she's just saying...

How you know you live in a ski town

Emergency! Emergency!  Should we call the police? The sheriff? 

No, wait! Let's check the conditions!

How many screens does it take

to run a business?

This is my friend Brian. The two monitors on the left are Mac and the other two PC, all run from one keyboard and mouse.

Notice he's texting from his phone in the middle of all this.

I was pretty impressed. A great guy and a great company.*

*No promotional consideration was paid for this endorsement, except lunch.

Another random grammar rant - local dog version

Our local cable company has a pretty good reputation for customer service and innovative technologies. What they seem to be lacking is a sixth-grade grammar education.

Bend has the reputed highest per-capita dog ownership in the state, most of which are black labs, and they're smart and fast and loyal etc. so I get the visual and have no quibble with that.

However, though this will once again label me a grammar prude, the tagline bugs the heck out of me. "We better be good." It's just wrong. "We'd better be good" is the correct usage here. I know, I know, it's ad-speak, informal, colloquialism, etc. but it grates on me every time I see or hear it.

Of course, this time of year whenever I see that particular tagline I tend to follow it up with "We'd better not cry, we'd better not pout." And I'm telling you why.

I do so know what a chicken gizzard is!

The preteen years have started, for reals.

This morning I emerged from my boudoir and heard Henry talking on the phone, at about 7:30 am. Who the heck are you talking to? I asked. Turns out he called in to the radio station he listens to on his clock radio, one of those inane entertaining local morning shows. Seems they were discussing what a gizzard was (scintillating!) and asked people to call in with their answers.

Henry, never shy, immediately picked up the phone and got on air. Here's the rough transcript:

"Hi there, what's your name?"

"Henry."

"So Henry, what's a gizzard?"

"Um, it's that red thing chickens wear, on their chins."

"Oh, is that what it is? How do you know this - are you a chicken farmer?"

"No, my mom's the vice president of the High Desert Museum."

Outed on air! Though it doesn't say much for the Museum that I supposedly called that red thing a gizzard. Sheesh, everyone knows that's a wattle.

visited by a bear cat

As my long-time (read: one year) readers know, we used to raise foster kittens here for the Humane Society. It was messy and time-consuming but we loved it. Unfortunately, now that I have a further commute and can't come home at lunch, we can't take care of the little furballs, but maybe again someday.

One bunch stood out because the kittens were so cute -- big and roly-poly. (Of course I love all my kitties equally. Just some more equally than others.) One guy was adopted by the neighbors across the street, who named him Bear. 

He turned into a bear alright, primarily in size.

Because Bear was raised in this house, he enjoys coming over and visiting the old crowd. He especially likes the fact that our cats eat canned food, and likes to drop by for a little snack. During the summer our doors are open and we'll see him walk by on his way to the cat food. Now that it's colder, he waits at the door to be let in just like the resident cats. Henry always lets him in, and occasionally I'll walk into a room and see Bear lounging about. I normally throw him out, as he has a big appetite and cat food gets pricey.

That happens with kids, too. Somehow on Sunday we ended up with seven here. As long as they don't eat the cat food, I'm fine with it.

The morning after the night before

Ooo - a bit of suburban debauchery last night and the headache this morning to show for it. Plus I seem to have collected more boys - at this point seven of them, who I've cleverly locked out of the house. They keep pleading to be let in so I'm staying away from the doors.

Here's the yeti costume - the only photo I could get before the pillaging began.

The scary clown is his sidekick Gavin, mentioned occasionally in this blog.

My friend Amy as the Porcelain Goddess, with her golden toilet brush:

Bob with he-who-should-not-wear-an-afro:

Though the orange stretch polyester disco suit is quite fetching.

That's all I could  get before things started getting out of hand.

Miss Kitty vamping for the camera

  

Noxious, part deux

Alright, so maybe I poked a little too much fun at the noxious weed police. Possibly I was a bit flippant about the threat of infestation. Perhaps I eradicated only half-heartedly.

For the fact is, the evil hawkweed has gotten a foothold in my gardens and is steadily spreading its voracious tentacles. It still seems weird to me that I admired a little patch of it in the same spot for years when suddenly the invasion was triggered this spring, right after the weed patrol outed me in the media.

It's all very sci-fi and creepy. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Or in this case, Invasion of the Woolly Thyme Snatchers.

So this weekend I'll be out once again with the industrial jug of Round-Up, fighting back against noxiousness for the betterment of gardens everywhere and the survival of cultivated plant life as we know it. Just consider me your horticultural super-hero.

Long green leaves: bad.

Beet Me, or, What I Did Last Night

Local alert: Richard's Produce Stand is closing down for the season Oct.15. (I asked Adam what I'm going to do all winter without him, and he said: "Eat citrus." It's going to be a long winter.) 

I'm already anticipating the produce withdrawal and it won't be pretty. So meanwhile I'm overbuying and it's a great time to do it as everything is at the peak of ripeness. I'm putting up sauteed tomato chunks and garlic, freezing peach slices, jarring peeled garlic cloves in olive oil* and making parsley salsa. And last night I roasted beets.

I've never cooked beets before due to memories of their canned weirdness, but they looked really cool at the produce stand and I felt adventurous. Plus, the New York Times decreed "Beets: the New Spinach" so I had to jump on the trendwagon.

I fired up the gas grill (with soaked wood chips for a nice smoky touch), tossed slices of unpeeled beets with olive oil/salt and slow-grilled them for 40 minutes or so, turning once. I also threw thick slices of onion and a head of garlic in foil on there just to be efficient. They all came out caramelized and smoky and really transformative.

Beets pair well with goat cheese to cut their sweetness and add a creamy tang, so I'm making a beet/arugula/chevre salad with vinaigrette to serve with crusty bread and pinot gris. Dinner's at seven.

the beetness of beets

*Note: storing garlic cloves in olive oil at room temperature is a perfect recipe for botulism. Refrigerate.

Parents' Night or Town Hall Meeting?

Our brand-spanking-new school

Last week or so (the days all blend), Henry's 5th grade teacher held a Meet the Teacher parents' night at which he reviewed his background, his teaching approach, the class expectations, etc. All was good until it came to the parents' turn to ask questions. This upper-middle-class professional achiever crowd is tough.

(Cute kid aside: the other day someone asked Henry whether he liked his new teacher and Henry replied: "Yeah! He's got a lot of energy!" Highest praise indeed.)

This teacher is an experienced, smart, personable, dedicated guy and he uses a well-honed system to get the most from his students. Plus he's funny and popular with the kids. And has a lot of energy. What's not to love?  However, the tone of the parents' questioning kinda surprised me. They all seemed to come with a dull ax to grind. For example:

"How do you plan to prepare my student to enter the Advanced International Baccalaureate program [in a local high school]?" (Did I mention this is fifth grade?)

"Why is the school using Macs when 90% of business uses PCs? Do you plan to teach them both systems?"

"What is this CNN.com student news channel they're being exposed to?" "How do we know it's appropriate?" "What's its bias?"

"How are you going to teach the students to not trust what the news media tells them?" (this last from a staunch neo-conservative tea-party type)

"When you say 'we assess our students' progress and help them achieve from their starting level' who is that "we"? Is that you? How do you plan to assign their levels?"

"If the kids choose their own reading, how do you know my kid is not slacking and reading something too elementary for her level?"

And so on. I think Mr. G was taken aback, and finally asked a bit plaintively:

"Doesn't anyone want to talk about birthday parties?"

Can you count the guilt in this picture?

 

Answer:

1. Going to the evil Starbucks instead of a local coffeehouse.
2. Using the drive-through, pretty lazy and burns too much fuel.
3. Buying a grande 1-pump vanilla caramel macchiato, basically a high calorie milkshake.
4. Not making a latte at home for 1/3 the time and price.

Almost enough guilt to spoil the coffee, but not quite. Cheers!

The local news: "It's all happy endings here!"

What is with the Bend Bulletin and its happy animal news?? 

You may remember last week's lead article on Buster the dog being returned to his owner.

This week there's the lost llama (found healthy after a 14-day search) and a recovering deer (arrow wound, not too surprising in hunting country).

Hey, I'm a true animal lover and these stories warm my cynical little heart, but are they really FRONT PAGE HEADLINE NEWS?

(By the way, Tina's dead deer story, not having a happy ending, was relegated to the bottom right, though still apparently front page stuff.)

Friday frylet: the neighbors

I have such great neighbors. This week they've watched Henry, mowed the lawn, brought over casseroles, and checked in on me daily.

They're definitely looking out for me.  Kinda furry, though.

Produce and the City

[Note that I used the word "city" in the title of this post. I've been informed that Bend does indeed have an escalator; therefore by my own definition it is a city.]

I love farmers' markets. Who doesn't love farmers' markets?  However, I'm very happy these days that I don't need to go to the Bend Farmers' Market any more. (correct possessive apostrophe of a plural noun there.) There's the small matter of parking, for one thing; getting there on time, waiting in lines, dodging the shiny happy families and so forth. Just saying.

The reason I don't have to go you-know-where is that a farm stand has opened two blocks from the house.

And it's a great farm stand.

Tomatoes that taste like my dad's eaten right there in his garden.

  Big fat and little donut peaches.

 

Local berries, herbs, beans, potatoes, onions, beets, corn delivered daily right from the field. etc. It's thrilling.

And it's really local.

The best part? I can send Henry down with a backpack and a grocery list. I'm telling you, after nine years of doing it all myself, I'm finally reaping some payback. And it's character-building too.

This is Adam from Richard's. Tell him Melissa sent you.

In-de-pen-dance

Giant step yesterday on the 10-year-old front. Henry and his best friend Gavin* biked home from camp by themselves. To those of you without kids: this is a big thing.

Camp gets out at 11:30 am (as usual ignoring working parents' schedules), at which time I'm down at the Museum and don't feel like driving 10 miles back to town to ferry them a half mile home. So after I installed and loaded the new bike carrier, we rehearsed using the bike lock (with eyerolls and sighs) and I left them to find their own way home. They had their helmets, the lock, water bottles, jackets and $20 to get them through a week of junk food at 7-11. Then, of course, they got to stay home without adult supervision til I returned at 5:30.

The first time they stayed alone during the day the house was covered in spilled cereal, sticky ice cream dishes, various unmatched shoes and socks, squirt guns, video game boxes and random plastic legos that hurt like a bitch when you step on them. With the threat of a babysitter looming, they've been working on clean-up and are actually starting to catch on.

I wrestle with bad-mommy guilt over leaving them alone, never mind letting them roam the westside on their bikes. Being in a smaller, safe, family-friendly town helps. But still. I've watched too many "Law and Order" episodes to feel really comfortable. Maybe it's the natural progression toward independence or maybe they'll soon be smoking cigarettes behind the 7-11 (or maybe both). There's no manual for single moms. All we can do is make lists, check in frequently and trust in the goodness of the universe.

*Gavin is staying with us for a few weeks.

I was feeling pretty independent myself, having researched, procured, assembled and mounted the bike carrier on the car. Another episode in the endless series of "Girls Can Do It!"

Bend's Deep Throat

To quote my deer friend, Tina: "You know you live in a small town when a deer dies in your backyard and someone from the paper calls you to talk about it."

Bend likes to think it's a city, and maybe it is, except I don't think you can be a city without having an escalator. Anyway, the bigger this town gets, the smaller it can feel. That's from living here 15 years: over half this town moved here in the last ten years. That makes for an interesting old/nouveau dichotomy. I'm now part of the old guard. Not the OLD old guard, but the middle old guard. But really, this post is about the deer story and the reporter for the local paper.

Don't get me started on the local paper. Please. I work with them, I have a subscription, it's our only choice for daily newsprint. So just don't get me started. Like most small-town (excuse me, small city) papers, they're big on happy news and local court cases, with a Western angle that includes articles on "berserk llama syndrome" and rodeo coverage.

But I do have to say that it's a little weird that they're cruising my blog for news stories.

To the sweet reporter who called me to get the lead on the deceased deer disposal story, I absolutely appreciate your readership. I'm serious. I'll try to make it worth your while by posting reportable tidbits. I came through on the noxious weed story, didn't I? Even provided a pithy quote that was duly published. (I've also provided quite a few "mother of a black child" comments for various stories over the years, but that's another post.)

I just have a little advice: don't touch the chicken-sweater story. You don't need the constant hassle from British battery-hen jumper knitters. Believe me on this one.

Top Ten Tues. summer woes edition

Top ten things I am not enjoying about this summer:

1. the mosquitoes
2. little stinging wasps that ambush me
3. yellowjackets buzzing around my hummingbird feeders
4. mowing the lawn, over and over
5. packing Henry's camp lunch every day
6. removing sticky juniper sap from feet, floors, shoes and pets
7. having to work (versus last summer)
8. visitor traffic, especially when they can't figure out the roundabouts
9. the half-drunk glasses of lemonade that Henry leaves everywhere
10. that it's almost over.

Worst. Mosquito. Season. Ever.

I agree. Especially that last line.

Burning Butte (kind of like Burning Man but not naked)

OK, so the thing about the Butte catching fire:

Every year since I don't know when, the city of Bend puts on a fireworks show on the 4th of July, launching the rockets from the highest spot around, Pilot Butte. (From Wikopedia: Pilot Butte is an extinct volcano located in Bend, Oregon. It is a cinder cone which rises nearly 500 feet above the surrounding plains. Bend is one of the very few cities in the United States with volcanoes located within their boundaries.) [I did not know that. But shouldn't it be within its boundaries?]

Anyway.The sparks inevitably land on the dry sagebrush on the side of the Butte and "the sucker lights up with flames" as Jen put it in her last comment. The show is ended early and the firefighters do their thing.

And inevitably, the headline of the local paper the next day is:
Fireworks start blaze on Butte!



Thanks to the monkey, Chris K, for this photo that I stole from him.

Busted with weed(s)

We take our weeds seriously in Oregon. My noxious garden and the kerfluffle around the dread orange hawkweed in our neighborhood made today's paper, front page above the fold.

I'm quoted a bit, ending with the phrase: "It's going to kill me [but] yeah, I'll spray. I'll be a good citizen." So I think I evaded the pokey this time.

Ask not what your county can do for you, ask what you can do for your county.

Ignite yourself

[From Jen, a friend and fellow blogger:]

"If you had five minutes on stage what would you say? What if you only got 20 PowerPoint slides and they rotated automatically every 15 seconds?

 Around the world people have been putting together “Ignite” nights to share their answers. Visit the Ignite Bend website to find out more about local events. More information about Ignite Events held around the world can be found at O’Reilly’s Ignite website.

The local website goes on to say: "topics range from tech to gardening to current events. It’s fast, it’s fun, it’s theater/concert/stand-up all rolled into one! At Ignite Bend #1, speakers talked about Legos, social media, karma, acronyms, and more..."

So, there's the plug: it's June 4 for all you Central Oregonians.Check it out.

The concept is very similar to Henry's fourth-grade class assignment last week: Pick a topic of interest about an invention or idea and give a 3-minute speech with visuals. Henry picked the zipper, which meant that I've learned more than you can imagine about the history of zipper design. Fascinating stuff. Maybe that could be my Ignite Bend topic. Or maybe I should talk about chicken sweaters.Or how (not) to build a water feature by yourself with no skills or equipment.

What would you pick to speak about, if this was your assignment?