I have spoken ad nauseum about my grandparents, but you might as well give a big sigh and pull up a chair. I’m talking about them again.

I never met my maternal grandparents, so my Grammie and Grandpa were my only grandparents. My dad’s mother and father. They came from Switzerland in the mid-20s, from a small town near Zurich, in the German part of Switzerland. Germans are known to play their cards close to their chest when it comes to emotions. They work hard, they are honest, but there isn’t a lot of sentimentality. You buck up. No hugs. That description fit my grandfather to a T. My grandmother, on the other hand, didn’t get the memo.

My grandfather was a wonderful man, as gentle as they come. I never heard his voice raised in anger. In fact, I barely heard his voice at all. He was quiet. He worked hard and he was kind to us. But when we said goodbye, it was with a handshake.

My grandmother was a different story. She was full of life and laughter. She teased us. She hugged us. She shared her stories with us. She gave us quarters to go to the bar next door to get strawberry pop to have with lunch. Don’t tell your mother, she would warn us, knowing full well that my mom knew what she was up to.

She was short, probably not 5 feet tall, and, well, shall we say plump? Oh, what the heck. She was overweight in the days when people didn’t worry so much about it. “You wouldn’t want to have a skinny grandmother, would you?” she used to say to us. And we didn’t. No way, Jose. We loved her just the way she was.

And we thought she was probably 150 years old, if a day.

I started thinking about this the other day as I watched my sister Jen play with her 3-year-old grandson Austin in our backyard. They were playing soccer. He would kick the ball and she would run and try to get it before he did. It was hard to do, because he would barely tap it so that it was always Advantage Austin. It suddenly occurred to me that my grandmother was probably only about our age when we were in our formative years. She was born in 1897, so in 1960, when I was 7, she was only 63. Only three years older than I am now. Honestly, she seemed so old. Her hair was white.

The thing is, I can’t imagine my grandmother running around kicking a soccer ball with her grandkids. She wore a housedress with an apron every single day of her life. She wore sensible shoes with heavy nylon stockings. Times were so different.

I wonder if our grandkids see us as old. Well, I don’t really wonder at all. I KNOW that they do. While I have myself fooled that my increasing amount of gray hair looks like highlights, I was given a reality check by my grandson. He was pointing out everyone’s hair color, and mine was gray. There you have it. He wasn’t judging, just stating a fact.

I’m not really going anywhere with this random blog, but I’m just reminding myself again how weird it is to see the years pass by and not really pay attention. And I’m also hoping that no matter how old I seem to my grandkids, they love Bill and me as much as I loved my grandparents.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Since January 2, when Jen went back home to Fort Collins, I have been on call to be the designated babysitter for Maggie’s 3-year-old Austin when she went into labor and she and Mark had to go to the hospital. She wanted to free up all of the grandparents, aunts, and uncles to be able to be at the hospital for the birth. I am far enough down the food chain to not go to the hospital, yet high enough up the food chain to be trusted with their child.

I have been very responsible. I have taken my cell phone everywhere with me, except church. Cell phones ringing during Mass make the priests understandably cranky. Everywhere I went, my phone was tucked into my purse. About every six minutes or so I would pull it out and look at it to make sure I hadn’t missed a phone call. I placed it four inches from my head at night when I slept. The first thing I would do each morning was look to make sure I hadn’t missed a ringing telephone that was inches from my ear. I felt like the president of the United States with his black suitcase, aka “the football.” I had my own “football.” Maybe more like those little rubber ones you get in the 50 cent machines with the claws that the kids beg you to let them try but they never get anything good. Still….

As the days ticked by and we got closer and closer to her January 13 due date, my sense of responsibility grew stronger. Each night, I KNEW this was the one. I would get the call that very night. But I would wake up each morning, check my telephone only to see that there were no messages, no missed calls, and, yes, the phone was fully charged.

January 13 came and went. So did January 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22,23, and 24. No baby. Well, there was definitely a baby, but that baby simply didn’t want to be born. Finally

Maggie’s doctor conceded that perhaps Maggie had a point that being unable to get out of bed or even out of a chair was perhaps a sign that tougher measures were necessary, and scheduled her for a C-Section, happening right now as I post this blog. God is good.

And now I can’t find my phone…..

Have a great weekend. When next I write, Maggie will be able to see her feet.

Last year Bec and I did a bit of hiking during the Arizona spring, meaning basically March. Since the spring is short, we didn’t hike as much as we would have liked. We vowed this year we would start earlier – in January and February – and thus be able to do more hiking. We would wear a jacket if it was chilly, we determined. March is perfect hiking weather, but in April, though it’s still not blistering hot, the critters are awakening. Remember the rattlesnake episode?

As it turns out, our winter here this year has been very mild. No jackets necessary unless you’re going to hike sometime around 6 o’clock in the morning. Then it is still in the low 40s. But after 9 or 10, it is in the upper 60s or lower 70s. Perfect for hiking. And since the nights are still chilly, I don’t think the rattlers are awake yet. Hope not.

Anyhoo, we did our first hike yesterday morning. The area we hiked was very near the area of our rattlesnake encounter. Yesterday, instead of flip flops, we wore hiking shoes. Weird, huh? No rattlesnakes.

It was a beautiful, somewhat overcast morning. The clouds eventually burned off, leaving us with much sunshine. There weren’t many people on the trail, though we did run into a couple who, from the sound of them, are Canadian, eh? Bec and I tend to be direction-challenged. We blame it on our mother who wouldn’t allow us to be Girl Scouts as she didn’t have time to take us to meetings. Or at least that was her excuse. Perhaps she actually held a grudge against them because they sell cookies, thereby competing against Gloor’s Bakery. The Canadian couple confirmed that we were on the right path, and we went on our way.

The weather was perfect, we saw some beautiful scenery, and we had deep and thorough discussions about many things as we walked. We always do. The area where we walked is filled with saguaro, and saguaros on the hillside are about my favorite scenic attraction of all things nature.

We came across this funny sight.

It’s my assumption that the cap is an add-on. When the saguaros get their blooms in May, they sometimes look like they are wearing a hat, but that appears to be a real hat!

Saguaros don’t even begin getting their “arms” until they are 25 years old or older, so a cactus like this must be really old.

It was a perfect day, and a good start to our hiking adventures. Perhaps by next week I can manage something a bit less flat as my vertigo will be verti-gone! Didn’t feel it would be terribly wise to teeter at the edge of a Sonoran mountain yet.

Yesterday morning, my college-age niece Jessie represented our family well when she made this simple declaration on Facebook: Name one thing that’s better than pizza. Frankly, there weren’t a lot of other ideas. Most everyone loves pizza.

Our family has a thing for pizza. Bill’s family is the same way; perhaps that’s why we’re soul mates. He and I even agree on the kind of pizza we like – thin crust, red sauce, cheese and sausage. That’s it, Amigo. (Except when I am trying to eat healthy and have a veggie pizza. Then mine includes red onion and hot pepper rings. Don’t they look good?)

Now, when we are in Italy, it’s a different story, but that’s because the pizzas are different there than here. In Italy Bill almost unfailingly ordered prosciutto and arugula. My Italian pizza of choice was diavola – spicy salami. We have tried Roman pizzas and Napolean pizzas. People from Roma and Napoli each believe their pizzas are the best. I think they both rock. Italian pizzas are individually-sized, stretched to odd shapes, and baked in a wood-burning pizza oven at 700 degrees or so. The dough bubbles and browns; there may or may not be a sauce; the crust is thin; the pizzas are served uncut, and eaten with a knife and fork. No neat slices.

When we traveled in Italy with my sister and her daughter a number of years ago, we were having lunch outdoors at a restaurant near the Victor Emmanuel Monument in Rome. We were novices about Italian pizza at the time. Such novices, in fact, that Bill and I ordered one to split and Jen and Maggie ordered one to split. Split? Seriously? We immediately recognized the error of our ways and never made that mistake again. One pizza is just enough for one person. We also ordered wine, and much to our surprise and chagrin, the waiter opened the wine and tossed the cork into the street! Litterbug. He didn’t seem concerned.

Maggie worked at a locally-owned Phoenix pizza restaurant called Oreganos for many years, including during the summer when she wasn’t teaching kindergarteners. Oregano’s pizza is delicious – thin crust (they serve a deep-dish, but in my lowly opinion, deep-dish pizza isn’t really pizza; it’s a casserole), with delicious ingredients. She loves Oregano’s Pizza so much that she suggested it as a first date for her now-husband. Perhaps it was the touch of Italian seasonings and the red sauce that made her so appealing to him.

My sister Bec prefers Grimaldi’s Pizza for many reasons, not the least of which is that, while there is one very near her AZ house, the original is under the Brooklyn Bridge in Brooklyn, NY. She has one very funny memory. She and her husband were at the Brooklyn Grimaldi’s where they enjoyed a pizza. The restaurant was very busy, and just prior to leaving, she used the restroom. When she was finished, she found her husband waiting outside. They proceeded on with the activities of the day. Later that evening, her husband asked her, “How much was our bill at Grimaldi’s?” With horror, she exclaimed that she thought he had paid the bill. Yes, folks. My sister-who-looks-innocent-but-is-really-a-thief walked out of Grimaldi’s without paying her pizza bill, and, thankfully, without being carted off to Rikers Island.

Years ago, my brother used to go to a pizza place that has since gone out of business. We were with him one night when he ordered his favorite – jalapenos, sauerkraut, and anchovies. I’m not making this up. The pizza makers actually came out of the back to see who had ordered this pizza. Not many pizza places offer sauerkraut, so he is limited now to jalapenos and anchovies. Oy vey.

I asked my nephew Erik about his favorite pizza joint, and he said it’s a place in Chicago recommended by a buddy. I asked him the name. “Hmmm,” he said. “I can’t remember. It was one word, a man’s name.” Thanks. That narrows it down to a few thousand. When asked if the pizza was thin crust or deep dish, he replied, “Thin crust. Deep dish is just lasagna.” Ah, a man after my own heart.

As for me, my favorite pizza (and I think Bill’s as well) is a local pizza joint located on the south side of Chicago called Fox’s. It’s got a thin crust (it’s a south side thing) and the homemade sausage and cheese and red sauce are scrumptious. When it’s served to us, there is a thin layer of grease on the top – a sure sign of a tasty pizza. We spend much of our life trying to find a pizza to compare since we don’t live in Chicago, and are largely unsuccessful. Oregano’s is close. Fox’s is the first place we stop when we visit his mother who still lives in the Chicago area. Sometimes before we see her. Shameful.

I wondered if there was a recipe to include in a post about pizza, but it occurred to me that really, pizza isn’t something I would make at home very often. If I want pizza, I go out. That is, until Bill chooses to build the wood-fired pizza oven in the back yard that he dreams about. It could happen.

Ciao.

Since I haven’t been an AZ winter visitor for that long, it’s hard to know if there is “typical” January weather. I asked one of my nephews if the weather thus far is typical, and he said there really isn’t such a thing as typical January weather. It can be really chilly or it can be really nice.

What I will tell you is that thus far this Arizona winter has been magnificent. I don’t think the weather during the day has been lower than 65, and mostly it’s been in the high 60s to low 70s. It cools off at night, getting into the 40s. It has even hit 38 or 39 at night. I have, er, I mean I choose to turn on the heat first thing in the morning to just get the night chill out of the house.

Last January, we spent the first couple of weeks covering our more delicate (read: hibiscus) plants at night because it got below 32 a few times. We were not successful at saving them, and finally decided – since that brought our total hibiscus loss to 4 or 5 – to forgo purchasing more hibiscus even though we love them. They just don’t do well here. We thought we lost our bougainvillea last year, but take a look at this:

Native Arizonians say you can’t kill a bougainvillea. I think that might be true. It is in full bloom right now.

And just for kicks, here is the rosemary bush Jen and I planted when we first bought our house back in 2010.

We got it as a little 2-in plant at the grocery store. It clearly likes the Arizona weather and it’s sunny southeastern location in the yard.

I can’t wait until the mornings are a bit warmer so that we can take our coffee out onto our patio. And it does get nippy just as soon as the sun goes down. But boo hoo, right? In the meantime, I am glad that for the most part our friends and family in Colorado are having reasonably nice weather, at least now and again. I am sorry for our family in Vermont who pretty much never have nice winter weather, but I reckon they are used to it. And “nice winter weather” is a subjective phrase, no?

It is proported by our enthusiastic television weather folks that it will reach 75 or 76 the rest of the week. They stuck a cloud in tomorrow’s forecast, but I think that’s just to get us excited.

I miss the Bronco excitement that is undoubtedly taking place in Colorado, but we have our little celebration going here too.

Maybe I’ll dye my hair orange.

I was going to make a stir fry tonight, but decided the weather was too nice to not grill outside. So I will rub some olive oil on four chicken thighs, season with salt and pepper, squeeze some lemon over them, and grill them for 40 minutes or so. I will serve them with my stir fry vegetables and call it dinner.

When I was a small girl, we had a set of World Book Encyclopedias. (Those of you under the age of 30 probably don’t even know what I’m talking about. You probably think I just misspelled Wikipedia.) In one of these encyclopedias, there was a section about AKC-registered dogs. I simply POURED over this part of the book. I learned everything I could about the various breeds. It was fascinating to me. I’m not sure why. At that point I don’t think we even owned a dog. I just was so interested in the different dog breeds.

This interest carried forward to my adulthood. I still am fascinated by dog breeds and how they differ. Each year I watch the Eukanuba Dog Show and the Westminster Dog Show. I love to listen to the moderators talk about what a particular breed should look like and on what exactly they are judged. And I, of course, am always reminded about the hilarious movie, Best in Show, as I listen to the moderators.

This past week I read Rin Tin Tin: The Life and Legend, by Susan Orleans (look for the book review on Friday). For those of you who are too young to remember Rin Tin Tin, he was a German Shepherd that made movies and television programs long, long ago. In this book, Orleans talked a lot about the development of the breed and how the dogs bred to be show dogs look different than a regular family pet. As I read this, I again began thinking about the difference in dog breeds. I decided then and there that attending a dog show was on my bucket list.

Well, why wait for the Westminster Dog Show? I googled and learned that there was a dog show right here in the Phoenix area this past weekend. I had promised myself adventures this winter. Why not go?

Bill politely told me he would be happy to go with me, but his smile looked faked and there seemed to be what I could only construe to be terror in his eyes and he didn’t show a lot of enthusiasm. My sister Bec, however, is always game for an adventure, and she agreed to go with me to the Great Arizona Dog Show. We went on Saturday.

It was great fun, and here’s some of what I learned.

The people who show dogs (at least the ones at this dog show) were not peculiar or snobby at all, unlike the movie. In fact, they couldn’t have been friendlier to us, and were absolutely delighted to answer our questions and let us pet their dogs.

Each dog owner thinks his or her breed is the best. They’re gracious about other people’s dogs, but you can tell they simply can’t imagine why anyone would want to own anything besides a Cocker Spaniel (or a Newfoundland, or a Beagle, or an Afghan Hound, or a Border Collie).

If you are really in the know, you don’t call it the Westminster Dog Show, you call it “The Garden” as in “We’re sure to take first place at the Garden next year.”

Each breed has a hallmark. A hallmark is the one thing that MUST be present in a breed for it to be competitive. For example, the proud owner of a Newfoundland said the breed’s hallmark is its gentle temperament. If the dog looks perfect, but has a less than sweet disposition, it’s a no-go.

We saw dogs ranging from the tiniest Chihuahua to the grandest Bull Mastiff, and all sizes in between. We saw slobbering hounds, prissy Poodles, and the friendliest little Jack Russell puppies that you can imagine. See?

I can’t help but wonder how the judges, particularly those judging best in show, can compare the different breeds and come up with a winner. By the way, the winner of this particular show was the Pomeranian. A fluffy bit of orange fur if you ask me. Which you didn’t. And why I’m not a judge…..

I’m a Miniature Schnauzer gal myself.

Arf.

As we have gotten settled into our house for the winter, it’s become apparent that we have a dire lack of storage, just as many other Phoenicians. It comes in part from the absence of basements. The ground is simply too hard to dig such a hole.

Our refrigerator is fairly small, and filled to the brim with necessary items such as milk and cheese. Oh, and my gin for martinis. Essentials. Our tiny pantry is full as well. I finally determined the other day that, while my pantry is small, I have a considerable amount of counter space. As such, it has become the storage area for my various and sundry breads and chips. But it looks sloppy.

Suddenly, I had the solution. A bread box. They are attractive, there is room on the counter, and the bread, rolls and chips will be stored out of site. So I began looking for inexpensive bread boxes.

My go-to, of course, is always Amazon. They sell everything, after all. Plus, I can use my considerable points from charging too much over the Christmas holidays to purchase on amazon.com. I found a series of them, and then as I usually do, I looked at the comments.

Here is part of an actual comment from the satisfied customer of a particular bread box:

“I was looking for a stainless-steel bread box, and this was the most reasonably-priced version I could find. I didn’t pay much attention to the size, but it’s QUITE large, lol. I was surprised by how big it was, and promptly discovered that I could put not only MY head in it, but my husband’s as well. So keep that in mind.”

I’m not making this up. I simply can’t get rid of the vision of a man and a woman sticking their heads into a bread box at the same time. It won’t go away. It seems to me the chances of them getting their heads stuck into said box seem extremely high.

It made me think about absurd product warnings. Because for every absurd product warning, there was an absurd person who did the exact absurd thing about which we are now warned. My sister has mentioned, for example, that she noticed when she bought a cell phone that there was a warning to not place the cell phone into the microwave. Undoubtedly, someone got their cell phone wet and determined that giving it a little shot in the microwave was a great idea. The explosion and his/her probable subsequent hospitalization resulted in our being warned.

Here are a few more ACTUAL product warnings:

Nabisco Easy Cheese: For best results, remove the cap.

Dremel Electric Rotary Tool: This product not for use as a dental drill.

Auto Windshield Visor: Do not drive with sunshade in place.

Duraflame: Warning, risk of fire.

And my personal favorite…..

Apple IPOD: Do not eat IPOD Shuffle.

And, by the way, the title of this post is also an actual product warning. Sigh.

Have a great weekend.

The snowbirds have landed.

And I really hesitate to complain about it too much. After all, they are me; I am them. Snowbirds = Bill and Kris. Nana and Papa = Arizona Winter Visitors. There you have it.

Apparently, many of the winter visitors (that’s what they kindly and in a wholly Christian manner called snowbirds at All Saints Catholic Church on Sunday as they welcome us back) arrive on or immediately after Christmas, just as Bill and I. And, again, just as Bill and me, they wait until after New Year’s Day to make their way to Costco and Walmart to fill up their larders and pantries. (See, I’m displaying my “nana-ness” by using the word “larder.”)

While many of you haven’t visited the east Mesa Costco store, just imagine any Costco store in the United States. In particular, picture the enormous parking lots at every single store. Now imagine that you drive in and there is not a single, solitary place to park. Not even when you are willing to park at the very back of the parking lot. No room at the inn. Just like Mary and Joseph. We parked on the street where there were still a few spaces, somewhere around a mile-and-a-half from the front door! If we hadn’t had some Very Important Medication-Related Business, we would have left for another less-busy day.

While Bill took care of his Very Important Business, I attempted to peruse the books to no avail. Couldn’t even get close. So I put a couple of items in my basket – paper towels and Kleenex – and made my way to the check-out stands. Predictably, the lines ran clear back into the store, ending somewhere around the frozen foods. I have never seen the lines so long. Now, I never cease to be impressed with how quickly Costco checkers can get people through the lines. Nevertheless, I simply didn’t have it in me to stand in such a long line simply to be able to blow my nose and wipe off my counters. Both could wait. I abandoned my cart, and we left for Walmart, which we naively thought would be better.

Sigh.

And let me just tell you, the Walmart shoppers are just flat-out mean. Perhaps they were all just cranky because they had come from Costco. The problem was, just like the rest of the “winter visitors,” I really did need to fill up my larder and pantry, and by that time I had realized that there wasn’t going to be a store in the East Valley that was going to be any better. And my nose was running.

We laughed about it after we got home. As I said earlier, how can I complain? They are us. I just move a bit faster than many. And it is worth it because I spent much of yesterday reading outside and had all my doors and windows open to let in the warm 73 degree air. The forecast for the week ahead is much the same.

I will learn patience and will soon stop complaining. I hope.

Have a good weekend.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Happy New Year and a wonderful and prosperous 2014 from Nana’s Whimsies.

Nana’s Notes: And in honor of my husband’s Scottish ancestry, I used the traditional Scottish version. Thank you Robert Burns.

Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock. The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear. The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying:

Luke 2:8-14 New American Bible

I will spend the next few days driving and celebrating the holiday with my family. See you in a few days.

Merry Christmas from my family to yours.