A Land Without Pleats or Cuffs

Kris has been helping me pare my wardrobe from unwieldy to manageable. She’s not entirely pleased with some of the garments I’ve elected to keep, but she hasn’t been shy about voicing her opinion. Here’s an actual quote from a recent “discussion”:

What about these pants? These are heavily pleated. Why are we even keeping clothes that are ugly? They’re pleated and cuffed. They’re out of here!

I’m needling her, I know, but I really do appreciate the help. Though I once was keen to follow fashion, that is no longer the case. As most of my friends know, I dress for comfort and not for style. (Translation: sometimes I look like a slob.) Kris is helping me to find a happy middle ground — a middle ground without pleats or cuffs.

What I Did on My Autumn Vacation

Kris and I had a good trip to San Juan Island. We didn’t do much besides laze around. We chose to go in early October because peak season has ended and prices on most things (like our bed and breakfast) had dropped. We gambled on the weather, of course — if it were always nice in early October, it would still be peak season, after all. It ended up mostly misty and grey, but that’s okay. We are from Portland, after all.

On our first day, we drove around the circumference of the island. Just outside Friday Harbor (the only real town on San Juan Island), I fell in love with a house: a 1915 bungalow on a few acres of farmland. Love love love it. But I don’t have $726,000. Plus, I’m not sure how I’d do isolated on an island.

The Lime Kiln Lighthouse — not the farmhouse I covet.

After coveting this farmhouse, we drove down to see the lighthouse, visited American Camp, stopped at Lime Kiln Point, resisted the urge to spend money at an alpaca farm (I very much wanted a $99 “throw”), and then swung back toward Friday Harbor. We stopped to visit Mona, the local celebrity camel.

Mona, the camel of San Juan Island.

The second day was cold and rainy, and we didn’t do much but wander Friday Harbor (we visited the consignment store and the thrift shop — I bought books for the first time in ages). In the afternoon, we read and watched Heroes on the laptop.

On our third day, the sun was shining, so we hopped on the inter-island ferry and spent a couple hours seeing the sites. It was lovely.

Like I said: we didn’t do much. But it was a great vacation nonetheless. We enjoyed our time at The Kirk House, a Craftsman bed-and-breakfast just across from the high school. We fretted about the Focus and all of the nasty smells it threw off. And we planned for our future.

Good times.

Can you guess who’s most glad that Kris and I are home from vacation now? The cats, that’s who.

After a week penned inside the house, they finally have the freedom to go outside, which, as they’ll tell you, is their natual habitat. Inside is only for food and sleeping.

They’re especially happy to have us back in bed at night. Max takes the corner by my feet, Simon takes the corner by Kris’ feet, and Toto sleeps by our heads. (Nemo is too scared to sleep with us — he’s scared of everything.) Mom and Dad make for a warm bed.

Half Full or Half Empty?

Kris and I are taking a short vacation to Washington State’s San Juan Islands.

“What time does the ferry leave from Anacortes?” I asked last night before bed. We were planning our agenda.

“5:25,” Kris said. “And if we miss that, the last ferry is at 6:00. What time do you think we should leave?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How about ten? Then I can go to the gym first.”

“How about nine?” Kris said.

I went to the gym when it opened this morning at eight. I lifted weights. I ran on the treadmill. When I got home at 9:15, Kris asked, “How long until you’re ready to leave?”

“About half an hour,” I said. “I still need to pack. What’s the rush?”

“I don’t want to miss the ferry,” she said.

In true J.D. fashion, I dragged my feet. I answered some e-mail. I made a post at Get Fit Slowly. I debated which sweater to bring. “Come on,” Kris said.

We finally left the house at around ten. On our drive north, we listened to This American Life. We listened to The Decemberists. We chatted. We made good time.

“We’re making good time,” I said. “But we still have to make it through Seattle.” Seattle’s traffic is a nightmare.

But this time, we only had a five-minute patch of stop-and-go in the city, and then it was smooth sailing. We left Seattle at about 1:30.

“Huh,” I said. “Is there a ferry before the 5:25?”

Kris checked. “There’s a 2:45,” she said. “Do you think we can make it?”

“It’s going to be very very close,” I said, and I stepped on the gas. We flew through Everett. We flew through Mount Vernon. We tried to fly to Anacortes, but our progress was slowed by a minivan from Pennsylvania and a pumpkin festival.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” I said, as we marched through the lights in downtown Anacortes. “I guess we’ll have to settle for being 2-1/2 hours early.”

As we crested a bluff, we saw the 2:45 ferry pulling away. Kris gave me a look.

The good news is:

We’re first in line for the 5:25 ferry to San Juan island.
There’s a picnic table we can sit at while we wait.
For $3.95, I was able to purchase two hours of wireless so that I could share this funny story with you.

As a footnote for the Ice Queens in the audience, Kris has decided it’s too cold at the picnic table, and she’s gone to sit in the car. I bet she’ll be back to join me sometime in the next two hours!

My Wife Is Sometimes Wrong

Toto vomited on the bed again today. She does this all the time.

It’s not so bad if we discover the hairball midday, but it’s kind of a pain if we don’t notice it until we’re ready for bed. This time was sort of in between. Kris happened to wander into the bedroom just after dinner, and from her loud cursing, I could tell what had happened.

Sometimes Toto manages to get the outermost layer of bedclothes, which is fine. But often — like tonight — she pukes all over the fitted sheet.

“Can you help me take the covers off?” Kris hollered down to me. I was writing at the kitchen table.

“In a few minutes,” I called back. “I’m in the middle of something.” I had spent all day trying to craft a rare personal-finance article about credit cards. I couldn’t find the right tone. I was frustrated.

I continued to write while Kris watched the Republican National Convention. Half an hour later, she came downstairs.

“Do you need help with the bed?” I asked.

“It’s too late,” she muttered. “I’ve already done it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she was carrying something in her arms. Oops.

Later, when it was time for bed, I went to the laundry room to fetch the sheet. It was dark, but I didn’t bother to turn on the light. The sheet was easy to spot amidst the socks and t-shirts. I also found a pillowcase. “Toto must have vomited on that, too,” I thought.

“Just one sheet and one pillowcase?” I asked Kris just to be certain.

“Yes,” she said. I went upstairs to make the bed.

When I got there, however, I noticed that both of my pillowcases were missing. (I sleep with two pillows, and have done so for most of my life: one for my head and one for my side.) I sighed and walked back to the laundry room to fetch the other one. I couldn’t complain, of course. If I’d helped Kris in the first place, I would have known how many pillowcases were in the dryer.

We made the bed. Kris fed the cats their bedtime treats. (Each cat gets three “greenies”, a sort of organic treat they love. Then they’re kicked out of the bedroom. Except on Cat Night. Cat Night occurs once or twice a week, and is a cause for much feline celebration. On that night, they’re allowed to sleep in the bedroom. Of course, during the summer it’s rare that all four cats are even ever in the house at the same time, even over night. Tonight, for example, Simon is outside and refuses to come when called.)

The bed made and the cats indulged, I went to my office to write.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” Kris asked.

“I’m not done with tomorrow’s post,” I said. And I’m not. I can’t find the right tone, and I’m not sure if I should list specific credit cards. Hell — I’m not even sure I should cover credit cards at all. I’ve given them a wide berth so far.

“Oh,” Kris said sadly. Then she said, “Where’s my pillowcase?”

“What?” I asked.

“Where’s my pillowcase?” she said.

I got up from my desk and walked to the bedroom to gave her my best look of incredulity. Then I said, “When I asked you if there was just one sheet and one pillowcase, you told me yes.”

“I know,” she said.

“But then I came up here and I put that one pillowcase on my pillow, and I realized that you were wrong. My other pillow needed a pillowcase, too. So I walked back downstairs to fetch it.”

Kris realized what I was getting at. She started to laugh. I continued my lament: “And now you tell me there were actually three pillowcases in the laundry?” I let out a long, dramatic sigh and trudged downstairs.

“See how it is to live with you?” Kris called behind me as she continued to laugh. I confess that I laughed a little, too. Our roles in this sort of situation are usually reversed.

Now if only Kris could see how it is to live with her.

Disclaimer: I love my wife, and would not share these stories if I didn’t think they were fun.

The Idea of Having

“You know our house isn’t really cluttered, right?” Kris said last night.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When you write about your battle with clutter, it makes it sound like we live in a house filled with junk. We don’t. Our house is pretty clean. You’ve just got a lot of stuff you’re holding onto that you don’t know how to get rid of.”

“That’s true,” I said.

Our house isn’t cluttered. Sometimes it gets messy, but that’s my doing. For example, the dining room table has been covered with personal finance magazines for the past week as I worked on a forthcoming article at Get Rich Slowly. Or before that, I had all of our exercise stuff (yoga mats, exercise ball, stretch bands, etc.) strewn across the floor. But it’s not like we have junk all over the place.

Instead, I have piles of Stuff in my office, in the guest room, and in the workshop. Even these piles are moderately neat.

“And you know why you can’t get rid of Stuff, don’t you?” Kris continued.

“Because I want it,” I said.

“You think you want it,” she said. “You like the idea of having certain things, but you don’t actually use them. You’ve got dozens of books stacked in the guest room. They’ve been there for a year. Have you needed any of those books in that time?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s my point. You can’t bring yourself to get rid of them, yet you don’t use them, either. So they sit there. You wouldn’t even notice if you got rid of them. You should just do it.”

As always, Kris Gates is right. The difficulty is forcing myself to move from acknowledgment to action. Tiffany has offered to help me get rid of my Stuff. Maybe I’ll take her up on the offer. Or maybe I’ll just pile everything in the workshop and let it sit there for another year or two…

She Rules a Crowded Nation

It’s one o’clock when we reach the house. Neither Mom nor I have eaten all day. She took her meds sometime before I picked her up at nine; I ate half a bag of peanut M&Ms on the drive to Salem. When we walk into the kitchen, she sets her purse down and says, “I’m hungry.”

“What would you like to eat?” I ask.

“Peanut butter,” she says.

“Just peanut butter?” I ask.

“And bread,” she says.

“A peanut butter sandwich?” I ask.

She thinks about it. “Yes,” she says. She shuffles her feet and looks down.

“Would you like me to make the sandwich?” I ask, pulling the bread and peanut butter from the fridge.

“No,” she says. “I can make it.” I watch as she slathers the bread with thick gobs of peanut butter. “And milk,” she says. I pour her a glass of milk.

While she works, I prepare a place for her at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down,” I say.

“I’m fine,” she says. She stands at the counter and devours the sandwich in great gulps. She chases it with the milk.

When she’s finished, I show Mom the computer at the kitchen table. She sits down and types in a URL. She clicks the button. She clicks the button. She clicks the button. “It’s not working,” she says. I look. She’s not actually clicking the button.

“You’re pressing the space bar,” I say. “You need to click the button.” She presses the space bar again. And again. She looks at me, and I know that I’m making her uncomfortable, so I leave.

Moments later, she’s up again. I can see her pacing. She’s pacing, as if she can’t make up her mind where to go or what to do. I hear her walk into the next room and begin rummaging on the bookshelf. She comes in to my room. “You said I could borrow books,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “What would you like to read?”

“How long will I be gone?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “A few days.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Anything.”

I giver her My Antonia by Willa Cather, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith, and a couple of others. She sits down at the kitchen table again, in front of the computer. She opens her e-mail program. I go back to my chair.

Moments later, she’s up again, pacing. “I don’t like it here,” she says. “Can’t we just go someplace and drive around?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go upstairs for a minute first.”

“Is the car unlocked?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. I go up upstairs to send e-mail so the family knows where we are. When I get in the car, Mom is sitting at attention in the passenger seat. She has everything with her: her purse, the pile of books. I start driving.

Tony and Kamie pass us going the other way. They turn their truck around to follow. Tony calls me on my cell phone. “We’re behind you,” he says.

“I’m scared,” Mom says. Her hands are fidgeting uncontrollably. She’s sweating.

“Yes,” I say. “I am too. But it will be okay. It will be fine.” We drive in silence for a few minutes. Mom fidgets.

“Can we go to the hospital now?” she asks at last.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re almost there.”

My Favorite Christmas Cookies (2007 Edition)

Alas, Christmas is over. That’s probably a good thing. The holiday season is dangerous for me, filled as it is with cookies and other baked goods. Most holiday cookies are nice, but run-of-the-mill. Every once in a while, a friend surprised me with something truly delicious: Jenn’s gingerbread cookies, Courtney’s hot pepper and chocolate wonders.

This year, though, I tasted two great cookies. On the same day. Oh, my poor poor belly. Fortunately, I’ve been able to obtain the recipes for the future. Maybe once I’ve lost some weight, I can bake a batch of one of these as a reward.

First up, from Michael Hampton comes this delicious jelly-filled cookie:

Great Grandma Emilia Marie Martin’s Jelly Cookies

1 cup butter/margarine

1-1/2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

3-1/2 cups flour

2 tsp cream of tartar

1 tsp soda

1/2 tsp salt

Cream butter. Add sugar gradually, creaming until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. Stir in vanilla. Sift dry ingredients together. Add gradually to creamed mixture. Chill 3-4 hours.

Roll on well-floured surface to 1/8-1/4 inch thickness. Cut in desired shapes – Grandma’s were always round so cut circles and then circles with a hole in the middle. Put circle on a baking sheet and then put the circle with the hole on top. Put a bit of jam or jelly in the hole.

Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet at 375 for 6-8 minutes. Cool on a cooling rack and frost with a thin powdered sugar icing.

Next, from the Moenne-Loccoz household, here are some chewy oatmeal cookies that, well, are more than oatmeal:

Praline Snaps

from Art of the Cookie by Jann Johnson

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1-1/2 cups old-fashioned or quick (not instant) rolled oats, coarsely ground in a blender or food processor

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (2-1/4 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

1-1/2 cups firmly packed dark brown sugar

1-1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350˚F. In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, and oats; set aside. In a large bowl, using an electric mixer on medium speed, cream the butter and sugar. Add the vanilla extract. On low speed, gradually add the flour mixture and combine well.

Scoop the dough into 1¼-inch balls and place 2 inches apart on ungreased baking sheets. Flatten the balls slightly with the bottom of a glass.

Bake in the center of the oven for about 12 minutes, or until barely browned around the edges. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheet for a few minutes, then transfer them to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in an airtight container. Well-wrapped cookies may be frozen.

Makes about 4 dozen cookies

Yum. My mouth is watering just thinking about these…

Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

Every few years, Jeremy and Jennifer hold a Christmas party with lots of food, wine, and song.

Tiffany says the singing is unusual, and maybe it is. I remember lots of singing at the gatherings I went to as a kid, but a lot of those were Mennonite events too. Music is an important part of the Mennonite tradition, and, especially, of the Gingerich family culture.

Three years ago, the Gingeriches came together to record a CD of their best-loved hymns. This year they produced an album of Christmas music, mixing traditional songs with lesser-known stuff. I remember singing the following in Tom’s choir class in high school:

Break Forth, O Beauteous Heavenly Light

Though I like the CD of hymns better than the CD of carols, the best song from either album can be found at the end of the latter disc. I’ve never heard this song before, but I love it:

Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

Well done!

Here Are Some Facts About Santa

Eight or nine years ago, Kris and I took a Saturday around Christmas to drive all over creation playing Santa, delivering goodies to our friends. We’ve harbored fond memories of that trip, but never made the time to repeat it until now.

On Friday, Mr. and Mrs. Claus boarded the sleigh — Mrs. Claus’ sleigh because Mr. Claus still has no heat in his — and delivered presents to good boys and girls down near Canby and Woodburn. We got to chat with Kara, Kim, Kristin, and Steve and Mary. On Saturday, the industrious couple made a run to Newberg, Beaverton, and various parts of Portland.

“We should do this every year,” I said to Mrs. Claus when we had finished. “I like spending the hour or so chatting with each family, seeing them in their environment without a lot of stress all around. And all the kids seem to like it, too.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Claus said. “It’s fun.”

Because we were too lazy to drag our sleigh all the way to McMinnville, Michael and Laura and Ethan and Sophia agreed to meet us halfway. They joined us at a Chinese restaurant in Newberg. We had a slow, relaxed lunch during which the children charmed us (as they always do). Ethan is six and Sophia is four. They are both very verbal and overflowing with ideas. Ethan gave us updates on his nature museum and bug zoo. His fund-raising drive is going well, and he hopes to have the museum built and opened by summer.

Near the end of our meal, Kris asked Ethan, “What do you know about Santa?”

Ethan fixed her with a serious gaze and said, “Here are some facts about Santa.” Fortunately, I had my notebook open and ready to scribble. Most of what you read below is verbatim from Ethan’s mouth.

“Here are some facts about Santa,” Ethan said. “One, he has super powers. Three, he —”

“You forgot number two,” the adults corrected.

“Two, he has jingle bells. Three, he has a sleigh. Four, he has a magic sleigh. Five, he has magic reindeer.”

“What about his home life?” Kris asked. “Does Santa live with anyone?”

“He has Mrs. Claus, and he has some elves,” Ethan said.

“Do they have jobs?” asked Kris.

Ethan nodded. “The elves have lots of jobs. One, they have to be disguised in public. Let’s say I was bad. The elves — who could be disguised as anything — would see and would tell Santa.”

“Two,” Ethan continued (he likes lists), “they have to find out what kind of toy you like. Three, they make the toys. They invent the toys. Four, the elves guard the sleigh — there are a couple of elves on board. Five, they help Santa with The List.”

“Is there on-board navigation?” asked Michael, Ethan’s father. “Like GPS?”

“Sort of,” Ethan said. “He has an air map.” He spent a couple minutes describing how the air map worked before Kris steered him back to the original topic of conversation.

“What does Mrs. Claus do?” she asked.

“Well, Mrs. Claus has to make dinner,” Ethan said. “Sometimes they go out. How do they go out without people knowing they’re Santa? They dress up like just regular people. But pretty much Mrs. Claus does clothes and stuff. Sometimes she gets to relax. Mostly when Santa is gone.”

“Is Santa really fat?” asked his mother, Laura.

“No, he’s not. He’s really skinny,” Ethan said. And here my notes end. He gave us more information on Santa, but they were all minor compared to the enumerated lists he’d shared before.

I’ve often noted to Kris how different friends play different roles in our lives. Some are for relaxing. Some are for exploring new things. And some make me think in ways that are different from normal. The same is true with children. I have to admit, I find it exhilarating to interact with kids — especially young kids — who seem to have unbounded imaginations. Ethan and Sophia are two of those.

It Must Have Been Something I Ate

Busy busy busy. We are busy.

Yesterday morning, book group met to discuss The Last American Man by Elizabeth Gilbert. This is not a good book. Gilbert has a strong, confident style, but she’s just a little too glib. Some might consider her twee. Worse, her subject is not worthy of a book-length exploration.

In The Last American Man, Gilbert writes about Eustace Conway, a real-life mountain man of the Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett mold. Eustace lives in a teepee (or used to, anyhow), eats roadkill (or used to, anyhow), and runs a sort of wilderness camp in North Carolina.

The problem is that we, the readers, are supposed to sympathize with Eustace. We’re supposed to admire him. Gilbert clearly does. She provides a chapter on his downsides, but they’re always filtered through her rose-colored glasses. But it’s hard to admire a man who comes across as a complete jerk. His attitude is always “my way or the highway”. He doesn’t trust anyone. He believes his is the only right way to do things, and is unwilling to let others learn from their own mistakes. He’s authoritarian. He’s callous. He’s not a sympathetic figure.

Despite the lousy man and the lousy book, we had a fantastic book group discussion — probably our best in months. Our discussion ranged from parenting to life skills to American history to our possible futures. Through it all, we touched on a number of books we’ve read in the past. It was great.

In the evening, we attended Kris’ office party. This, too, was fun. I used to be uncomfortable at these sorts of gatherings, but I know enough of Kris’ little friends (and their spouses) that I can have a good time. Plus, the highlight every year is the two-hour-long White Elephant gift exchange.

When Rhonda and Mike dropped us off from the Christmas party, they came in for some late-night Dance Dance Revolution. We spent an hour stomping and flailing. DDR is a great game, though it proved just how out of shape I was. Plus, as we were dancing, I became nauseated. I’d been feeling sick ever since dinner, and the exercise just made it worse.

It took me over an hour to fall asleep — I was trying not to be sick.

Today we drove to Jeff and Steph’s for our family Christmas. This, too, was fun, are would have been except that I was miserable most of the time. Kris and I left early.

I’ve spent the afternoon doing nothing. (Well, that’s not true. I’ve been writing. Always writing.) I just tried to have a bite to eat, but my stomach has rebelled. I’m not sure what’s wrong. Near as I can figure, I must have had something “off” at the Christmas party.

In any event, I have a busy week ahead of me. But once this is over, I think I can have some time to relax! I’m looking forward to it…