Note to Self

It is unwise to drink a coffe stout, as good as it may taste, just before bed.

Last night, after "program," I resisted the urge and habit to stop for a beer at my local "Cheers." Instead, I headed to my house, with a short detour by the grocery store. I have been on a mission this week to regain control of my home. The herd has all but destroyed my serene living quarters with muddy paw prints, dog hair, and chewed up pieces of cardboard (what is the joy in chewing box?).

Finally, last night around midnight, I was able to sit back and bask in success. Floors were mopped, dogs were sleeping, my house was clean. Since I had not eaten dinner, and was in no mood to cook, I cracked open the only cold beer I had in the fridge, and popped a small bag of pop corn. I then proceeded to celebrate by sitting on my clean couch, and read. It was nice...

Until I crawled into bed 45 minutes later and discovered that as good as a coffee stout may taste (I had two), it IS in fact made with real coffee...complete with caffine...
and I do not have enough space to tell you where my mind has been.

Save it for a Rainy Day

In the winter months, there is nothing better or more comforting than a cup of amazing soup and a grilled cheese sandwich (with sliced tomatoes). And since this is a "cafe," I thought I would share my favorite soup invention:

Triple "T" Soup:
a can of Tomato soup
half can milk, half can water
(i like soy milk, but that's just me)
one can Tomatoes
(Del Monte Diced - any style)
a handful or two of Tortellini

Dump the soup, milk/water, and tomatoes in a pot. Cook on medium, but DON'T bring to a boil. Add the Tortellini...it's best to use the refrigerated kind, it won't take as long to cook.
Season if you like: with pepper and Chipotle Tabasco (my kitchen staples!!)
To me, the triple "T" of this recipe is the tomato, tortellini and tabasco. However, if you are not a hot sauce fan, you can call it triple "t" for the two tomato ingredients and tortellini...you won't hurt my feelings.

Grill your cheese sandwich...
If you are feeling ambitious, put cream cheese on one slice, and cheddar on the other slice, and throw a couple of tomato slices in the middle. Again, sometimes I put a couple of drops of hot sauce on the cream cheese. I love that stuff!

I am also a sucker for Parsley. If you have fresh, chop some up and put in your sandwich, in your soup...it's not just for garnish!

The other day I made this soup, and had so much left over, I threw it in the fridge. In two days, the tortellini had soaked up most of the liquid. I reheated pretty much tortellini with a tomato gravy...
It's amazing stuff.

On Being a Youth Director

Page One

Nothing is better than watching a seventeen year old male youth, and popular high school senior, completely drop his guard and act the jester in a crowd of younger teens. Picture said youth, Mr. High and Mighty, Good Looking and Confident, squirming around on his stomach like a snake in front of his peers. It all went something like this:

The night starts as I drive four kids two hours down the highway for a conference. They are assigned to lead the opening services, so in our rush we miss dinner. When the youth portion of the conference begins, I allow those four teens grace time to gulp down some McDonalds. As a result, all walk in to games a wee bit late. Now, “Dude” walks in to the room seeing the other teenagers preparing for a game of Ducks, Butterflies, Snakes, and Pterodactyls (in this game, basically each person is assigned one of the four animals. When said animal is called, person must switch spots with another of the same animal...all while acting like assigned animal).

RW: Dude, join the game...yer a snake.
Dude: What's it do?
RW: It hisses and crawls across the floor on it’s stomach.
Dude: On it’s stomach!?
RW: Yea, *snicker* on its stomach.

Dude sees the smile on my face. Dude knows my sarcastic humor. Dude is not fazed by any of this. I call out "Snakes" just because I know he will do what I have instructed...not because he fears my reigning superiority, but because he knows the joke. So while everyone else is walking to their new space, hissing and using their arms for the snakey motion, Dude drops to the floor and squirms to his new spot. I love that kid. Sure enough, laughter erupts, and he wins gold stars for being such a ham.

Page Two

The mascot for youth ministry these days is the pterodactyl. Now, in your image, the pterodactyl is a flying sort of dinosaur with a long pointed head and massive bat like wings. But as the keeper of teens, and the player of “Pterodactyl,” this dino of yore would just as easily be associated with those little velociraptors from the movie “Jurassic Park.” (By the way, in this game you vocally pass around the word “Pterodactyl” or reverse the word by screeching like the dino, all while keeping your lips secure over your teeth. No teeth are allowed to be seen or you are a dead “Pterodactyl”…who COMES UP with these games!!!!)

When we play this game, the shield of inhibitions is removed and soon all kids are forming their own velociraptor-pterodactyl personalities. Again, examples:

“Dude” from page one and “Pooh-Bah” are in a screeching contest, serious and absurd, each wanting to succumb the other in fits of laughter. Arms are raised, eyes are bulging, mouths are open. Their lips are secure over their teeth making these two teenage boys resemble some form of toothless alien intent on making conversation but only peals of “GRRAAWWKKK” are emitting. Finally, after the battle cry is passed a few hundred times, each time growing in intensification, Dude succumbs, falls off his chair in a wide toothed grin, gripping his stomach in mock death…all while we adults wipe tears from our eyes.

“Tarv” is a tall lanky kid with a dry humor…I love dry humor. He is sitting back in his chair, legs outstretched, arms crossed, hat pulled low, hair sticking out in all directions. Pterodactyls come at him from all directions, the words, the screams, the outstretched arms…the boy is under attack from younger raptors. Yet, he passes the word with no emotion, and succeeds in causing peals of laughter from his unsuspecting neighbors, when he returns their “Pterodactyl” with a simple look and a nonchalant, “gaw.” Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Monotone-a-saurus.

Then there is “Dot,” the leader of this game. She bats her eyes, cozies up to her neighbor and coos: “Pterodactyl.” Watching this show, you envision in your mind a cartoon dinosaur complete with a giant bow and absurdly painted lips. But what really fits the bill is when Dot goes true to her feminine, dinosaur nature. She cozies up to her neighbor, bats those eyes, cunning as a siren. Then, as you expect her to pass the word, she lifts her arms and scares the pants off the poor kid with a screech fit for a banshee.

I love absurd games.

Page Three

Back at home, on a Sunday morning, we are standing around refreshments. During this time, I usually go around trying to convince youth to stay for Sunday School. This is always fun because their parents are all hovering around the food, antsy to slip out the front door once the start of classes is announced. I do not understand this habit…but what can I do.

So I am talking to “Smiles” (a kid no matter how much I fuss at him, he still comes out with a smile). I am trying to entice him to come upstairs for Sunday school. He is standing there with his dad watching me plead like I’m an organ monkey asking for change. I know I will not win them over. His excuse is priceless: “I have to go home to clean my room for the cleaning lady…”

Now excuse my soap box, but seriously…these thoughts cross my mind:
“The CLEANING LADY IS KEEPING YOU FROM SUNDAY SCHOOL!! What a biatch… Does she work on Sunday? It is presently 9:30 in the AM. Are you telling me an additional 45 minutes will make or break the clean room?? You will probably go home and play video games anyway until dinner time, not really cleaning your room until 9:30 tonight, right before you hit the hay for sleep!! Are you kidding me!!?? Your room is seriously so messy that you have got to jettison out by 10 am just to have enough time to clean!?!?”

Ok, enough. Like I said, I know I am not going win this one. So I small talk the dynamic father and son duo. The comment comes from my mouth, “Haha, you have to clean the room for the maid? I remember that from growing up…”

And snap. My mind has officially flown off to never, never land where I am a teenager and my mother is telling me to clean my room because: “the maid is coming.” My eyes glaze over as I remember arguing with her the absurdity of that comment. My mouth continues the oration of this story. My mind is so lost in translation, that editing my words has ceased…and I hear myself repeat to Smiles and his dad my mother’s response: “the maid can’t clean with all your crap lying around.”

Are you allowed to say “crap” at church?

Real Men of Genius?

Last month my brother and I were talking Christmas, and of course, gifts. We each asked for gifts the other would have logically requested...then again, we are of a different sort.

My request: a dart board. Not an electronic one, mind you. A real one, complete with cork and steel tipped darts. There is something to be said about throwing little projectiles.

His request: a book. I kid you not, ladies and gentlemen. My little brother, the king of sleep and all things lazy, asked for a book. Not a picture book, book on tape, or even the book inspired movie. A real life, turn the pages and read, paper back book.

Of course I am going to get him requested book. I am a book reader, lover, occasional snob. I would rather dive nose first into a book with an adult beverage of choice sitting next to me, than hover in a social arena staring at walls (which I do anyway...it is good for my wandering brain).

So I order the book...in January.
I was tickled he wanted a book, but not to the point of rushing out and making the purchase. "Hello, my name is RW, and I am a procrastinator."

The book comes in and immediately I know why he wants this book. It is the drinkers bible. No, not a book on the different beers of the world. It is an autobiography of one man, turned drunk, merged writer. I refuse to say he has turned writer, because said author still goes out, gets completely inebriated and somehow lives to tell the story. He is the king of heavy drinking, obnoxious behavior, and constant fornication. He is the god, and my brother wants in the club.

Now, his short stories are not entirely shocking. One story, he refers to a "that guy." I am sorry, but this writer is a "that guy." I know "that guy" because every man has a friend who fits the bill...the "never has a steady girlfriend because he is also screwing three other girls." The "let's have a drinking contest, do shots and see who vomits first." The "hey, punch me in the face! Seriously, don't be a wuss, just do it!"
Yes, we all know "that guy." We hear him a mile away when we go out to the bars. If you are not careful, and have the gall to turn down HIS advances, then you are either a dike, a fatty, or a whore (which makes no sense...if I were a slut, then wouldn't I FALL for your advances!)

"That Guy" does not bother me. Usually "that guy" is not interested in me anyway because I am dating his friend and will tolerate his presence. Heck, I will even laugh along (though usually AT him, never really WITH him). But I do not want my brother to become "that guy." And he is dangerously close. When I told him my discovery of his reasons for wanting the book, he confirmed my fears and suspicions immediately: "Dude, I want to be just like ... THAT GUY!!!"

The book is hilarious, if you can stand toilet humor and sexism ruling the day. If you can read a book without letting it get under your skin, then it is truly enlightening. I think it more as a guide book on how to avoid "that guy." I would gladly raise my glass to "that guy" and then gladly turn down all his drunken advances! So, we salute you, "that guy." For you have the uncanny way of making all other guys look great just by being your own obnoxious, inebriated self.
May my brother never fall in your footsteps, because frankly, I do NOT have the money to post his bail.

If You Can't Run with the Big Dogs...

Leave em at home.


Last Tuesday, I went running. I love to run. It feels good all over. And I have the best running buddy. He is a 5 year old, allergic to everything, fun loving, bird chasing, pace setting, black lab. He loves to run almost as much as I love to run. And he has the energy to keep up, if not try to set my pace a little faster than I like to move. But he is sympathetic to my pokiness and will trot along beside me. To be honest, he runs better without his leash. I believe he treats it like a lifeline. When we run with the leash, he pulls because he knows I am at the other end being dragged along behind. But without it, he plods along at my heels, almost insecure because he cannot feel that connective pressure. Sure, occasionally without the leash, my dog is prone to bouts of ADD when a squirrel zips across our path, or a bird swoops overhead. Off he goes on his mini adventure, returning shortly saying in his doggy way: “Hey mom, checking in, how is the jog going? It sure is a beautiful day to be … holy snap a deer!!”


I love my big dog. I also love that he is incapable of catching said wildlife. Alas, he is only allowed to jog “naked” when we are on a wood trail and there is little chance of others out and about. Do not get me wrong he is a big friendly dog, and he WILL be glad to greet you. But I am sure it can be a bit intimidating having 100 pounds of barking and sniffing under your sombrero.

Now, I have more than the one lovable beast. I have a herd. In addition to my running buddy, I have Vinnie Jones, the aptly named Boston Terrier. He is 20 pounds of “I ain’t putting up with yer crap” dog. Never tell him he cannot do something. Case in point: when his beloved Frisbee is floating out in the bay, he WILL go get it, and sink in the process…(20 pounds of muscle mixed with little legs makes for bad buoyancy). He is not allowed to run with me. As much as he really wants to go, he just cannot keep the pace. The other dog, of course, is Molly, the Boxer pup. She is not my favorite running partner because she likes to jump, go right, go left, what’s that behind us, oh look a bird, yippee another dog, crap, it’s attached to a person, bark bark bark… Yet with all that energy, she needs the run, because then when we get home, she is out…asleep, thank you for coming, exit stage left!

So last Tuesday I went running. I love to run. However, I made the mistake of taking BOTH my ol’ running buddy and the hyperactive puppy. I returned home with a pulled muscle and I believe a broken toe.

I can keep up with my big dog, but coupled with that little bundle of energy… no, only one at a time, please. So now my dilemma: Which dog gets to go and which stays home? I have thought about taking turns with the two…Molly certainly needs the run as does Smokie, but I hate the idea of leaving one behind. I run today. It is my usual route. I think Smokie. When I do speed training, Molly will make a great race.

My best friend says the only way to make her run is to put a pack of wild dogs after her, I have one that may just fit that bill…and I have the blackened toe to prove it!

Ten Things I Hate About...me??

Monday, January 14, 2008 9:41 pm

Hate is such a strong word, but the reality is, we are our own worst judge, and we certainly do hate certain aspects of our own existence. In our own eyes, we tend not to be smart enough, handsome enough, thin enough. Yet, to others, we are certainly slender, handsome, intelligent beings. Why are we so hard on our own image?
I cannot answer that question for you because I know I am just as guilty as the next. Which is why, in light of the New Year, I have decided to offer a note regarding one thing I hate: resolutions. Call me the “bah humbug” for the celebration of “wiping the slate clean” or “starting anew,” I just cannot come to peace with the idea of facing myself in the mirror, naming off the things I hate about the image reflected and resolve to change.
Sadly, soapbox aside…I have succumbed to the band wagon. Here I offer my ten things for the New Year. And I plan to take ALL year to work on my ten things. My little list has no major life changes (like running away to Boston for culinary school), because I do not yet know what fate beholds in my tarot cards. In addition, I refuse to reflect TOO much on 07, because frankly my dear, it sucked. Besides, you cannot change a “should have done.”
So with out further ado, Ten Things I Hate …

1. I hate my routine…or lack there of one. I like the idea of knowing what I am doing each day. Monday is Riverwalk Jazz, Tuesday is House, Wednesday is program, Thursday is ER… you get the picture. I had it going for all of three months in 07. I knew what to expect each day, not down to the minute, mind you, but each day was defined. My house was clean because it was all part of my routine…then it hit: a horrible slap in the face by Miss Reality. I was single - Sugar Honey Iced Tea… Sweet Holy Intimidating Turf...
"Folks to your right you will witness the miserable, unmotivated train wreck once known as a comfortable existence." How long would it take YOU to clean up the mess. Thankfully, I think I am getting back on track. I am finally cleaning up the pieces and shoving the leftovers under the bed and MOVING ON. That is: Moving on back to a simple routine. And it is a nice comforting blanket in winter.

2. I hate that it has been three months since my last post. I really have been writing, Mrs. Pemberton, honest. My journal is filling each day with jots of ideas and run on paragraphs. But for some reason, the little gnomes have not come out at night to transfer those tid bits to my computer screen. Call me old fashioned, but I like writing on paper. If I deserve any slack what so ever, it is due to the fact that I do not have internet at home. That, and the elves do not have my forwarding address.

3. I hate that I am becoming my dad. Do not get me wrong, he is a wonderful person…albeit a grouch from time to time. I find myself complaining WAY too much. And it is usually about the same couple of people. Since when have I become such a donkey? Where the hell has my “Seek Peace and Pursue It” attitude gone? (look back to parts of 05 and 06 and you will see where it started to erode, then notice in 07 the rush of acid rain). I do not like to be bitter. I do not like holding this chip of a redwood on my shoulder…it hurts. Get ready world, please welcome back to the stage Miss “so optimistic it makes me want to vomit”!

4. I hate that I am not in touch with my history. Je suis Francais. J'apprendrai francais cette annee.

5. I hate that I do not write enough. Ok. I do write every day. But my writings are very private. I would like to share my jottings more, in the form of correspondences, posts, emails. I miss the days of snail mail.

6. I hate that I have become a routine cook. There are times when routine is good and boring. For an artist in the kitchen to be preparing the same song and dance, or rice and beans, every night, well, it is time to extend the palate. I have several cookbooks awaiting my experimentation…like tofu tamale pie. Um, yeah. I do not really know about that either, but it IS an experiment.

7. I hate that I am so lax with my running. I do my 5 k’s throughout the year, but then it is so easy to decide not to run. I do not feel crazy enough to kill myself over a marathon, but if that is what it will take to motivate, then look out Washington DC. In October there is a marathon that may be calling my name!! If not 26 miles (because really, I get bored doing 6!!) then certainly a half marathon will be in my cards this year.

8. I hate that my dogs miss me. Really, they love the quality time. Well, they love the walkies. And since my job insists on being so demanding, something has got to give. To be honest, the herd is more important. I will get home at night in time to take them for their roam of the neighborhood…besides, I think Molly likes to flirt with the rotties on the corner.

9 and 10. I hate the state of my home. No hurricane need come by this way. I, with the “herd’s” help, have succeeded in making the mess worthy of any category 4. But, to revert back to number one, I have worked back to my routine. My house is falling into a cleaner array. My weekends, when such a time exists, can be devoted to those “honey do’s” I have. For example, I love to paint. Though I could not paint you a landscape to save my life, (I do kick butt with some stick figures however) my walls have been screaming for some color. Especially that peach and toothpaste green on my exterior, making my house stand out like rotten fruit in a still life. And really, it is time to cover Molly’s excavation sites in my back yard. It is becoming a hard hat area back there. She is a money hungry pirate searching for buried treasure in my yard. Honestly, for her effort, I hope she finds some, and shares!
I plan to host a fish fry this summer: on a brand new patio, with the herd safely padlocked behind a new little fence. My hibiscus will once again be in bloom, from the front yard! And my regrets to Molly’s archeology career.

So, not too bad, hm?
Come back next week to see how goes number two.

PS.
A side resolution…
I resolve to take down my Christmas stuff BEFORE the ides of March. Really. I never like putting out my Christmas, because I know I will have to take it down again in a month. Yet reality sets in with my procrastinator attitude, and I am dancing around the May Pole with a Christmas tree twinkling from my back bedroom. Maybe 08 will see that stuff put away by Valentines?