'Round, 'Round, GetARound, I Get Around!

When I travel, I spend exactly nine hours a day in my hotel. Eight are for sleeping, and the other hour is for getting ready to go out and getting ready to sleep. The rest of the time I am pounding the pavement. Literally. I walk.

On Friday, I was in New York City. It was a buying trip; I needed supplies on 83rd Street, W. That was close to the hotel...got the goods, stuck them in the purse and headed off to the next stop at 57th Street. On foot.

I realized at 57th Street that I had the address of my favorite metal supply house confused with the address of my favorite breakfast restaurant (Norma's at LeParker Meridien) for the zillionth time - oh, well - and hiked the 10 blocks to 47th street. Bought some jump rings and ear wires; suffered verbal abuse at the pleasure of the proprietor, who assumes that because I have a southern accent I am stupid, how else to explain my request for pre-soldered bezel rings when I could easily solder them myself?; dished out my own sweet southern verbal abuse by telling him that his competitor sells them and I would just get them there; and

Hoofed over to the 30's, and the Garment District.

Which borders the Bead District.

Oh, Sweet Heaven.

Four hours, two shopping bags, and a tuna salad on rye later, I walked back to the hotel on 81st Street. Please note, I had a fully-funded MetroCard, valid for travel on any bus or subway, in my front pocket.

This behavior does not endear me to friends and family. In fact, it causes great hand-wringing. People love to travel with me because I know where (almost) everything is. People HATE to travel with me because I NEVER take a cab. What? And miss all the action on the street? My dear girlfriends, who have journeyed with me the world over, always stash rolls and cheese from breakfast in their purses, because it is likely I will have them exploring a cathedral in Lisbon well past lunch time. And I will want them to see Belem before we stop to eat...who wants to miss Belem? For years after they will talk about that nice old man who escorted us "safely" back to the hotel because women - even a dozen of them together - should not be walking the streets "alone". Those moments don't occur in cabs.

The husband has been known to ask, "On this trip, could we just sit one day? And read a book?"

(The truth is, I am glad for my traveling companions to sit in the hotel and read a book. But they don't really want to miss an adventure...they always choose to come along.)

I was on my own this trip. No one with aching feet, no begging for potty breaks, no "I'm hungry!". Just me. To get to my hotel in New York City, I drove from home to the airport. Walked to my gate. Flew to Newark, walked/rode the moving sidewalk/took an elevator/took an escalator to the Air Train. Which took me to the New Jersey Transit train that would get me to Penn Station. Where I took the C Train to the 81st Street station, and walked to the hotel. Oh, the humanity.

But my return flight was out of La Guardia. I could take a cab...or...I could take the subway to Harlem and transfer to the M60 local bus! Which goes all the way to the airport! For $2.25!!! And absolutely no one would tell me I'm crazy.

(Strange, but true. The reason Nancy knows so many places so well is that she adores local buses. Sometimes she will ride a local bus its entire route, just to "see what's out there." She thinks this is probably odd, much as speaking about herself in the third person is odd. But she does it anyway.)

So I needed to get to 125th Street in Harlem to catch the bus. That would be the good old C Train again...but the C Train was out of commission for the weekend for "enhancement of services". And the B Train doesn't run on weekends. Which meant that the D Train was running as a "local" (although it is normally an express.) All of this was explained clearly, to my mind, on the notices plastered all over the station. As it turns out, I was the only person at the 81st Street station who read the signs. And, I guess, I was emitting Ask-Me-How-To-Get-Where-You-Want-To-Go Vibes, because everyone did; until (Hallelujah!) my D Train arrived.

A lovely ride to Harlem, and up on the streets to meander over to the M60 stop. (I had built a lot of meandering time into my itinerary - I love Harlem. Although this six-foot tall redhead dragging the lime green roller bag through the throngs of women in gorgeous African garb was about as incongruous as Annie making an appearance in "The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency" series...) The bus was packed beyond the gills, and all the way to the eyeballs; and still had about four dozen stops to make. I put my my roller bag on the luggage rack, and sat on top of it; a seat I later relinquished to a travel-worn woman who was terrified she'd miss the stop for her airline. (She didn't.) Gave my almost-full MetroCard to a young lady who was shocked that someone would do that. And scored two priceless slices of life:

1) An Adopt-A-Mile sign that read, "Beautification provided by the New York Department of Corrections Hispanic Association" - who knew? And,

2) A church with a wedding in the front - ribbons, balloons and a limousine...and crime scene tape roping off the back door.

A good day.

Yes, if you're looking for adventure, come along with me. But be sure to bring a sandwich.

Polk Salad Nancy

This city girl would like to imagine I have an Inner Thoreau; but the truth is, I'm just plain cheap, and I love greens. So when I noticed a polk plant (at least it looked like polk to me) growing in the gully on the other side of the fence, I had no choice but to put it on the menu for dinner.

Confident in my botanic expertise, I pointed to the leaves, and asked The Husband if he had any idea how to reach them. My thought was to use that Grabber Thing that gets the light bulbs out of those vaulted-ceiling fixtures. His idea was to scale the fence, shimmy down the gully and manhandle the polk. I deferred to him, of course. And fetched the Bactine for his skinned knees.

Now, there is just one problem with eating polk. It is poisonous. (The other problem, was that I didn't have any real proof that it was, in fact, polk. No botanist, no avant garde chef, no pistol-totin' granny. Just a few Internet pics...but I chose not to dwell in the negative.) So it has to be carefully prepared to remove the toxins.. The Official Recipe is:

Wash, boil, rinse, reboil, rinse, reboil, rinse, drain, throw into pan with bacon grease and eggs, scramble.

There is just one problem with this recipe. Bacon grease is disgusting. And the other problem is that The Husband doesn't like eggs for dinner, unless they are deviled eggs at a cookout.

I made up my own recipe:
wash, boil, rinse, reboil, rinse, reboil with a veggie bullion cube, drain, throw in a pan with some olive oil, vinegar and pepper flakes, heat through.

And I really, really hoped that the bacon grease and the eggs weren't necessary to counteract toxins.

Sampled, tasty, waited, didn't die. Put the greens in a bowl, put the bowl on the table. The Husband looked wary. Served himself some potato gratin. Reached for the spoon in the polk. Or whatever it was. Asked, "Am I going to die?" I assured him that it had been at least 15 minutes since my sample, and I wasn't dead. He tasted. Liked. Served himself some more.

My friend, Rachel, who really DOES have an Inner Thoreau, makes her own sauerkraut, and gave me the Official Polk Salad Recipe (with two caveats; she said it "smells" and "it tastes like yuck", but she is wrong), had warned me not to eat too much because it can cause diarrhea. Which is somewhat better than death, but I practiced serious portion control anyway. There was a tiny bit left...the dogs loved it.

This morning I woke up early. Dogs woke up, too. That made three of us who didn't die. No evidence of diarrhea anywhere. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, living off the land, saving the $1.99 for that bag of collards. Wondering how to cultivate polk in a more convenient place. Then I realized, The Husband didn't wake up at 4:30 as usual. He didn't wake at 5:00. By 6:00, I had to face the possibilities. He overslept? He never oversleeps. He was taking the day off? Surely he would have mentioned it. OMG, he died. Of polk poisoning. OMG, I'm a murderer. No, I'm sure it would be reduced to involuntary manslaughter...can't prove intent...oh, I hear the shower! I'm freeeeee!!!!!

And making the grocery list for dinner. What is that Japanese blowfish? The one that you have to fillet so carefully, because its organs are toxic?

City Kitties in the Kountry

(Warning: mouse dies.)

Every now and then, an unfortunate field mouse notes that the mud room door of the farmhouse has the tiniest gap at the bottom. Just large enough for an itty-bitty field mouse, if it holds its breath, to wiggle through. And just inside that door is a bowl of cat food.

So Mr. Mousie awaits the cover of darkness, sucks it in, belly-crawls toward the Manna From Heaven, and startles Bes the Doublewide Kitty, mid Midnight Snack # 3. Bes' howl brings her five siblings running.

The Staff does not mean this unkindly, but these Kitties are...um...not good mousers. They spent their formative years in a cluster home in the city. A cluster home with the Gold Standard of Pest Control. The closest thing to a mouse in their lives pre-farm was a dying cockroach. (Although some of the older Kitties remember the day the wren flew into the house. They watched as The Staff used a broom to swat it out an upstairs window.) The very first Field Mouse Incident, in fact, took place while the Mother-in-Law and her little dog were visiting...guess who caught the rodent?

Since the Great Humiliation at the paws of the pesky pup, The Kitties have developed a strategy. The Staff has cursed loudly, and often, especially in the face of impending tornadoes, about "herding cats". While The Kitties found this vastly amusing (and, by the way, they think The Staff grossly overreacts to twisters) they also noted the opportunity in their numbers. They developed drills. Foster chases Veronika down the hall. Veronika chases Foster up the hall. Dewi chases Bes around the kitchen island. Bes.....gets a snack. Violet times their runs. Mona hides under the sofa. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Ad nauseam.

And, last night, finally, the payoff. Alas, Poor Mousie...herded to death. But The Staff is going to have to handle things around the farm for a while. The Kitties have some recovering to do.

In Praise of Older Kitties

If life passes in a blink, our fuzzy companions are with us for a mere nanosecond. They are our first "children", our birth children's best friends, our confidants, keepers of secrets and volunteer tasters of new recipes; our favorite necks to hug, and occasionally the bane of our existence...gone in a flash...although we remember the days of string chasing and shoe chewing like it was yesterday.

I have the softest spot for the Old Kitties; who still take a roll in the catnip, and gum their Kitty Treats. But I am especially soft on Violet...sweet, sweet Violet. The daughter of a feral mom, captured in an abandoned building in Gainesville, GA. Who had no idea that humans came with caresses; no idea that her white self with the black nose, looking for all the world like some kiddie scribbled on her proboscis with a Magic Marker, is remarkably beautiful. Who howled in disbelief when handed over to us from our vet, her Savior...as he whispered, "Stop complaining! You're on the way to Kitty Heaven!" Who can cancel out evil in the world with a "meow".

Violet is 16, and in kidney failure; every day I give her fluids (which involves a big needle) and a potassium tablet. She forgives me, if I also give her Seafood Medley Temptation Treats. And, if I let her drink water out of the dirty dishes in the sink...and if I give her a little scratch on the butt every now and then. And access to the empty yogurt containers. Today, she upped the ante...Violet wanted a taste of the violets I gathered from the horse pasture.

I tried to change the subject. Picked her up, clipped her nails, put her down...Violet returned to the bouquet. Handed out treats, Violet headed back to the violets for dessert. Moved the flowers to the safety of the master bath. Violet looked wounded.

Then I remembered that birthday cake with candied violets years ago. I have no idea who was feted, just that beautiful cake. People eat violets. Maybe cats can eat them, too. A quick check with poison control indicated that violets pose no harm to the Kitties; and, in fact, Violet is not the only cat with a taste for violets! I returned the bouquet to the window sill, and looked the other way while Violet had a nibble. (Followed by her little brother, Foster, who can't stand to miss out on any adventure...)

The violets in the pasture are fading, now. I hope - with all my heart - that Violet is here to enjoy the first delicious, purple, taste of spring, next year.

There should be a Law!

I am all about Economies of Scale, and Multitasking, and Consolidating and Maximizing. I plan my errands during smog alerts, so I only make left-hand turns. No retracing steps for me! No wasted motions or carbon-squandering...and my vehicle has rounded edges, so it slips oh-so-easily through the air. With nearly 40 miles to the gallon, the Audi tt and I are practically energy-invisible. And we are proud of our practicality.

I am so practical, in fact, that I had my children on the same day...two years apart. One giant party! One date to remember! And what two-year old doesn't want his very own baby brother for a birthday present? (Silly me, I also believed that the brothers would never forget each others' birthdays...yeah, well...)

This practicality would have played well in, say, August. When there is really not a lot going on except Back-to-School Sales and the occasional Tax-Free Holiday for Appliances. Or February, with the exception of Valentine's Day. But I chose April. And this year, I ended up with

Two birthdays, Easter, AND World Rat Day on April 4th.

I couldn't decide whether to hide the birthday presents, wrap the Easter eggs or hoist the World Rat Day flag first.

What we did:

The Grand was experiencing her very first "I Get It" Easter, so we started with an egg hunt. The potted plants magically (thanks to Unka Drew) yielded colorful plastic orbs filled with jelly beans. Then Easter baskets all around, filled with - depending on who you are - a stuffed Easter Snake (it goes "ssssssssss") and a stuffed Easter Banana; some edible Easter grass and Easter Buffalo Jerky...and the obligatory Easter Burt's Bees hand cream for gardeners.

Followed by Easter banh mi - Vietnamese pork, chicken and tofu sandwiches.

And a platter of sweets from the local Korean bakery; alongside the traditional Birthday Rhubarb-Strawberry Pie.

Some origami cash...in the shape of kayaks; and a tarantula...as birthday gifts. And a Remote-Controlled plastic rat and Rat t-shirt for the Rat Aficionado in the group.

A mandatory Easter/Birthday/International Rat Day nap.

Then a FAB Chef Liu Chinese Dinner, featuring shredded tofu and lamb skewers and pork buns and veggie dumplings. And, the most delicious chocolate mint birthday cake.

Are you confused yet?

I want to sing songs..."He is Risen", "In Your Easter Bonnet", "Happy Birthday" and the National Rat Day Anthem - the theme from "Ben"? But I am too confused...Happy Easter, Happy Birthday, Happy National Rat Day! And to the Bosses of Holidays, could we spread them out a bit next year? I think it will help with candy and card sales...

Wha Dis Day, Ees-tur?

Nono, not dress. Jus diaper. No dress. Itch, dress. Nooonoo! Not socks! I...take...off...(grunt)...socks... Nononono! No shoes! Socks stuck. Oh, shoes shiny! Oh shoes pretty! No, no, no hairbrush! Hairbrush hurt!!! Nono pigtails! I pull pigtails. Oh pigtail pull hurt. Nono bows I run away haha! You catch me. Bows. I pull bows out. Oh...

Go outside? OK! Outside! I see bug! I get bug I eat bug....egg? What egg you say, Daddy? Where egg? Oooh, in plant! I see egg! Look, Daddy, I see egg! I get egg. Pur-pul. Pur-pul egg. Egg no pur-pul!! Egg white! Haha! Ooh, egg shake! Thing in egg! Daddy open egg...beans in egg! Egg have beans? Ooh, bean taste like bu-Nana! Egg have beans taste like bu-Nana? noooo...oooh, bean taste like pi-nappel! Bean taste like pi-nappel? Nooo, bean taste like gween. Give to dog. No like gween bean. Oh, dis gween bean taste pear! Me like pear! I confused. I sit in grass take off shoe.

What say Mommy, more egg? What dat Big Purse, Mommy? Have big handle no top. Put egg in Big Purse? Okay, Mommy. Look, Mommy, I find egg. It lellow. Shake, have beans? put in Big Purse. Other egg! Gween! Shake, put in Big Purse.

I mix up...no egg here yesSirDay. Why egg, Daddy? Bunny? Bunny have egg? Silly Daddy! Bunny not got egg! Chicken got egg! No bunny, Daddy! Chicken got egg lellow inside! No beans! Daddy silly. Silly goose Daddy. I go neck-store. Pick up eggs. Put in Big Purse. What say Mommy? Bunny not put egg neck-store? Why Mommy Bunny put eggs my grass not neck-store?

Nooooo I not hold big purse, Mommy. I tired. I tired pick up egg shake put in big purse. Noooo not shiny box! Mommy got shiny little box. Put on Mommy eye. Say look here sweetie. Say cheese. I no got cheese? Got eggs. Beans inside egg. Bunny have egg. Egg put in Big Purse. Wear dress. Shoes. I so tired. I confused. Daddy, I no smile. I tired. Daddy, uppies me. Daddy shoulder. I tired, Daddy warm...I go nap...nigh-nigh...Mommy shiny box go click...nigh-nigh.

Home Curling, a How-to-Guide

The Winter Olympics are in full swing, and in between criticizing the figure skaters' outfits and shivering, I have become obsessed with the sport of "curling". Probably because one of the Canadian Curlers, Kristie Moore, is pregnant. And, with decades of experience as a Maternity Educator under my belt, I have absolutely no idea how I would have reacted if one of my pregnant clients had asked what I thought about her participation in the Olympics. As a Curler. Although I am (technically) retired, I could be called off the bench at any time; and the issue could conceivably (ha! conceivably! Maternity Educator humor!) come up in the future...so I am getting prepared.

Now, curling, as far as I can tell, involves sweeping, and heaving a big rock down the ice. There is a "hog line" at each end, and a big target beyond each hog line. The participants wear Teflon shoes. They shout stuff while sliding around.

Let's break this down. Sweeping is probably not dangerous for pregnant women; who have been known to be at home, barefoot and pregnant, probably sweeping, for millennia. Targets pose no clear danger, either. They are the best places to find baby gates, and cheap-but-designer infant clothes. I just got my granddaughter a really cute navy and pink retro peasant top and leggings at Target, and they were 30% off. Also, although Teflon has been linked to Alzheimer's, I don't think Teflon is inherently dangerous during pregnancy. Target has a fine selection of Teflon cookware. So I would let this issue, um, slide.

Now, as far as heaving heavy stones. A little research turned up the fact that the stones are granite, as featured on the counter tops in The Kitchens of the Martha Stewart Home Collection. As long as the granite is well-sealed, experts agree there is no health threat. Most expectant mothers have had some experience with heaving before the 12th week of pregnancy, so that's a non-issue; however, hydration must be carefully monitored, and dehydration - should it occur - must be addressed immediately.

Shouting is benign, as it is common in pregnancy, and even more common in childbirth.

So I'm left to ponder the "hog line." I am not a fan of the "rare pork" en vogue at your finer restaurants. Especially for pregnant women. In fact, I am not in favor of pork at all; but I try not to impose my dietary views on others. And living in the country, we see some wild hogs that look pretty mean. I would not advise tangling with them, either.

But, clearly, I can't see the "Big Curling Picture" by examining all these little pieces. So I have constructed a Home Curling Course to get a real feel for the physical demands of the sport, and how they could affect pregnancy. You might want to give it a try, yourself. So, here's how:

First, if you have carpet in your living room, you must remove it and install hardwoods. Or bamboo, which is much more eco-friendly and renewable. Then get the Murphy's Oil Soap and dilute it 1:1...not that 1:16 as recommended on the label. You want the wood good and slippery. Then create Targets at either end of the room. I used the symbol from Target plastic bags. I like to recycle. You probably won't be able to tape them to the slick floor, so you'll need a few brads, or a heavy-duty staple gun.

Next, create your Hog Lines. I didn't have any hogs, or pork (again, I don't mean to impose my dietary views) so I used the dogs. They were, as usual, asleep. I shoved one in front of each Target. I don't think they even noticed, because the floor was so slippery.

You will need Teflon shoes. You can either strap an upside-down Teflon griddle to each foot, or use the old Irish trick of duct-taping your feet. (I am not making this up. I learned it on Wikipedia.)

Get a broom.

And then, a big granite rock. I have a granite mortar and pestle that I use to grind cardamom pods for Swedish coffee bread. I intended to use it for the rock, but decided against it for sanitary reasons...I didn't really want Murphy's Oil Soap in the next batch of coffee bread. I couldn't find any other flat-bottomed granite, so I had to improvise...

AHA! the Roomba! It looks just like that granite thing, and it is self-propelled. Which is a blessing when you don't have any teammates to heave the opening stone. (And you thought Roombas were just for amusing cats!)

Now, get a fanny pack, fill it with water balloons, and strap it around your stomach. If you don't feel suitably weighed down, you might need two fanny packs full of water balloons. (PLEASE NOTE! IF YOU ARE AUSTRALIAN, SKIP THIS STEP!!! AND I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR A WORD ABOUT IT!!!)

To play:

Starting at the far dog line, turn on the Roomba. Look disappointed when it flashes "replace batteries". Replace batteries. Look disappointed when nothing happens. Put on your reading glasses, notice that the batteries are backwards and re-install. Turn on the Roomba. Without tripping over first dog, gently sweep the gyrating Roomba back in line, in the direction of the far Target. Shout something. Sweep curious cats out of the way. Shout something. Sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something, sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something...face the Roomba while sliding backward toward second dog line, shout something colorful while tripping over the second dog and landing on the Target. Clean up mess from ruptured water balloons.

The International Olympic Committee has determined that curling is not dangerous for pregnant women. I concur, with a caveat. Dogs should be removed from the field before play begins.

DISCLAIMER: Although I am a Maternity Expert, and I think that curling during pregnancy is fine in moderation, other Maternity Experts disagree. Please consult your personal Health Care Team for their views on curling during pregnancy. Writer denies responsibility for any injuries sustained while tripping over dogs, wearing fanny packs backwards or heaving mortars and pestles; illness from consuming pork, or shock from improperly wired Roombas.