It’s Too Late to Go Through My Garbage

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

We are a family of music lovers. I have mentioned that my mother and father met because my dad played clarinet and saxophone in my mom’s brother’s band. We always had music playing in my house. From the days when I was very little, I have memories of music coming from a crackly radio that sat on my mom’s kitchen counter from which she listened to KFAB radio, humming along to the tunes of Dean Martin and Doris Day.

KFAB, by the way, now apparently an all-talk AM station, was where Johnny Carson began his career. He worked there while attending the University of Nebraska (where he was a member of my father’s fraternity). This, I’m afraid, is a factoid not a bit pertinent to what I’m about to tell you.

Back 1960s, there was a record player in our basement. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it’s where Bec and Jen and I, throughout our formative years, listened to music. Dave was too little; he was still playing with Matchbox cars. We mostly listened to singles – we called them 45s. I’m sure there are those among you who know why they were called 45s, but I only know that I would save up my money to buy all of the top 40 hits. I would stack them up on the turntable, and one by one, they would drop down and an arm with a needle on it would automatically move over to play such hits as Red Rubber Ball or I’m a Believer or Happy Together. We would sing and dance to the music. Jen would tell you that is the period of time during which she hoped to be a professional singer when she grew up until Bec pointed out to her that she didn’t actually have that great a singing voice.

Here’s a true fact. If I listen to a 60s radio station, not only can I sing along with the music (remembering EVERY SINGLE WORD), but sometimes I can actually remember the color of the label on the 45. Especially if it was Capital Records.

My sisters and I were reminiscing about vinyl records the other day because we were at Barnes and Noble and I came across a display of vinyl records. Now probably you all knew that vinyl (and that’s apparently what it is being called as opposed to “albums”) was making a comeback, but it was news to me. I stood there in absolute amazement, and finally took out my phone to take a picture. A B & N employee, seemingly around my age, walked up to me and said, “You are taking a photo because you can’t believe you’re seeing albums. Am I right?”

I assured her she was dead on. And in addition to my amazement at the reappearance of albums, I was astonished to see the price. The Beatles White Album….guess how much? A mere $35.99. I remember when I would save up my money to purchase the newest Beatles album for $4.99 or thereabouts.

“What do they play the, ahem, vinyl on?” I asked the B & N employee. She pointed to a small box that held a turntable.

I must tell you at this point that the record player we listened to in the basement wasn’t very big . However, my dad had a stereo console upstairs that was a major piece of furniture. His pride and joy.

I didn’t open the box, but it certainly didn’t even come close to my dad’s stereo. But his had built-in speakers.

From the time that music began to be digitally produced, the arguments commenced. Which produces better sound – analog or digital? Apparently sound is – by definition – analog, so it would seem like the music coming from albums would be richer. Still, I remember how absolutely IMPRESSED I was at the clean sound coming from CDs. No crackle from worn records.

Over the years, I owned numerous albums – and when CDs came into my life, the albums went into the garbage. Who knew that 35 years later we would be once again looking at vinyl records? At $35 a pop.

And, by the way, I know that anyone under the age of 20 doesn’t even know what I’m talking about when I say CD. I simply can’t keep up. But as Bec says, at least she can buy singles again on Itunes!

P.S. Ever since I typed the words “Red Rubber Ball” I cannot get that song out of my head. You’re welcome Baby Boomers…..

6Apr2015

Can You Eat Too Much Fiber?

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Delicious pizza despite the ensuing issues.

The other night Bill and Jen and I decided to go out for pizza. By time we got to our favorite pizza place in the East Valley, it was past 6, so there was a long wait – about an hour and 15 minutes. We patiently waited, and finally were seated at a table.

We ordered our standard pizza – a large thin-crust with sausage and capicola. As I have mentioned countless times, Bill LOVES pizza. He would tell you that his favorite pizza – the one against which all pizzas are measured – is from Fox’s Restaurant and Pub, several of which are located on the south side of Chicago. The pizza is thin-crusted, the sausage is delicious, and best of all, it is cut it in little squares .

As an aside, I recently learned that the reason the pizzas on the south side of Chicago are cut in squares is that the steel workers would have to grab a quick lunch at noon, and so they would come into their favorite pizzeria and the small squares on the pizzas sitting on the bar were easy to grab and eat. No mess.

Anyhoo, as a nod to good health, we also ordered a Caesar salad to split among us. We were famished because of the long wait. The salad came, and Jen served it up amongst us, leaving some on the original plate. We all ate the salad with great relish.

Bill finished first and took a bit more. When my plate was empty, I began nibbling off the original plate. At one point, I went to grab what looked to me in the dim light like a piece of lettuce from the white end of the Romaine lettuce. Bill grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t eat that. It’s a tissue.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “What did you say?”

“That’s a Kleenex in the salad,” he said.

“ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?” I asked (and you can tell I was animated from the capital letters).

“Yes Kris,” he said. “I’m afraid I am. There is a Kleenex in our salad.”

There aren’t enough W’s in ewwwwww to express our disgust.

We called our server over.

“There’s a tissue in our salad,” Jen told her. The server was justifiably surprised.

“Well, that’s not good,” she said, and grabbed the salad bowl. “I’ll be right back.”

She wasn’t right back, but her manager was. What I’m going to tell you she said to us is the absolute truth. I promise you.

“I’m very sorry about the tissue in your salad,” she said. “We checked the kitchen, and there are no tissues kept in the kitchen, so I don’t know how this could have happened. We also checked the tissue, and it appears to be clean.”

Whaaaaaaaaaaat?

“We are very sorry about this incident, and we won’t charge you for the salad,” she said.

Seriously. She agreed to not charge us for the salad IN WHICH THERE WAS A TISSUE.

Bill, Jen, and I are nice people. In fact, my whole family consists of nice people. I think every single one of our kids has worked in food service at some point or another. We know that stuff happens. So, we nodded stupidly, and she left our table.

The server brought us our pizza (which was absolutely delicious and did not have a tissue) and we ate it. But you could tell that the incident weighed on all of our minds.

I began thinking about the tissue in the salad. It seemed to me (and still does) that there should be kind of a checklist located somewhere in the kitchen of a restaurant that reads something like this….

Compensation for Food Issues

Hair in your food………..Free dessert
Food Not Prepared the Way You Asked…………Bring new meal
Drinks Dropped by Server onto Your Lap…………….Free drink
Tissue in Your Salad……….You Don’t Have to Pay For Any Single Solitary Part of Your Meal Not Now Not Ever

Doesn’t it seem like that to you?

So at the end of the meal, the server came to our table and asked, “Will this be one check or two?”

Now if you look up the word coward in the dictionary, you will see my face. I go out of my way to not cause anyone any problems. But I was on my very last nerve.

So I said, “Miss, here’s the thing. I’m 61 years old, and I’ve never even found a hair in my food. But tonight I found a Kleenex tissue in my salad. I think we don’t have any check at all. Don’t you think so?.”

The server looked like a deer in the headlights. She quickly ran away, and came back to tell us we were good to go.

Boom.

But here’s my question to you, my good Readers. What would you do in this situation? Has anything like this ever happened to you and what did you do?

4Apr2015

Saturday Smile: ILove the IPad

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Any sufficiently advanced technology is equivalent to magic. – Arthur C. Clarke (Author)

Jen has been here visiting this past week and, not surprisingly, has spent a lot of time with her grandkids. On Thursday night, Maggie had to work and so Jen decided to spend the night at our/her house. Her grandkids stayed with their father. As she headed towards the door, 4-year-old Austin began to cry. He was inconsolable.

“She’ll be back tomorrow, Buddy,” his father told him. Between sobs, Austin replied, “But sheeeeee’s t-t-t-taking her Ipad.”

And there you have it, Folks. What being a grandparent has been reduced to…..

The number of games on their Ipads.

Have a great weekend.

3Apr2015

Friday Book Whimsy: Don’t Know Much About History

Posted in Book Reviews, Whimsies by kzmclain

My blog audience knows by now that I love mysteries. At the end of the year, if I look at the list of books I have read, more than half are probably mysteries. And the ones that aren’t often will have a mystery element to them. Like who is the crazy woman in the attic in Jane Eyre?

But the other genre of books that I love is historical fiction. I love to learn about history via a fictional story. I wish, for example, that I had read the whole series of Henry VIII books by Philippa Gregory prior to our visit to England in 1993. That trip took place more than 20 years after I studied World History, and I thought “Henry VIII” was a song by Herman and the Hermits.

I have given some thought to the best historical novels I have read in the past couple of years, and I’m not ready to commit that the following are the five best historical novels I’ve ever read. But they are five really good novels from which I learned a lot about an historical event.

So, in no order…..

Moloka’i by Alan Brennert is the story of a young Hawaiian girl who contracts leprosy and is sent to a leper colony on the island of Moloka’i. I know the plot sounds depressing, but it simply wasn’t. It was a heartwarming story about love. I learned that the island of Moloka’i actually did have a leper colony located on it, and it was where Father (Saint) Damian worked with lepers for years in the 1800s before he, himself, died of leprosy. It was wonderful to learn about this amazing man, though he certainly wasn’t the focus of the story but only a bit player. Moloka’i is one of my favorite books of all time.

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory was the first book I ever read by this author. The book was riveting, and got me hooked on reading all of the books about Henry’s bevy of wives and mistresses. The Other Boleyn Girl tells the story of Anne, Mary, and George Boleyn and their strange relationship through the eyes of Mary, who was Henry’s first Boleyn love and led to the infamous and unfortunate relationship with her sister Anne. Seemingly decently researched and definitely well-written.

Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline is an excellent story about an event in history I knew absolutely nothing about. Apparently in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, orphans from the East Coast were sent by train to the Midwest where they would be adopted by families to work on the farms or in the businesses. Orphan Train is the story of one of these orphans, now an elderly woman, who befriends a young orphan girl, tied by their backgrounds. Good writing, but mostly just an interesting story.

True Sisters by Sandra Dallas, is the story of four Morman women who move from their homes in Iowa City (one coming from as far away as England) across the plains and over the Rocky Mountains to Salt Lake City, on foot, pushing handcarts carrying all of their worldly goods. You can only imagine the obstacles they faced. Again, while I knew that Mormans moved from Iowa and Illinois to Salt Lake City, this particular mode of transportation was new to me. A beautiful story of friendship by one of my favorite authors (and not just because she lives in Denver!).

The Aviator’s Wife by Melanie Benjamin is the story of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the wife of Charles Lindbergh. Though the story is about Anne, the reader learns a lot about aviation and about the famous Charles Lindbergh (who, in my mind, was half cray-cray). The story of the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby is particularly well-told and interesting.

Oh, what the heck, for good measure…..

The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd is the story of Sarah Grimke and her sister Angelina, feminists before anyone even remotely conceived of the word. But it is also the story of slavery as told in a secondary storyline about a fictional slave girl. The writing is beautiful and the story was amazing – both glorious and horrifying. A wonderful read.

And there you have it folks, six historical novels that should be on your bookshelf or in your electronic reader.

2Apr2015

Random Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

It’s the Bomb

Desperately looking for something to occupy my time the other afternoon as Bill worked outdoors, I got onto Netflix to see what was available. After much perusing, I ended up with (of all things) The Karate Kid. It is a great movie. It has been a great movie all of the 750 times that I’ve watched it over the years since 1984. As with most Generation X-ers, Court became interested in karate because of that movie, and his dad and I even enrolled him in classes for a short period of time. But what struck me most from the movie was the hair and clothing. Wow. I remember it so well. I absolutely LOVED my stonewashed jeans that fit tightly above my waist, in fact, above my belly button. And my hair, as everyone else’s who was an adult in the 1980s, was big and blown and curled away from my face, ala Farrah Fawcett. Remember leg warmers, thanks to Flashdance? We wore them even though we weren’t even close to a dance floor. And oh, those shoulder pads. Believe it or not, to this very day, the clothes of the 1980s are my favorite style.

Flitting Around

I’ve noticed as of late that I have the attention span of a gnat. Actually, what I sternly tell myself is that I’m like a cat that gets distracted by a beam of sunlight coming into the window and showing dust mites in the air. I start doing something, get distracted and begin something else, get distracted again and before you know it, I have three or four things half finished. Here’s an example. I was unloading the dishwasher when I remembered that I wanted to get the grandkids’ Easter cards in the mail. So I began to address the cards. But I needed to look up postage for a heavier card. I moved to my computer and looked up postage. While at my computer, I decided to see how many hits I’d gotten on my blog. Then I started thinking about blog ideas and I started looking something up on Wikipedia, which, NEVER FAILS to suck me in. Before I knew it, I was looking up totally unrelated things. After a half hour or so, I saw the cards sitting on the table. I went to get the postage stamps, and nearly tripped over the dishwasher’s open door since I hadn’t finished that project. And so it goes. I blame age. And all the hairspray I had to use to keep my hair away from my face in the 1980s.

10% is 10%

Speaking of age, cashiers have started giving me the senior discount without asking if I’m eligible. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about their presumption of my age (though admittedly, they’re accurate). But my cheapskatyness won out over my vanity, and I have decided I will take the 10 percent discount any day of the week.

Orange Fingers

You have your people with a sweet tooth. You have your people with a salt tooth. Bill is definitely in the former group. He absolutely craves and loves anything sweet. Particularly if chocolate is involved. Beckie’s brownies are his perfect food. My secret craving? Cheetos. In fact, back in Denver, I have taken to buying a bag and giving them to Bill to hide someplace so that I can have them available for lunch but not available for snacking in the afternoon. I’m not proud of this fact. After all, CHEETOS. They make my fingers orange. I love them.

Sock it to Me

As you know, Bill and I live alone. And in both of our houses, we have a laundry room with our own washer and dryer. It’s probably 20 steps from my dryer to my bedroom in our Denver house, and about 5 steps here in Arizona. And yet….AND YET…. I can’t tell you how common it is for me to lose a sock. It’s simply inexplicable. Where could they possibly go?

That’s all folks. Gotta go chase a sunbeam.

1Apr2015

Purgatory

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

I fear I often make my husband Bill the fall guy in my blog stories. Sort of like Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy.

Bill is no Ricky Ricardo. For one thing, he doesn’t have wavy black hair or speak with a Cuban accent, and almost never sings Babalu. He does, however, say, “Luuucy, I’m home,” when he walks in the door. But so do I. Baby Boomers understand why.

The fact of the matter is that Bill is a highly-intelligent, kind-hearted, hard-working, and funny man who has put up with me and my family for almost 23 years. Actually, more than 25 years if you count the three years we were engaged before he finally told me, “Kris, call the church and schedule our wedding. It’s time that we get married.”

Which I did.

In fact, my mother always said Bill was a genius. And he probably is, in fact. I don’t know what his IQ is, nor mine, but I’m certain if we compared scores, it would be like comparing the bowling scores of a 30-year-old professional bowler competing against a grandmother hitting the lanes for the first time after she had three or four Tequila Sunrises and smoked a pack of Marlboros. And I’m the grandmother.

Bill spends a lot of his time around the women in my family. And there are a LOT of women in our family. The X chromosome is alive and well in the Gloor clan.

Bill calls my sisters and I his sister wives. I assure you that this isn’t true. He does, however, spend a great deal of time around us, and is ever so patient and rarely loses his sense of humor. He goes with the flow when, for example, we all gather for dinner and the conversation turns to analysis of Dancing With the Stars or the latest book we are reading. He listens patiently until his head is ready to explode at which time he quietly says goodbye and moves to the bedroom to watch NASCAR (or secretly watch Dancing With the Stars).

In 2000, Bill and I traveled to Italy with Jen and her daughter Maggie. The three of us spent 10 days or so traveling around that beautiful country, seeing the sights of Rome, enjoying the Mediterranean as we visited the Cinque Terre, and relishing the countryside of much of Tuscany. Bill never once complained about traveling with three women.

That is, until we returned home. We went to Mass in Denver the day after we arrived back. The pastor of the church we attended was a friend of the family, having counseled us during the days that Mom was dying.

“How was your trip?” he asked us after Mass.

Maggie, Jen and I all proclaimed the joys of Italy.

But finally, Bill pitched in.

“Father,” he said, “I will tell you the truth. Traveling for two weeks with three women, sharing bathrooms, sleeping under the same roof, has been my very own Purgatory. All of my sins are atoned.”

Bill, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!

31Mar2015

Mustang Sally

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Since the weather has been perfect for convertibles here in the East Valley of Phoenix, I have noticed a plethora of shiny Mustangs being driven by Baby Boomers, many with convertible tops. Some brand new. Some older models stunningly refurbished. All beautiful.

I noticed them because they are Mustangs. Seeing these cars sent my thoughts soaring back to the 1970s.

Between my freshman and sophomore year at the University of Nebraska, my folks sold the bakery in Columbus and moved lock, stock, and barrel to the mountains of Colorado. I elected to stay in Nebraska and continue attending the University.

But with Mom and Dad being far, far away, it was time to purchase my first car. I had a bit of money from an insurance policy my dad had purchased when I was born that matured when I turned 18. Now, at 19, I just needed to figure out just how one went about buying a car.

The answer, it turned out, was simple. My Uncle Dale.

Dale was married to my dad’s sister Venie. He and my dad had been buddies since high school. Dale was kind, funny, and knew a little about a lot.

And he apparently knew more than a little about cars. So it was to my Uncle Dale that my dad turned to request help on his second-born’s purchase of her first car. As I was thinking about my first car purchase, I asked my brother why he thought Dad asked for Dale’s help in this matter.

“Because Dale was always finding good deals on cars,” my brother said. “Remember, he always had a different car, something he got for a smokin’ deal.”

I have little recollection of shopping for this car. I frankly suspect I wasn’t involved at all. Dale found a great deal on a used car lot — Ernst Motors — owned by a friend of his. At any rate, I ended up with a bright red 1969 Ford Mustang, red with a white hardtop. Automatic on the floor. No recollection of the number of miles on the car. I didn’t care that it was a sports car. I didn’t care that it was red. I simply loved my first car.

This is not a photo of my actual car; it is, however, a 1969 Mustang with a black hardtop. My wheels weren't this fancy. Or so I'm told.

This is not a photo of my actual car; it is, however, a 1969 Mustang with a black hardtop. My top was white. And my wheels weren’t this fancy. Or so I’m told.

Again, I asked my brother, “What exactly did my Mustang look like?” I literally could only remember that it was red with a white top. David told me it was just a simple Mustang, “stock” he called it, not “souped up” in any way. Probably a V-8 engine, however, because it was, after all, the early 70s. Gasoline was 54 cents a gallon. Who cared if you had to fill up the tank every couple of days?

But as used cars are wont to do, things kept going wrong with the car. Not big things. Maybe the car window wouldn’t roll up. Or maybe the headlight went out. For some reason, I got it in my head that since the car had come from Ernst Motors, it was up to them to keep fixing things on the car. At no cost to me.

They did for a bit, probably because of the friendship with my Uncle Dale. But then Mr. Ernst likely talked to my Uncle Dale because at some point Dale gently explained to me that now that the car was owned by me, REPAIRS ARE MY RESPONSIBILITY.

Oh. That’s how it works?

Anyway, time passed, and eventually my Mustang and I moved to Leadville with my family. That car took me on many, many trips to and from Denver, and it provided transportation for many, many trips back to Nebraska, often with my grandmother in the passenger seat. What a sight we must have been, a 19-year-old and her grandmother racing down I-80 in a red Mustang. Was she Mustang Sally or was I?

While I have conveniently forgotten about this, my brother says I made him the happiest boy on earth when I lent him my Mustang to take his girlfriend to the school dance in Leadville. That really was generous of me, except for the fact that my brother was apparently only 15 at the time. Whatevah.

I still had that car when I married my first husband in 1977, though it had seen many better days. Finally, it got to the point where it just stopped running. So my husband and I managed to get it started, and drove it to the car lot where we wanted to trade it in for something that, well, did actually run. We left the car running and went into the dealership to talk to a salesman. The car salesman got into the car and took it for a spin with my husband in the front seat and I in the back, both of us hoping like hell that he wouldn’t shut off the car. Or, if he did shut it off, that he wouldn’t try to start it again. Our theory was that the car was probably worth more if the engine worked. Go figure.

The car performed magnificently, and the salesman was beginning to talk about our deal as he pulled up to dealership. He put on the brakes, and as David and I held our breath, he SHUT OFF THE ENGINE.

The looks on our faces must have given him pause, because he immediately tried starting the car again. It was, of course, a no-go. The deal we had been discussing was off the table.

But he did give us a trade-in – the formerly beloved 1969 Ford Mustang for a dinged-up 1968 Toyota Corolla. Plus some cash. From us to him.

Ride Sally, ride.

30Mar2015

Crabby Appleton

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

My name is Crabby Appleton
I’m rotten to the core;
I do a bad deed every day
And sometimes three or four.

Baby Boomers might remember Crabby Appleton, the villain of the Tom Terrific cartoons featured on Captain Kangaroo. In doing a bit of research for this post, I googled “Tom Terrific” and actually watched an entire cartoon entitled “Crabby Park” in which Crabby Appleton stole every tree in the world to form his own park in which happy people won’t be allowed. Seriously. You can find anything on YouTube. Just the theme song made me 7 years old again.

Whenever any of us kids were out of sorts, Mom called us Crabby Appleton. It stuck, because I use that term to this very day. I’m certain my son Court has never seen a single episode of Captain Kangaroo or Tom Terrific, and yet is very familiar with being called Crabby Appleton.

All this is to say that Saturday morning, every single person in east Mesa

Crabby Appleton

was Crabby Appleton. Including me. The full-time residents might just have been crabby because temperatures were forecasted to reach 97 (and, indeed, did) and they saw the inevitability of the arrival of summer and the 115 degree temperatures it brings. For my part, I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Bill was out early (say it with me Friends) working on the outdoor kitchen. Originally thought to only take a couple of weeks to build, it has been sort of like the construction of the pyramids. Except the Egyptians had slaves to do the work. Poor Bill has only himself. He actually came in at one point Saturday afternoon and asked me if I would like to help him with the grouting of the tile. I was wearing a $50 blouse and jewelry, so I declined. I think the heat is getting to him. He looked at me and saw a mirage that resembled Bob the Builder.

Anyhoo, once I got dressed, I set out to do some errands. That’s when I learned that everyone was crabby.

It started with the honking. I didn’t pull out quickly enough for the man behind me at a stop sign. Call me crazy, but when cars are barrelling down the road at 45 or 50 mph, I like to make sure I have time to pull out. I promise you they weren’t dots in the distance. My pulling out would have caused them to have to slam on their brakes. HONK.

Next, I’m at a stop light, the fourth car back. Let me repeat. The FOURTH CAR BACK. The light turns green, and the man behind me begins honking at me. Like I can do something about the three cars ahead of me. I was so stunned that I actually considered the notion that he simply might be trying to tell me that flames were shooting out of my trunk, because honestly, he can’t think I can move ahead because I’M FOUR CARS BACK. I look in my rear view mirror. No fire.

Then the tables turned and I became Crabby Appleton.

I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few items. The entranceway is seriously about three or four feet wide as it is blocked with signs advertising Starbucks and sale items and Redbox. The woman in front of me comes to a dead stop right in the doorway so that she can wipe down her shopping cart with the disinfectant wipe. Now at the risk of offending those of you who also wipe your shopping carts with disinfectant wipes (and I know there are many), I must say this is A THING WITH ME. We all have our little foibles, but might I gently remind you (and I’m open to opposing views) that subsequent to wiping down your cart, you will be encountering about a cajillion germs throughout the store. As for me, I simply wash my hands when I get home.

Nevertheless, generally people who wipe their carts with disinfectant wipes do so quickly and cause no problems. Not this woman. She not only wiped the handles, she literally (and I promise you I am not exaggerating) wiped down the entire cart. And got another wipe and continued to clean the cart. I seriously thought she was going to bring in OSHA to do a thorough inspection. At one point she glanced back at me and I thought she would smile apologetically and move on. Nope. She just continued her cleaning. I almost asked her if she would stop by my house and do a quick run-through.

At last, I made my final stop – Cold Stone Creamery to purchase some gift cards. Let me tell you that it was such a pleasant surprise that the young woman who greeted was absolutely and totally cheerful, friendly, and agreeable. I reciprocated, and we had a congenial conversation about ice cream and carnivals.

Thereby ending my errand-running on a positive note and remarkably changing my attitude, as positive people are inclined to do.

28Mar2015

Saturday Smile: Things Dogs Do….

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Lots of things made me laugh this week, but this video caused Bill to ask me what in the world I was laughing at earlier this week…

And last night Bec, Bill and I went to a place in west Mesa called The Angry Crab Shack, featuring Cajun-styled seafood and other Cajun delights. Beckie and I split a pound of shrimp and a pound of crawfish, all boiled and served seasoned and sauced as hot as you want. Ours was pretty darned hot — and pretty darned good. No silverware to be seen; you eat with your fingers. I wish I had a photo of Beckie and I post-dinner. Unfortunately, my hands were so dirty I wouldn’t touch my camera.

Bill went the sandwich route (now, isn’t that a surprise?) and got a crawfish po’ boy. He was happy with his choice. He drank Abita beer and Bec and I had a Pinot Grigio served in a mason jar. Gotta love it.

It made me smile.

Seafood as it’s brought to the table.

Seafood as it’s unveiled. Yum.

Again, a Lenten sacrifice!

Have a great weekend.

27Mar2015

Guest Post: Pizza Day

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

I think I have indicated in the past that my brother David wholeheartedly believes that I am making a grave error by having Friday be a day that I review a book. Instead, he insists Friday is Pizza Day and I should therefore be reviewing pizza restaurants instead of books on Fridays. In fact, I have made it perfectly clear that I — a pizza lover married to a pizza lover — have nothing against pizza or Pizza Day. I often eat pizza on Fridays. I just enjoy my book reviews.

Not to be dissuaded, he called in reserves — his middle daughter — my niece and namesake — Jessika Kristine. You would think being named after me would make her a bit more understanding, but apparently love for pizza knows no bounds.

Therefore, I acquiesced and am giving her her day in court, so to speak. Food Court, at any rate.

Jessie is an environmental engineering student at the University of Northern Arizona in Flagstaff.

I must admit, she makes a compelling argument…..

Pizza Day

By Jessie Gloor

The weekend started off not unlike any other: me working on some project with some grand plans of maybe drinking too much. And then I got a call from my dad that would change the course of my life forever. Okay, maybe not my life, but certainly my weekend. And maybe not forever. Maybe just for the weekend.

“Do you think that Friday is Pizza Day?” he asked me. “Definitely,” I said. “It’s a fact. The Aquabats wrote an entire song about it.”

…and they are totally trustworthy people.

Before I get any more in to this, you should know that this question was inspired by the fact that my aunt typically reserves her Friday blog posts for book reviews. Crazy, right? Who wants to read books when there’s so much pizza to be had in the world? My father suggested that she should, at the absolute minimum, also review a pizza place and stick that at the very end of her blog post. Is that too much to ask? A shout out to pizza? After everything pizza has done for her?

But how could I get her to throw out whatever book she was reading and replace it with a hot, glorious slice of pizza? My aunt is, after all, a well-educated pizza skeptic who would need some serious convincing.

I set out to navigate the dangerous waters that are the Bashas’ grocery store (which is where I work) to collect some hard data.

This was super-serious stuff, guys.

This highly organized and completely scientific tally sheet that was definitely not written on a piece of receipt paper represents the amount of frozen pizzas bought on Friday compared to Saturday.

Personally, I visualize things best when they are presented to me graphically, so here you go.

Figure 1: Friday is definitely Pizza Day.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I wanted to mathematically prove my thesis that Friday is indeed Pizza Day. Please view my findings below.

And this isn’t COMPLETELY made up, either.

If you’d like, you can take a moment to imagine a montage of me spending hours after hours on the math, frustrated, falling asleep at my desk, and a concerned friend trying to get me to eat something, probably pizza. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

As my final thought, I would like to offer a one-paragraph review of my favorite pizza place as a template for my aunt (who is surely persuaded by now). Ahem. Deep breath, here it goes:

My favorite day to ride my bike to school is Friday. It’s my favorite day because I allow myself the detour that takes me in front of Fratelli’s Pizza. The smell is in the air. Oh yes, they are firing up the stone-deck oven. I’ll see you later, Fratelli’s pizza, I say with a thumbs up. Thankfully, the only class I have on Fridays is fluid mechanics, and we always, ALWAYS have a quiz. I spend hours studying extra hard for these quizzes so I can finish and get out of Dodge with enough time to make it back to the pizza place right when it opens for lunch. Fratelli Fridays, that’s what my climbing partner and I call our weekly gatherings here. Fratelli’s has a “slice of the week” each week. Past weeks include “The Dude” which is ranch, chicken, bacon, and kettle chips, or “The Elmo”, tomato, zucchini, garlic, and feta cheese. My personal favorite is The Flagstaff, under which the description reads: “the hippies keep ordering this, so we put it on the menu!” Basil pesto, sun dried tomato, mozzarella, artichoke heart, ricotta, and garlic.” I’m going to go ahead and leave it at that. I could go on about the atmosphere of the place, the friendliness and good-humor of the staff, and maybe throw in a slightly irritated comment about how the food never seems to come out fast enough. But then I would follow it with the observation that good food rarely does. I’d rather leave the audience with the thought of a hot slice of The Flagstaff. Leave em’ with their stomachs rumbling and their mouths watering, that’s what I always say.

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