I haven’t abandoned this blog. Although from the looks of it, one might argue otherwise.

Where have I been? Well, besides hiding from my February curse, which is now officially over, I’ve betrayed my own sand box by playing in a new sandbox! Possibly revealing yet another symptom of my imaginary ADD. It’s time again, to add balance to my blogging time, while remembering to post here on occasion.

This new sandbox is part of the Arizona Republic’s website called Plugged In - SE Valley.  For those who live in the Southeast Valley, it’s worth having a look-see. I’ve learned some about my community, and participated in a few discussions.

Plugged In is the umbrella name for the AZ Republic newspaper’s online blogs; and they have a set for each area of Maricopa County. So you may take your pick, depending upon where you live.

I promise to post more often, now that some of the newness of Plugged In has worn off. Being easily distracted has benefits that I do enjoy. I discover what’s new, or new to me anyway. The downside is it makes for flakey and sporadic blog posts. I’m OK with that. 

On a Personal Note:

I have had some fun time with my children. From playing Yahtzee to roasting marshmallows over a bonfire, Tayler and Riley have been a complete joy to hang out with. Taking time to really listen to what your children have to say is not only rewarding for them, but for parents as well. For me, I’ve discovered qualities in them I genuinely enjoy. From their sense of humor to what is on their minds, they are enjoyable individuals.

Tayler, Kevin & Riley enjoying the crab legs.

Kevin and I had a crab feast with the kids, that besides being delicious was fun! It gave the hubby and I a chance to cook together in the kitchen as well. One of our favorites of all-time dishes, which as far as we know is only served at Houston’s, is their grilled artichokes served with a “secret sauce.”

Well Houston’s, I’m here to say eat your artichoke heart out! We (the hubby and I) have mastered the grilled artichoke and their secret sauce, for which they refused to give us the recipe. Houston’s in Scottsdale has been a favorite restaurant now for years. One of the reasons has been their grilled artichokes which are only on the menu for the season.

We have watched out favorite restaurant cut their quality little by little over the last couple of years. Albeit subtly, but nonetheless cutting away at the little touches that had made them a favorite to begin with. Their prime rib, once a HUGE slab of meat that literally melted in your mouth, has been sliced in half, and although I cannot say for sure, I’d be willing to bet the grade of meat is no longer the quality of years past.

Their $9.00 salad, that we willingly ordered and payed the price for, has replaced their boiled eggs with kernels of corn. Their smoked, freshly made bacon bits, are now maybe three or four on the salad, and again, the quality lacking what it once was.

Although they were small changes that the sporadic patron may not notice, those of us who were regular and devoted patrons not only noticed but relegated their restaurant to sporadic visits. One reason that has kept us coming back was their grilled artichokes with that special sauce. No more.

While the hubby scoured the internet and cookbooks, looking for a recipe for grilled artichokes, I played mad scientist in the kitchen with spices to re-create the sauce that was served with it. Mission accomplished. Although my sauce may not be exact, it comes very close to what is served at Houston’s. The only draw left to the Scottsdale Houston’s is their perfectly mixed Cosmopolitan, and the friendly bartender who mixed it. One more trip, and watching her mix my Cosmo, and the Scottsdale Houstons will be scratched from our list of date night restaurants.

If there is a lesson for restaurant managers to learn, it would be that cutting out to save a few pennies here and there in the end will lose you a customer base that has been devoted and spent far more than the few pennies you saved tweaking your menu. (Just my two cents worth)

And now I have to get back to some spring cleaning. My girlfriend Delta, from Washington state will be here this next week, and she deserves to sleep in a room that doesn’t look like a tornado hit it. Tayler has a spring orchestra concert tonight that I need to prepare for, so it doesn’t look like a tornado hit me.

Hope everyone is having a great start to the week!

Love,

3T

Kevin & Smokey with Kevin’s new toy/BBQ Grill

Riddle Me This :

What do you get, when you add the following?

February Curse + Mercury in Retrograde + Mean case of PMS = ???


The answer is this post :

Tuesday Morning ranting/typing
It was not even 11:00 AM, and I was stressed, disgusted, and worn out. The day started quickly, since the X was dropping Riley off, so I could take him to see the therapist he is seeing in regards to his ADD. Of course the hubby scheduled a drop-off for his new Bar-b-quer at the same time I needed to take Riley to his appointment.

The phone started ringing at 7:10 AM with the delivery guys calling to say they were on their way. After a little sweet talking and hinting that if they did it my way, there would be a tip involved, I convinced them to come after 9:15 AM, when I should be back from dropping Riley off at school. I did get the X to stick around the house, just in case they made it there before I made it home.

When I stepped on the front patio, there were several work trucks from the city of Mesa, digging something up on our little cul-de-sac, that had just about every driveway blocked off, including any area for backing out of your driveway.  Fortunately, mine had not been blocked off yet. Although now the X was parked behind me, and needed to try and maneuver out of the driveway for Riley and I to head to his appointment.

By the time we walked back in the front door, both phones were ringing, and since the area code was Tucson I didn’t bother to pick them up. I needed to give Riley some medicine for his cold, and write out a check for school lunches, since he let me know 30 seconds earlier he was out of lunch tickets.

I got both the X and Riley out of the door, for the cell to ring again, (same Tucson number) this time I picked it up. It was the delivery guys who were two minutes away, and wanted to make sure I was home.

Kevin had gone to purchase a new BBQer alone while I was busy this week. So I had no idea he had picked up one the size of a cadillac, and I now needed to find a spot for them to drop it, all neatly wrapped in cellophane plastic. Where it fit was a rocked area, so if we are to keep this in decent shape, now it really needs to be poured with concrete as well. I tipped the guys $12 and told them they didn’t need to “unwrap it,” that I’d let the husband play with his new toy when he got home from work. And since we here in the desert also received some of that wet stuff you Pacific Northwester’s call rain, the plastic would protect it from rusting before the hubby even has a chance to use it. He did pick up one that is all stainless steel though. Frankly, I don’t see the need for a cadillac of BBQer’s for a family of four, who at most may BBQ once a week. But then my veins are not coursing with testosterone that most likely inhibits my ability to understand the important purchases in life. Like a BBQer the size of a cadillac, for a family of four who at most BBQues once a week.

Now that everyone was gone, I could relax and load the dishwasher. I opened it up to stick a few cups in it, knowing it was full from when I loaded it last night, re-rinsing all the dishes stuck in there by others who didn’t bother to rinse food particles from said dishes. Yes, this is a pet peeve! Dishwashers are for STERILIZATION. They are not housewives, who with a dishcloth rinses off the food particles. This must be done by hand. I realize there are some cadillac of dishwashers that claim to take care of food particles. Ours is not one of those. The hubby was helpful last night by pouring soap into its container, to the point of overflowing and running down the side of the dishwasher. (I’m definitely digressing here and need help with far too many verbose banalities. Tough shit.)

Anyway, where was I? Right, loading the cups to turn it on and run it. But, to my amazement, the dishwasher was empty. Assuming the hubby ran it last night when we went to bed, brought a warm smile to my heart. That is until I saw the container still closed, and overflowing with dishwasher soap. Did it not open when he ran it? (Which makes sense since this IS February; I would expect another broken appliance) I did glance into the cup cabinet to see the loaded cups, some with dripping dried coffee on the sides.  At this point, all I can deduce is the dishes WERE put away, WITHOUT running the dishwasher. Dirty dishes, mixed in helter skelter with the clean. The magnitude of what now lay ahead, slowly sinking in.

Yes, to a degree, admittedly, I am a germ freak. The thought of dirty silverware and dishes being used can bring vomit to the top of my throat. Which means I now need to reload a dishwasher, and run it, at least twice to insure no one ends up using germ and bacteria laden utensils and dishes. This was not on the agenda…

Eight days and counting.....

And this horrid month will be gone. I apologize if I worried any readers with my lack of a post, but going through February is an all-consuming activity. Usually if there are no traumas, like say, cancer, or operations, or pain, or death, there is usually an onslaught of minor but many bad luck occurences and/or broken appliances to deal with. This February, has been one of those.

I have a man digging up my cool decking in the back yard next to the pool. WHY, you may ask? Due to a main waterline that broke, that feeds the pool. This was discovered after a month, with a note and a $500.00bill for water usage. The note, of course, said we were using a gallon per minute, which is three times the amount we usually use.

We have been busy watching TV in our bedroom, since our equivalent of Tivo(known as the Cox DVR) just quit working, for no reason, and, of course, we had to wait until this morning to get a technician out to “fix it.”

Last night was a fun-filled evening of trying to rid our computer system of a Trojan that had been attached to our computer.  I have no idea who this was compliments of, but gee-golly, Thanks! (ad sarcasm) We were looking for an extra way to spend $30.00 for the MacAfee technician from India to scan the system and remove the trojan. As it was a fairly benign trojan as far as trojans go, I guess I should consider us lucky, huh?

This morning, while having my first cup of coffee, I clicked over to my flickr site, as I’m wont to do, when looking to download some photos. To discover that it had been hacked, or bugged, or there was a glitch, whatever-the-fuck you want to call it. In the place of my G-rated family-photos was a photo of a naked woman, one of a scary castle, and many, many, many other weird photos in the place of my family ones. Of course, there can be many explanations for this, and as soon as you think of one, let me know.

I’m well aware that there are a few of my friends who have my password, and if this was any of their idea of a prank, during this month, I’d have to say I don’t find it the least bit funny. (Although I don’t believe any of them would pull stunts like this)

A good portion of my February-Curse is nothing more than an over-emotional superstition. Granted, backed up by consistent and several occurrences during the month of February. But the driving factor is and always has been my emotional problems with more than a couple of these traumatic events.

Things like the wonderful gift my first husband gave me on Valentines Day. Oh, I didn’t mention it? Two black eyes and bruises from head to toes. Or worrying myself sick as my mother went under the knife to have a double mastectomy for her breast cancer. Or when we got the news that Paul had prostate cancer. How bout that lovely February when I writhed in pain with a bulged disc while my doctor tried to decide whether there was anything seriously wrong with me. Or the Valentines Day when husband number two was hit head on by a drunk driver while he went in search of last-minute flowers to give to me at work. There were no flowers, but Valentines Day that year was a bit expensive. Especially since the drunk-driver didn’t see the necessity of carrying auto insurance.

I KNOW this February curse in nothing but irrational over-emotional superstition. Does it make it any easier to deal with knowing this? I’m afraid not. If it’s going to break, it will be in February. Unfortunately that includes the humans in and around my life as well.

The flickr account fiasco cost me about a dozen photos that I felt compelled to remove, due to the rating and oddness of the ones that were put into my site. Last night’s Trojan? Just cost us $30.00 and and an evening of trying to remove it ourselves, before getting hold of said technician.

In closing, I apologize to those who may feel slighted by my lack of posts or communication. But even if we try and put a light humor to my battle with the February curse, for me it exists, all too real and full of emotional nuance.

I have done my best to take each day of this month as it comes. Regarding broken appliances and such as just part of life. Thanking God, none of my loved ones are sick right now.

And to the author/authors of the computer Trojan and the “Flickr-prank”: I hope it gave you all the fun-filled laughter and enjoyment I’m sure you were looking for. Who would have thunk that a Trojan and a cheap hack job to my photo album could occur within 24 hours of each other. Actually 12 hours. It’s almost enough to make a skeptic superstitious.

Or in other words; The Curse of February Is Upon Us.

I woke up today feeling angry and annoyed about something at work, feeling a little bit frustrated with those emotions because I also knew I couldn’t vent at the guy who was the source of my consternation because he’s a subordinate. Before I left for work, 3T and I said a prayer. Then, as I drove to work, I was extra careful as I cursed how unseasonably cold it was out here in the desert.

Yes, it’s February, the really cruelest month.  Forget what the poet T.S. Ellliott said about April being the cruelest; February has it beat hands down.

If you’re a longtime reader of my bride’s blog, you know she’s written extensively in the past about this cursed month.

When we first married, I used to smile at her hyper-superstitious attitude toward February, especially, but not exclusively, Valentine’s Day. Yes, she told me how her ex, when they were married, wrecked his car in a head-on collision running to get flowers because he forgot Valentine’s Day. I said yes, that was bad luck. But I also thought that was typical of his near legendary absent-mindedness and refusal to plan even an hour ahead.

But over time, I have learned first-hand the February curse.

Lets see, just two years ago, the love of my life was wracked with pain from a bulging disc, and it took us weeks to find a cure. Though that started in January, it continued well into February, and was compounded by our former family physician’s initial refusal to even believe that she was suffering. The x-rays convinced him, but I still can’t understand why that hack wasn’t moved by her anguish.

Then, of course, came February 2006, the month I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I won’t go into all the gory details, all the grueling tests I underwent, to say nothing of the hack job my surgeon did that almost put me at death’s door. Yes, all that occurred over the course of four months, but it started in February.

And I am now a believer in the February Curse.

Yes, there have been some memorable moments 3T and I have shared in February. One that comes to mind was our trip last year to Blush, a fundraising effort put on by some groups that assist AIDS victims. It was a hoot, and a lovely time. And we’ve had our own special, private moments. Not even February can rob us of them.

Still, nothing like seeing one’s spouse writhing in pain without end or being told you have cancer that affects your manhood to dim one’s view of the month these things occur.

In some ways, I should have known better about this month from the start. When I lived back in the northeast, February pretty much marked the beginning of a dark depression that enveloped me until April. That was completely attributable to the miserable winters that are an annual event back there. Winters I never ever miss since I moved to the desert in 1999. Winters that bit your skin like a hundred mosquitoes. Winters that posed a danger just about anytime you were driving. Winters that enveloped everyone with so much darkness that you felt a kinship with Eskimos. Winters I will never ever be near again.

Unfortunately, the only way we cannot be near February again is a bit too stark of an alternative to suffering through it. I don’t want to be dead, in other words. So I and my bride will just endure, fists and teeth clenched, hoping for the best and expecting something less than. We’ll keep one eye on the calendar as February draws closer and closer to an end. And most of all, we’ll do our damndest to make love and laughter an antidote to this most wretched of all months.

Yes Dad, I’ve made another believer in The Curse of February. So much so, that we do not, nor shall we ever acknowledge Valentines Day, in any way, shape or form. Take THAT! Hallmark!

Our Best to Everyone, this most cursed of all months.

Kevin & Teri

Part of me has for quite some time lamented the passing of time. Or more to the point, lamenting the loss of my youth. Having the natural blush in one’s cheeks being replaced with make-up, knowing that not going to the hair dressers will show my age in a matter of weeks, due to the ever-increasing amount of grey growing in. Seeing fine lines starting to form from years of pouting the lips together to inhale on a cancer stick. Those “laugh lines?” Look more like wrinkles each passing year.  Knowing you are in your desired dress size, but still, they don’t quite fit like when you were 21. On occasion I may allow myself to dwell on the downside, more to get my butt in gear to minimize the downside of forty-something.

BUT, the unexpected surprise that comes with forty-something? I have passed the age where I matter. At least in society’s love affair with youth. I’m free to wear whatever I like, whenever I like. I’m not tied to the latest trends, which go out as often as one changes their underwear.

I can be as flamboyant, as eccentric or eclectic in dress as I chose to be, and it doesn’t matter. Freedom of age. I aspire to one day head up one of my own Red Hat Society ladies groups who wander the town in the purple outfiits with red hats, lunching here and lunching there. And not caring who is staring or wondering why all those “old ladies” are wandering around in public with overly ornate and bright red hats.

With forty-something comes the freedom to just be. To enjoy the simpler aspects in life that in the earlier years I was running and moving too fast to notice. The blue skies, a perfect rose and a sunset that can take your breath away. Standing as an observer of youth, watching as a Jr. High boy, with love in his face gives his “girlfriend” a peck on the cheek as she rides away in her mother’s car.

There are times I go to pick my daughter Tayler up, where I have to wait for her to get things together and get herself out to the van. I use this time to really look into the faces of youth and see all their possiblities, sometimes their hopes written all over their faces. And at times, see the distinctly famalier look of depression that comes with puberty. I take those moments to pray for that particular young person.

Reminding my daughter and her girlfriend Heather that a smile and a sincere “Hi” to one of their “outcast” labeled classmates may do more for this person that they will ever know. I remind them that once school is over for them, all the social norms and labels that are in play in school become nothing in the real world. It may very well fall on deaf ears, but maybe, just maybe, they will run into a classmate who desperately needs a contact, or connection, and they will provide it.

Forty-something provides me with some confidence to try and reach out in love, with a simple smile and hello. A polite “Thank you” to the frazzled cashier who may have the world on her shoulders trying to bring a working living in to her family.

Forty-something is stopping to smell the roses. My opportunity to connect with various individuals, simply by making eye contact and smiling. With age comes the realization that connecting with individuals, instead of indifferently walking by, provides me with more blessings and a sense of well being, than any amont of parties or uppity social clubs ever could.

God’s commandment to all of us was to “love one another.” Forty something is realizing that loving one another means more than what may be safely tucked away in our hearts. It means bringing it out and proudly parading it. Putting actions to our feelings, compassion and words.

It doesn’t always work. There are times your warm and sincere “hello” will be met with indifference if not downright rude dismissal. Forty-something says it doesn’t matter. For every five rude and indifferent individuals, that one, whose face will light up, just by being acknowledged makes it worth it.

Our city of Mesa is seeing a shocking spike in teenage suicides. Standing by indifferently, and doing nothing is not a solution. All of us need to reach out to these kids, whatever form it may take. We start one at a time. With ourselves, and our children. Teaching them manners, politeness and how to treat their fellow students in the face of a growing epidemic of indifference. We’re losing precious lives to the epidemic of indifference and rude behavior.

The symptoms are all around us. On the roads where “road-rage” is the rule and not the exception. People running around stores at a rat-race pace, bumping into one another like mice in a maze, with not so much as an “excuse me.”

Changing our times can start with us. The forty-somethings raising teenagers. Involving ourselves in their lives and the lives of their friends. Reaching out with unconditional love, and learning how to really listen to what they are saying.

Forty something for me is learning to slow down and make a difference, one person at a time. Changing the signs of the times cannot be done through government legislation, it cannot be done alone by our overworked and under-staffed school systems. It takes all of us, one un-noticed kind act or connection at a time.

The freedom of forty-something is realizing the power of a smile and human connection. I’m learning that true inner peace and happiness comes from these acts of kindness and love. Taking (what used to be perceived as risk) steps to reach out to one another.

The vanity lost to age, being replaced with loving one another, far outweighs any perceived loss of youth. I’m learning to love the freedom of forty-something!

Love,

3T

Bob the Busdriver modeled for the Intercity Transit 2004 Guide. This copy autographed for my daughter Tayler.

Meet Bob the Busdriver ( aka my Dad ), who, after retiring from Teamsters after 20-some-odd years and taking a brief break from the work world, returned reincarnated as an Intercity Transit busdriver. After working 12 to 15 hours a day driving and delivering different goods, (based on his employer at the time) driving a bus was something he enjoyed. He didn’t quite view it as “work” as far as what he was used to in the past.

Meeting the many and varied personalities riding the bus is another aspect of his job that he has grown to love. Many of his “regulars” will greet him with a hug and/or a friendly smile and small talk.

On his bus with Tayler & Riley, a couple of years ago.

Having ridden an Intercity Transit bus during my teenage years, let me say there are a wide variety of personalities who drop their coins in the slot. From teenagers and suits heading to work, to the disabled and others living on a fixed income, they come from all walks of life. A point and contrast Bob the Busdriver enjoys and has grown to love in his job.


Let me introduce you to Beverly and Barbara, two of Bob’s favorite patrons. Beverly and Barbara were twins separated at birth, both with mild Downs Syndrome. Later in life, they were reunited and now live together with the aid of a social worker and assisted living personnel.

Beverly and Barbara LOVE to ride the bus! To the Salvation Army, or Goodwill, for a shopping trip, and then on to one of their favorite churches that serve meals to the poor for dining out. (They especially like the church if the meal of the day is FISH.)

Beverly and Barbara have none of the social etiquette and/or hang-ups that most of us live with on a daily basis. Much like any 10-year-old (although they are in their 50’s), they are happy in the simple things that life brings their way.

Each day brings them a new conversation with Bob the Bus Driver, and any other patrons willing to chat. One day it was, “Hey BOB, look at my new shirt! It has kitties on it!’ Bob, being the good natured and loving soul he is, remarked at how pretty both ladies looked today, and asked where they found such nice shirts. The reply was happy and good-natured as she said what a great deal she got at the Salvation Army!

“It was FREE, can you believe that?!”
Bob replied, “What a heck of a good deal that was!” Causing all around them to smile at the complete and happy innocence that Barbara and Beverly possessed.

Barbara and Beverly have that affect on a good many of Bob’s patrons. They always manage to bring fond smiles to the faces of their fellow riders.

One particular gloomy, dreary overcast morning in Olympia (Olympia is mainly made up of dreary, overcast clouds and rain), Beverly entered the bus sans Barbara. She immediately began the happy chatter that is part of Beverly and Barbara’s bus drive routine. Big smiles and a loud and happy, “Good morning BOB!” Ya think its gonna rain today?” One look out the window showed dark forboding clouds ready to burst at any moment. Bob replied, “I dunno Beverly, it sure is lookin’ that way!”

This particular morning had a suited up gentleman sitting nearby, listening to the conversation between Bob the busdriver and Beverly happily chattering on. With the mention of rain, the suit decided to teach Beverly about barometric pressure and build-up and how rain clouds form and release condensation. On and on this gentleman pontificated about the weather and cloud formation.

Beverly, with a curious look on her face, stared at the gentleman without blinking an eye or uttering a sound. Waiting patiently, admittedly with a little fidgeting one might see in a grade school child listening to a particularly boring morning lesson. But Beverly was polite and waited for her teaching benefactor to end his dissertation on weather. At long last (and with a satisfied charitable grin), he finished with, “Yes Beverly, I think we will definitely see rain and very soon! As the gentleman settled back, with a happy smile, Beverly gave him one more blank stare, and turned to Bob.

Without missing a beat, and with an excited grin, she said, “BOB! Did you know I have butterflies on MY socks?!” With that, Bob the Busdriver, smothering his laughter, asked where she found socks that actually had butterflies on them! Her excited and satisfied reply, “I had to hunt, but I found them at Goodwill!”
Bob the Busdriver did his best to not look in the direction of the suit, as each time he did, he couldn’t stifle the laughter.

Another time, Bob the Busdriver asked Beverly and Barbara an eye-opening question. He commented on how happy the twins were each and every day, and how much he admired and enjoyed seeing them. He then asked them if they ever had arguments or fights. Both women responded with shocked dismay, asking Bob the busdriver, “Why would we fight? We LOVE each other!”

I’m not sure completely WHY, but I have this strong urge to go hunting for socks with butterflies on them.

Rachel - aka; Bad Santa at our Christmas Blogger Brunch
And a Monday no less! Rachel is coming over to have lunch with me, and hopefully to teach me how to upload music to a blog post. Since my computer skills are what they are-- this could go either way.

So if you see a blog post with just a music strip in it, it means we are hard at work with my teaching tutorial. If it doesn’t work, let me know. Nicely, please. Otherwise, I may very well cry.

Everyone should have the opportunity to enjoy a special friend like Rachel! She is one in a million, and I love her!

Fingers crossed my brain cells are in working order!

Love,

3T