. The lights would blink in time to the music. The Crown Prince loved them, and when he was home and awake, that music had to be on. When the musical lights finally died, we elected not to buy new musical lights. Fortunately he didn’t mind. When he lived at home, he enjoyed helping to trim the tree, and always insisted we put it up the day after Thanksgiving. Failure to do so would result in an endless mantra of, “Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up . . .”

For many years we topped the tree with a star that twinkled with multi-colored lights. The Christmas after Fiona died, we didn’t put up a tree at all that year, but went to Georgia to spend the holidays with Mr. Lucky’s relatives. Since then, we’ve replaced the star with a dark-haired angel with outstretched arms. She looks as if she’s supposed to be holding something. Fiona loved pizza, but I have yet to find an artificial pizza the right size for that angel.

But a candy cane fits perfectly in her arms, so that’s what she holds every year. If only I had a picture!

Maybe next year, if Santa brings me that camera.

I Had 100 Days To Write A Book . . .

Back in September, TARA launched the 100 x 100 challenge—to write at least 100 words a day for 100 days, with the ultimate goal being to finish the book in time for our holiday party.

I started out well as evinced here, even though I didn’t like the story I was writing—this is not a book of the heart, but a book from the bowels—and on most days I wrote over 1,000 words, occasionally topping 2,000.

But alas, I did not finish it. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I was hit with a nasty bronchial ailment that took out all engines and instruments, and I spun down in flames before finally crashing and burning on Day 88.

Yet in those 88 days, I wrote 93,603 words. As the book is supposed to be a Regency historical romance (with as much emphasis as you can pile on supposed), the targeted word count was between 90-95,000 words. So even though I didn’t finish the story, I did prove to myself that at least in theory, I can write a full length book in 100 days—but only if I know where the story is going. In this case, who knows. I’ve been stumbling around in the dark with it, tripping over writer’s blocks and falling into plot holes, or I might well have finished it by now.

This book has a very bright future under my bed. To borrow a phrase from the Queen of England, for me 2008 was an annus horribilus in terms of my writing.

Meanwhile, I’m still coughing out what little remains of my innards, yet I don’t seem to have lost any weight. Let that be my penalty.

Our Other Wedding Anniversary

While July 23, 1987 is the day we were married in a civil ceremony in Odense, Denmark, December 5th of that same year is the day we were married again in a church ceremony in Mr. Lucky’s hometown.

I actually forgot this year . . . but he remembered! In fact, it was the first thing he said this morning: “Do you know what day this is, Karen?”

I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and fighting a bad cold, I coughed out half a lung before I managed to choke out something about it being Friday.

“It’s our other anniversary!” he exclaimed. That man doesn’t even need coffee. He wakes up cheerful. I’m grumpy till at least 4 pm.

He gave me a beautifully beribboned gold box of Lindt chocolate truffles.

How I love that man. If staying married to him means chocolate every anniversary, then I’m in for another year.

Baby Bear's Inexcusable School Holiday

Upon coming home Monday afternoon from a day of Christmas shopping with Mr. Lucky, we found a message on the answering machine from the nurse at Baby Bear’s school: He had a runny nose, and would I please call her?

The call came around mid-morning. She hadn’t called a second time, nor had she tried Mr. Lucky’s cell, and by the time we got this message, it was past two o’clock and Baby Bear would be out of school just after three. His school, an Exceptional Student Center (ESC) for children with special needs, is next to a high school that lets out at about the same time we listened to this message. The nurse said nothing about picking up Bear, which was just as well. There was no point in trying to go to his school now, especially with the high school getting out.

Several years ago, when the Crown Prince was a student at the ESC, they called me to get him after he cast up some accounts, and I arrived just as the high school was released. By the time I got the Crown Prince in the car, the People in Orange Vests, who patrolled the parking lots and thoroughfares around the three schools (there’s also a middle school on the other side of the ESC), would not let me out. A sign posted at the entrance to this vortex clearly stated “Buses Only 2:45-3:15 PM” and I was not driving a bus. We had to wait in the parking lot till all the buses had left. Meanwhile, the Crown Prince had to open the passenger door to toss more cookies to the ground. The Person in Orange Vest who stood in front of my vehicle glaring at me was unmoved by my firstborn’s plight. Rules were rules.

Never again.

As Baby Bear got off the bus Monday afternoon, the bus driver handed me a letter signed by the school nurse. It was a form letter. “We will call you immediately if your child becomes ill during school hours. You are expected to arrange for your child to be picked up AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE after receiving our call.” (Caps theirs.)

This was followed by a list of the usual maladies that resulted in children being sent/kept home from school. The nurse had checked Item 8: “Excessive mucus from nose (runny nose), particularly greenish-yellow mucus.”

Neither Mr. Lucky nor I saw any mucus of any color seeping out of that kid’s nose Monday morning, nor did we see any Monday night after receiving this letter. But the bus driver was bound by that letter not to pick him up Tuesday morning. We were to keep him out of school for the next 24 hours.

Meanwhile, I read the teacher’s entry for that day in the notebook he and I use to communicate our thoughts about the progress and behavior of our autistic, non-verbal Baby Bear. According to the teacher, Bear was very active on this day, enjoying himself on the computer, etc. His nose ran a little after he was outside, but the weather's been cold lately. Otherwise, there was nothing to indicate he was unwell.

Tuesday, we still saw no sign of any mucus. Baby Bear was in his usual high spirits, banging on and bouncing off walls, dangling from the rafters, swinging from the chandeliers, and running an entire decathlon in the house. He wanted to go out for donuts, we took him out for donuts. He wasn’t sick. But he had a whale of a good time staying out of school.

Then we got a phone call from the school, a recording which informed us that our child (they referred to him by name) had “an unexcused absence”, and would we please call the school to explain.

ARGH! They’re the ones who ordered us to keep him home on Tuesday because they said he was sick—though he clearly (let alone greenly or yellowishly) wasn’t—and now they were calling it “an unexcused absence”? I was too incensed to call them back.

Today, Baby Bear went back to school without incident, and came home this afternoon with no note.

And still no mucus.

The Thanksgiving Report

I will never forget the first real turkey I ever cooked all by myself, fourteen years ago. Despite all the poking and prodding and other indignities required before roasting, we couldn’t find the giblets or gravy packet until Mr. Lucky carved up the bird some four hours later. Oddly enough—and may I say, thankfully—the turkey was unaffected, quite edible and wonderfully succulent.

Then last year, for reasons unknown, though I suspect he couldn’t wait to dig into the pies, he insisted I remove the bird from the oven after precisely three and a half hours of roasting, because the instructions said that was the maximum time for a turkey of that weight.

I was of the opinion that the turkey needed at least another fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty. But Mr. Lucky pointed out the evidence stacked against me: According to the instructions, it was supposed to be ready by now; the button that pops when it’s done had popped; and the tip of the needle on the meat thermometer just brushed the P for Poultry. The state rested.

Since when did he decide to become a stickler for following instructions? I tried telling him that unlike all the other instructions he promptly throws out (along with the corresponding sales receipts), these particular instructions are not set in stone, because ovens and turkeys vary; the button that pops when it’s supposedly done is nothing but a cheap gimmick; and it’s an old meat thermometer, not an oracle. The defense rested.

Justice is not only blind, but she knows precious little about turkey. Mr. Lucky prevailed.

To make a long story short, once the turkey was carved up, there was way too much pink in it. On the plus side, we were spared the usual week of leftovers.

This year I laid down the law to him. I’ve been doing this for years; I think I know my way around a turkey by now. I, AND I ALONE, WILL DECIDE WHEN IT’S DONE.

The turkey was the same size as last year, and came with the same instructions. I pronounced it done at three hours and forty-five minutes.

I was very pleased with it. Mr. Lucky gifted me with one of his rare compliments, and the Crown Prince, who came to stay for the holiday, devoured a whole heaping plate of it. Baby Bear wouldn’t touch it, but when I reheated some leftovers this evening and poured gravy over them, he was very interested and finally enjoyed some turkey.

I’m thankful.

And while reading my previous blog entry earlier this week, Mr. Lucky seized on Phyllis’s suggestion in the comments that we buy one of the smaller frozen pies, and bake it on Wednesday to create that baking pumpkin smell that makes me crazy. He agreed we couldn’t have too many pies.

I wonder if Phyllis could get him to mow the lawn?