Stolen!

Piano Boy Speeds along the Sidewalk

Stolen!

When Piano Boy left to “hang out with his friends” (the word "play" slipped out, but he quickly took it back) yesterday, I told him to call me and let me know where they were and to remember that he had an orthodontist appointment at 6:30. He was supposed to be home by 5:30, no excuses, to eat and brush his teeth.

The orthodontist called and left a message to ask if we could come in at 6 instead, since he had a cancellation and needed to leave the office. I didn’t call back, since I didn’t know where Piano Boy was or how to reach him.

At 5:30, no Piano Boy, at 5:45, no Piano Boy. We ate dinner without him. Since he lost his cell phone, we had no way to contact him. Then, finally, he called to say his bicycle was stolen. He was going to Yamaha’s to call the police.

The orthodontist appointment was a consultation. When he hadn’t shown up by 6:15, we left without him. As we were pulling in to the orthodontist office, the phone rang and he was home. Biker Buddy went back to get him. The orthodontist asked me when they’d be there. I said soon. He was annoyed and wanted to leave, but waited.

The appointment was strange. I wrote about it last night, and will add it later, if I have time. (I have to download it from my PDA).

Piano Boy said that Houston had locked their two bikes together and both bikes were stolen. That may be the truth, or it may be that they weren’t locked at all and he’s afraid to admit it because we had told him hundreds of times to always lock it to something that couldn’t be removed, like a tree, sign or bike rack. Bicycle theft is a popular and all-too common crime in our area. Around here, there are so many bicycle thefts that the chances of getting the bike back are near zero. The cops essentially ignore the problem. Sometimes, the stolen bikes are dumped into the lake. Other times they disappear into the ghetto or elsewhere.

So, the “new” bike is gone. Whose fault is? Well, first it’s the fault of the thief. The thief is ultimately to blame. But then, it is Piano Boy’s fault. He’d been given not one but two locks and carefully instructed in their proper use. He’d been reminded and encouraged to lock his bike and told that if it were stolen through his neglect, we would NOT replace it—at least not immediately.

This morning, Piano Boy asked me to drive him to Jake’s. I said no. He could take the other old bike or walk or stay home. He needed to suffer some consequences in order to understand why we tell him to do certain things. He said he would not ride the “ghetto bike” (it’s not “cool enough” for him). He took “my” roller blades instead.

I’ll probably have to drive him to Choir day camp next week. That will take time from my busy schedule. Or, we could let him take money from his bank account, the non-college portion, to buy a new bike. His carelessness is going to be a burden to all of us. And it’s sad; it’s an unnecessary and unhappy loss. It makes me question human nature. Why do we have thieves, computer hackers, rapists and murderers? Right, let’s put this in perspective. Piano Boy is OK. Maybe he’ll learn to take better care of his things. Maybe. But I’m not holding my breath.

Today's Detroit Photo.

Not Ducks, Bunnie! (Braces)

Tonight, we had an orthodontist consultation for Piano Boy’s braces. The whole thing was confused, upset and delayed by Piano Boy having had his bicycle stolen. He says he has it locked to Houston’s bike and that they took both.

The doctor had plaster casts, photographs and X-rays of Piano Boy’s face mouth and teeth. It was all little strange and weird. The plaster casts of his teeth reminded me of those ducks and other strange creatures that artist Tim Burke made at Heidelberg. The photos of the teeth and X-rays were a little gruesome. And there were diagrams, drawings and technical terms. I asked what the consequences of doing nothing would be, just to see what he's say and he was really articulate about explaining the pros and cons. The consequences of getting braces but not keeping your teeth clean could be worse than not getting them all at, which worries me because we can hardly get Piano Boy to brush his teeth even when nagging him.

What I Ate for Lunch

My blogger friend, Leah, is beautiful and looks young for her age. She's a great blogger and nonfiction writer, a poet, a photographer, and a wonderful perceptive kind loving friend. I love her.

One day at lunch, as bloggers do, we talked about blogging. We both admitted that we like to blog, we sometimes resent the time involved, and we don't always like other people's posts. Some are great, some OK, some boring.

"I hate reading about what people ate for lunch!" Leah told me emphatically. I winced. I myself am guilty of writing about what I had for lunch.

This reminds me of a story. I had a stalker for a while, at least, that's what everyone called him. So I'll refer to him as Stalker Man. He used to come by my house and leave me notes and presents. That would have been worrisome enough, but worse yet, he meddled in my life, sent threatening letters to my ex-husband, without my permission (or prior knowledge), and to my boss, etc. I was really afraid of him and relieved to move away where he could hopefully no longer bother me.

During the time after my second husband left me, I dated a number of men, mostly briefly, before I gave up on men entirely for many years. Stalker Man was one of the reasons for my giving up on men. (Biker Buddy was my sole reason for starting up with men again.)

During the time I was dating, I dated a man who worked in construction. He was a stonemason and carpenter. He was rough looking on the outside but kind, gentle and sweet. I adored him. I'll call him Mason Man.

Stalker Man came by my house almost every day while I was at work. He drove a big truck, and every time he drove in and out of my driveway, he drove across the grass. In the spring and winter, he made big muddy ruts in the lawn.

Long after we quit seeing each other, Mason Man stopped by to visit me. He too drove a big truck, to haul construction supplies. Because there was a car parked in my driveway, Mason Man drove up on the lawn in case the person to whom the car belonged needed to leave. (She didn't—it was my mother's car and she was in the nursing home.)

During the course of my conversation with Mason Man, standing in the yard with his truck, I was noticing the deep ruts in my lawn made by Stalker Man. Understand: I really like Mason Man, whereas I was afraid of Stalker Man and found him annoying. I mentioned Stalker Man's ruts to Mason Man, and he apologized profusely for driving on my lawn. I was SO embarrassed. It hadn't occurred to me that Mason Man would think I was criticizing HIM. I wasn't! I wouldn't. I didn't care if he drove on my lawn. I was angry at Stalker Man and it had nothing at all to do with Mason Man. I told him that, but I didn't think he believed me, and I felt really bad. I wish Mason man knew I didn't mean to criticize him. That I cared about him and never meant to upset him. The worst thing is, I haven't seen him since the day I criticized Stalker Man to him. I've been unable to tell him again I care about him and had no intention to criticize him. He could drive on my lawn all he wanted.

What does all this have to do with what I ate for lunch? I don't know whether Leah meant to criticize MY talking about what I ate for lunch or whether she meant the criticism as an analogy for boring posts in general or some specific other blogger who wrote often about food. In a way, it doesn't matter. Because I love Leah, and her criticism of my blog, whether intentional or unintentional, is well taken. Her blog is much more interesting than mine.

Here's what I say (excuses, excuses):

• I have a lot going on with my family and life right now with the death of my mother, her estate, and the sale of her house, my move (still not unpacked), my art my writing and so on.

• I am putting my writing energy into my novels and poetry. Also investing time and energy in my art.

I could go on, but I won't. Why do I blog then, if it's not the highest priority in my life. I don't really know, maybe I shouldn't.

But I have another issue about what I ate for lunch. I had no lunch, and it's 1:38 PM and I may not get any lunch. I often miss my lunch. I seem to be so busy lately. It's ridiculous how busy I am, and for what?

Busy-ness, though, is not the worst problem with talking and writing about food. The real problem is, I have issues with food. I am overweight, my weight threatens my health, and I can't get it under control. And all my doctors can't help. Or don't.

Maybe I shouldn't be writing about what I ate for lunch. But I like to. I'm interested in food. Supposedly, one should eat to live, not live to eat. I'm not in either category, but I do like to eat and I like to write about eating and food.

I recently wrote a story about Key Lime Pie, but I didn't post it, because I was thinking about what Leah said about not liking to read about what someone had for lunch. I thought about making a separate blog and naming it, "What I Ate For Lunch" and putting food talk and recipes on it. But, I have too many blogs already! I'd like to cut down on the number of blogs I maintain, not increase them.

So, I am going to label all my food-related posts, "What I Ate for Lunch" plus a subtitle. Then anyone who doesn't want to read about what I had for lunch can skip that post. And yes, Leah, if you're reading this, I DO realize you might not have meant me (Hence the story about Stalker Man and Mason Man.)

So here then, finally, is my "first" (new) post under the "what I ate for lunch" category. It is not really the first one, but it will be the first one with that label. I will go back and label the old ones and then maybe post the Key Lime Pie story and some addendums to it. Maybe. If I ever have time.

"What I Ate for Lunch; Spicy orange Syrup on Whole Grain Pancakes"

As I'm sure you realize by now, I'm getting old. I'm 61 years old. I have a problem that bloggers rarely blog about: constipation. It's unpleasant and I don't intend to talk about it here, at least not much. I've tried all sorts of remedies without much success. The one thing that seems to work fairly well with a minimum of unpleasant side effects is bran. But bran is hard to take and no, psillium pills do not work.

I've experimented with various delivery systems for the bran, and my current delivery system is pancakes. With every meal, I make a whole-wheat bran pancake, because it's quick and easy and the taste is fairly acceptable. But it's better with syrup.

Syrup is "bad." It's high in sugar and being overweight, I do not need a lot of sugar in my diet. I also don't like paying the high cost of maple syrup, even though it's yummy. So I've been experimenting with homemade syrups. My mother used to make homemade syrups.

I made a delicious vanilla syrup. I made an elderberry syrup (I'm done at the doctor's and headed out and that's another story, a story about honesty and truthfulness and the goldfish I'd LIKE to write about.) My favorite syrup so far is the one I made last night, spicy orange syrup. It's perfect on my bran pancake and it tastes so good it's almost like a dessert. And I don't need desserts!

Here's how I made it. I did NOT use a recipe; because we got home really late last night and we were very hungry and I didn't want to waste time looking up recipes, so I invented one. I made it while concocting an ad hoc stir-fry (not sure if ad hoc is the right word here). I put one cup or sugar and about 2 tablespoons of water in a large saucepan on medium heat. The water did not entirely dampen the sugar but made it dissolve faster as it heated up. I heated it and stirred it until it boiled and then about two more minutes, took it 3/4 off the heat and added about a quarter of a cup of frozen concentrated (undiluted) orange juice and 2 sprinkles each of cinnamon and cloves. I stirred it until well mixed over the ¼ burner, cooled it, and decanted it into a plastic squeeze bottle to squeeze onto my pancake. It was wonderful.

Next time I'm going to try adding a little orange zest.

It could be served on dessert pancakes. For presentation, sprinkle the pancake with powdered sugar from a sugar shaker and then make a spiral or other design with the orange the orange syrup. Serve with a wedge of orange and three cherries or a scoop of vanilla ice cream also decorated with the orange syrup.

I made the pancake with a scant 1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour, ¼ cup mixed bran (wheat, oat and corn), ½ teaspoon baking powder, a sprinkle of salt and sugar, a teaspoon of canola oil and enough rice milk to make a batter. I fried it in a teaspoon or two of canola oil. Crepes would work well with the syrup instead.

Today's Detroit Photo

I'm a Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving!

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany! (I am, according to the quiz.)

by John Irving

Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

WOW! I'm impressed and excited because I really like John Irving! Also surprised. I haven't read this book--maybe I should. OK, putting it on my wish list now.

For those one or two of you who might visit me regularly, I should explain that I've been off-line since Thursday when Biker Buddy accidentally cut the internet cable with the hedge trimmers.

The Stuart Smalley Meme

I was tagged for this meme by Berrybird over at Lake Loop. It is like many of the other list meme going around except for one little twist: this list of ten things has to be ten things you like about yourself. This is quite a challenge for me because like Berrybird, I've been feeling a bit poopy of late. I too could use a boost.

I should be doing something important. Like sleeping. Or cleaning. Or a thousand other things, but hey, why not? That's what they make tomorrow for. So here goes:

1)I like the fact that I am smart. As I am aging, I sometimes fear that I am less smart than I used to be, but I am still pretty smart. I'm really glad. It's allowed me to excel at school and at work. It's allowed me to learn things I want to know fairly readily. As Berrybird pointed out, there are different kinds of intelligences, I am happy with the kinds I have. I love my love of learning and my curiosity.

2)Creativity: I am so happy to be creative. I am a creative cook; creativity touches nearly every aspect of my life. I am a poet, a writer, a photographer, and artist and an editor. And glad of it.

3)Intensity: I am a very intense person. I feel deeply, cry hard, laugh loudly, get very angry, play hard, concentrate deeply. Sometimes it gets me in trouble, but mostly, I like it. I'm glad, because it makes me feel ALIVE.

4)Strength: I have a great deal of physical and emotional strength, for which I am grateful.

5)Love: I have lots of love in my life. I have a loving husband and loving children, a loving extended family and loving friends. Like Berrybird, I am grateful for my loving family and friends and know not everyone has that good fortune. I am glad that I appreciate them all and don't take them for granted. And I am glad that I'm a loving person able to respond lovingly to others.

6)I am grateful for my ability to appreciate beauty. My appreciation of beauty is so intense it almost hurts and it resonates in me like a song. I'm glad I love natural beauty, music, art, dance and poetry. I love opera, and I'm glad of it!

7)My facility, knowledge and skills with the outdoors and with plants. I'm copying Berrybird here, because it was such a match. I always had an easy time learning plants, although to be honest, I struggle with what I call horts, or the landscaping plants, the weird hybrids and such. Maybe because I don’t find them while walking around in the woods or maybe just because I don't find them quite as interesting and engaging. I like my outdoor interests and skills. I used to teach survival skills and orienteering and nature stuff. I was a naturalist. I loved it and my interest expertise in those areas. I was a mountain climber, camper, snowshoer, skier and am glad of it!

8)I like my eyes, too. They are hazel, forest greens and browns. Perfect.

9)Copying Berrybird again: I do appreciate my civic-mindedness. I too have voted in every election since I was able to vote, and that was a lot of elections! And I am an environmentalist. I may not be perfect, but at least I care and am working at it. I like helping people whenever I reasonably can.

10)I'm glad I'm a reader. I have so much fun and learn so much from books. And, I'm glad I'm a writer, because it is fun and challenging. I love my love of books.

Oh, and now I have to tag people. This will be hard, because I don't have a very big readership. I tag jo(e), Marie, hpy, Blue Rose, Lupo Grigio and Pam if they haven't already been tagged, as well as anyone else reading this who wants to play along.

Words for Wordless Wednesday

Why I married Biker Buddy: see Wordless Wednesday pictures below. The pictures were taken at Cranbrook on Sunday.

Wordless Wednesday

The Goldfish

The goldfish of yesterday's conundrum is now ensconced in its new home with Kit and Henrietta and crew. I hope it lives a long happy life. I miss its little flash of orange on the kitchen counter.

Coming Home--to Slovenia

After the end of a long day in Italy, we were turning to Slovenia, which was our home away from home. (Click image to view larger.)

Unearned Ecstasy

I lie in bed beside my husband and I cannot sleep. I'm twitchy, and I know I am disturbing him, and he has to get up at 4:21 AM to go to work. I try to lie still, but it is hard. Almost impossible. I hold myself rigid in an attempt not to wiggle.

Finally, I drift off to sleep. I dream I am flying along and above the surface of a huge rippling sphere, which seems to be made of gently billowing silk-like substance. The iridescent colors of the surface of the sphere change and undulate with the movement of the "fabric." I explore and experience, color, movement, shape, love. I am pure experience. I am ecstasy. I am joy. I am delighted by the sphere and my experience of it. I am so ecstatic and so joyful that I cannot contain my joy. I am bursting with it, and it awakens me.

I am awake again; I cannot sleep.

I lie awake and watch the clock. I pretend I am falling asleep. I pretend I am sleeping, but I am not. After an hour of watching the clock, I give up and get out of bed. Ironically, I was at the doctor's today, for insomnia. Decided to go 12 weeks without meds. AK.

I decide that in the dream, I am an angel. The sphere is my angelic (heavenly) experience of God, of Godliness. Not my only experience, but one experience. Sometimes, when I am dreaming, it is as if I slip into another ongoing reality. The feeling in this dream was that this was a tiny fragment of something much larger.

I think about my teachers, always talking about unearned ecstasy, and I wonder when I did to "earn" the ecstasy of that dream. My teachers were talking about the unearned ecstasy of a poorly written poem. They did not necessarily mean that we had to earn the experience of ecstasy. Still, I heard so much about it that I cannot help but wonder if I have to earn it in life. I don't believe it needs to be earned (in life, not poetry), but I realize that I have been struggling with moral issues all day. Some larger, some smaller. Could the dream be a result of that struggle, or might I have been having a small seizure of some sort? (I read that many ecstatic nuns and monks had seizures that created their ecstatic experiences).

One of the issues I was struggling with will seem very minor to many people, but it is not minor to me. Henrietta called today and wanted me to buy a goldfish for Kit. One of Kit's goldfish had died and Henrietta told Kit that the fish had gone one a trip, like Kit's Dad in Iraq. Hoboy. I don't like deception. I think children should be told the truth about small deaths so they can more readily handle larger ones—and so that they will experience truth-telling. I didn't want to be part of a lie. I also didn't want to be responsible for killing another fish. The one that died was probably the one they were keeping in a beta bowl (very tiny) in the bathroom without a window. I'd die too. I didn't want to agree to it, but I said I would. Henrietta said, "It's only 15 cents." As if that were the point. It's not. Fish have a life. Kit needs to learn to respect life. To take care of life. AK.

Tonight, after dinner, shopping and putting away the groceries, Biker Buddy and I drove, as Henrietta had instructed, to Meier's, twenty minutes away, and bought a 15-cent goldfish. I pointed to the very one—the healthiest looking one in a tank of rather sickly looking goldfish. And then, we bought a little two-gallon tank with a light and a filter AND a real live plant to put inside it. It all cost well-over twenty dollars. A lot more than 15 cents, but that wasn't the point. Then we spent a lot of time assembling it all.

It's a plastic tank and I worried about out-gassing of formalin into the water from the plastic poisoning the fish, so we—Biker Buddy, that is—washed everything very well. I would like to replace 10% or more of the water every day until all the formalin has out-gassed, or at least until the amount out-gassing diminishes, but I won't have the tank. I won't be able to control what Kit or Henrietta feeds the fish or how well they keep the tank clean. I won't be able to control whether the fish I bought and now feel responsible for lives (not that I could anyway, but I could try) or what kind of stories Henrietta tells Kit about the fate of the other fish or the life of this one. Or what she says about where the tank came from in the fish's imaginary travels. Moral dilemma number one. Only one of several moral dilemmas today, but I will skip the others.

I realize very few people care about the life of a 15-cent goldfish. One could argue that if I were concerned about that life, what about the life or a mosquito I slap on my arm? I didn't used to—I used to refuse to kill mosquitoes—and in fact, I often still just brush them away. But when there are lots and I get agitated, I do kill them—it's a form of "self-defense." Or whatever. I'm not perfect—far far from it. And I do worry about killing mosquitoes, too. I worry about the tiny insects I inadvertently step on when I'm walking. I can't do anything about it, but when I think about it, I feel sad.

I once had a vision. I was sitting in a park in broad daylight, and I wasn't asleep. I'm not religious. But Jesus came to me. He told me I was forgiven forever. I did not believe him. I don't feel like it. In my dream, I was in "heaven" and I was "an angel." I was gloriously forgiven for everything; I was ecstatic. In some very small way, I earned it trying to save that goldfish. Or not. Maybe that wasn't it at all.

If indeed I deserve ecstasy, if I earned it, why am I awake with insomnia and no sleep at all at 2 AM? I don't, I assure you—ecstasy is a gift! It has to be, none of us deserve it! No sleep at all? Well, I was probably asleep at least 2 minutes to have that dream. It wasn't much more, because I was awake at 12:40 and awake at 12:43 and in between, I had that dream. The Ecstatic Sphere. The earned or unearned Ecstatic Sphere. A small gift in a long night.

PS: Biker Buddy suggested that my dream may have been stimulated by one of the pieces we saw at the Hot House Exhibit at Cranbrook Art Museum. The picture doesn't do it justice. It was very colorful and multicolored, though not a sphere. I loved it! While I was viewing it, several times during my visit, I wanted to go inside it, but was afraid to, because the mean curators there often yell if they think you're doing something inappropriate. It seemed obvious to me that you were meant to go inside it. It you click the image, you can also see some of the other pieces we viewed at the exhibit.