Scout Moves

I will see you all in a week--I'll have plenty of blog reading to catch up on, I'm sure. I will make sure to post pictures and tell stories--hopefully all good. In the meantime, enjoy the song .

All my bags are packed and I'm ready to go... Sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy It makes me giggle sometimes I wiggle sometimes I even jump for joy Yep. Just one more day until the big trip to Florida--7 days, 180 people, a 23-hour bus ride one-way with a crick in my neck, and dawn-to-midnight activity. I can't wait. I've got my suitcase packed. Daughter #2's band uniform is pressed and ready. I even have my book light and Sudoku Champion packed in my new carpet-bag carry on thing. Now all I need is a little snuggly pillow so I don't have to wad up a jacket to shove against the cold bus window at 3:00 in the morning. Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather Happy trails to you, until we meet again Oh, and 10 points to anyone who knows the source for these corny song lyrics.

So, I bought myself a new chair this morning for my office. The one I have been using has turned my poor spine into a twisted mass of painful and angry vertebrae. I went to my local Staples and picked out a lovely black suede seat that swivels and has lumbar support, but because the place was short handed, I had to wait for a sales person. I waited and waited and waited and waited while the single person available to sell me the chair helped what appeared to be the king of ninnies who was whining about the power supply to his laptop. I walked around the store, which is always bad at a place like Staples because there are always so many nice little things to pick up and hold and play with. By the time I finally got help buying the chair, here is the list of the other things I bought: Planters Trail Mix with Nut & Chocolate A bottle of water A mouse pad with clouds A green fauxe leather desk organizer for my pens, pencils, and cool round paperclips A book light for my very long bus

I picked this up at Dive's (Small Glass Planet) who picked it up from someone else. You are allowed only one word, which will be very difficult as I like to explain myself. I'll do my best, but I will be mumbling further explanation to myself as I go. 1. Yourself: wandering 2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse: working 3. Your hair: disappearing 4. Your mother/stepmother: weathered 5. Your dog: nonexistent 6. Your favorite item: horn 7. Your dream last night: disturbing 8. Your favorite drink: chardonnay 9. Your dream car: Cruiser 10. The room you are in: spacious 12. Your fear: spiders 13. What you want to be in 10 years: published 14. Who you hung out with last night: daughter 15. What you're not: trendy 16. Muffin: carbs 17: One of your wish list items: shoes 18: Time: escaping 19. The last thing you did: coffee 20. What you are wearing: JJill 21. Your favorite weather: sunny 22. Your favorite book: dog-eared 23. The last thing you ate: chocolate 24. Your life: evolving 2

I love this tomato bisque so much, I am willing to share the recipe, which makes sense since I picked it up at Foodnetwork .com anyway. The bacon flavor is so subtle, you could eliminate it if you'd like, but then you couldn't munch on the tasty little bits while the soup simmers, and you wouldn't have any to use as a garnish. I actually like this chilled as well as warm. And judging by how my cat Tiger is licking the bowl, he seems to like it to. Oh, and this is very nice served with prosciutto and smoked Gouda panini . TOMATO BISQUE From Food Network Kitchens 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 tablespoon minced bacon (about 1/2 ounce) 1 Spanish onion, chopped 1 carrot, chopped 1 stalk celery, chopped 4 cloves garlic, minced 5 tablespoons all-purpose flour 5 cups chicken broth, homemade or low-sodium canned 1 (28-ounce) can whole, peeled tomatoes (with liquid), roughly chopped 3 parsley sprigs 3 fresh thyme sprigs 1 bay leaf 1 cup heavy cream 1 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt Fresh

The Monday Melee--once again, from Fracas : 1. The Misanthtropic : Name something (about humanity) you absolutely hate. There is a great line in Little Miss Sunshine--sarcasm is what little people use to bring big people down to their level. So, I think I hate when people use sarcasm to make other people feel small. 2. The Meretricious: Expose something or someone that’s phony, fraudulent or bogus. You know, I have been sitting here for five minutes trying to answer this one, and I can't think of anything. Maybe I am just feeling to chipper this morning to be cynical. 3. The Malcontent: Name something you’re unhappy with. Being responsible for meal planning and preparation every day of the week. 4. The Meritorious: Give someone credit for something and name it if you can. The person who realized that currants would make a lovely addition to dark chocolate--the product developer for Green and Black is a genius . 5. The Mirror: See something good about yourself and name it. I made a

We have done the visual DNA. Here is the personal DNA test, which is slightly more indepth, and of course...not visual. I discovered this while visiting Dragonfly at Winged Musings . Enough with the self-discovery already. Free-Wheeling Artist

It was just yesterday when Rich reminded me I have not posted a film review in quite awhile, so here is the reinstatement of the Movie Review. Today's feature: The Quiet Man, directed by John Ford and starring John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara, and Barry Fitzgerald. This 1952 film takes all of the charm Americans can dream up when they think of Ireland and mix it up with all the bravado a barrel-chested man like John Wayne can muster. It's like mixing a leprechaun with a cowboy, old-world charm with new-world frankness, red-headed anger with sensual courting behind the back of a chaperon in a buggy. The Quiet Man is a treasure. In it, John Wayne's character returns to Ireland, the land of his birth, after being raised in Pittsburgh and working in steel mills. He was also a well-known prize fighter, but after the death of an opponent in the ring, he returns to his roots to start a new life. Fresh into town, he crosses paths with Maureen O'Hara--a tempest, a shrew, a fight

OK, I haven't honored a birthday in days, so here is a little tribute to Johann Sebastian Bach, born this day in 1685. My high school piano teacher made me work through parts of the The Anna Magdalena Book, which came in handy when my sister got married and asked me to play the harpsichord while the guests were being seated. Here is a bit of Bach, a Prelude and Fugue from The Well-Tempered Clavier (not me playing, in case you're wondering.)

I have a new coffee maker--a Cuisinart Automatic Grind and Brew. At night, I fill the thing up with beans and water, set the timer, and magically the coffee appears at 6:40 the next morning, hot and fresh. An entire night's sleep has gone by since I set it up, which is enough time for me to forget what I have done, so it's as if I had a coffee fairy in my kitchen. But this isn't about coffee. It's about fear. My cat Mike is afraid of most things but mostly men. If he hears a man's voice, he hides. If he hears heavy shoes on the floor that might be man shoes, he hides. If he hears loud boisterous laughter that might be from a man, he hides. If he hears anything unusual coming from a room, even a room he enjoys like the kitchen as it contains his food, he hides. My cat Mike also loves food, which is why he is a twenty-pound kitty. He doesn't seem to be governed by appetite control but seems to thinks that if I am in the kitchen it must be time to eat. When I wake

Since working in an office with designated work hours, my music pursuits have suffered. I have lost my horn practice routine and haven't been able to develop a new one yet. I spend my previously allotted practice time working, followed by driving to pick up Daughter #2 from school. Afterwards , I am so tired, as I believe fluorescent lights suck the life right out of me--as in Joe Versus the Volcano-- here's the link to that great line . I am now wondering, if I were a conjoined twin, maybe my other half, who I would name Roberta, could work while I practiced. Maybe Roberta could contemplate dinner while I played scales and etudes. Maybe Roberta could do the things I would prefer were not a priority while I worked at being musical. I am also wondering, if I were a conjoined twin, maybe Roberta could read out loud to me. She could wash, and I could dry. She could do the driving, and I could take a nap. The more I think about being a conjoined twin, about having a Roberta to do

In planning my suitcase contents for my trip to Florida, I have uncovered the summer clothes I forgot I had--I'm not one to wear T-shirts, but I do have a couple I really enjoy--Life Is Good. Here is my favorite: I thought everyone knew about Life Is Good, but not everyone does, so here is a brief description of how the company got started-- quoted from their website : In 1989, Bert and John Jacobs designed their first tee shirt. They knew nothing about the business. For five years, the brothers hawked tee shirts in the streets of Boston and traveled the East Coast, selling door-to-door in college dormitories. They collected some good stories, but were not very prosperous. They lived on peanut butter and jelly, slept in their van, and showered when they could. Chicks were not impressed. By the Fall of 1994, heading home from a long, less-than-fruitful roadtrip , Bert and John were desperately searching for answers to keep the dream alive. Little did they know, the only answer they

I'm not referring to the Gary Cooper movie, but that does come to mind. What I'm suggesting is that if I had a million dollars, an extra million, there are some things I would like to do. First, let's assume my children are fed, clothed, housed, and educated, so I won't need to spend the payload on their basic needs. That said, I would probably set aside some kind of trust fund for them--modest so as not to ruin them--just enough to serve as an emergency fund but not so much that they won't want to work for their earnings. Second, I would like to cover a few months of operating expenses for my local NPR station. I am so incredibly tired of their constant pledge drives. I swear, they have been begging going on two weeks now. I would like to shut them up with a large lump sum. Third, I would indulge in a one-time shopping spree with JJill , not bothering to wait on sales. This sounds selfish, but I could buy everything in the store and still have plenty left over for

In two weeks, I will climb up into a charter bus, take my assigned seat, and ride 22 hours straight to Orlando, Florida. I will be a chaperon with the high school marching band, which will perform at Disney's Magic Kingdom--me and 180 people on four big buses for seven days. We will travel together, eat together, play together, fall down exhausted together--and after 22 hours, I suspect stink to high heaven together. Because of the crazy schedule, we will leave Ohio at 6 pm, travel all night and most of the next day, and spend several hours at MGM Studios before ending up at the hotel sometime after 7 pm. After I check in with the eight girls I am to supervise, I intend to shower and shower and shower. I intend to wear clean clothes and socks and brush my teeth until my toothbrush wears out. Of all the things I could be concerned about on this trip, being dirty seems to weigh heaviest on my mind. One of my eight charges could run off and do bad things with her boyfriend, but I'

Happy Birthday to Albert Einstein

Since I haven't posted a recipe in a while, and it's not the birthday of anyone notable, here is what we had for dinner last evening. I made some modifications that I have noted in parentheses): Fontina , Prosciutto, and Caramelized Onion Pizzas From Food & Wine, December 2006 Serve 4 Dough: 1 envelope active dry yeast 1 cup warm water pinch of sugar 1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil 1 teaspoon chopped thyme 1 teaspoon salt About 2 1/3 cups flour Toppings: 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 2 pounds white onions (I used 1 1/2 vidalia onion, roughly chopped) Salt and pepper to taste 3/4 pound Fontina cheese, sliced (I used Gruyere instead because I can't stand the smell of Fontina . It's tough to grate, but it adds a nice texture and subtle flavor--I also added a healthy amount of Parmesan) 8 thin slices prosciutto, roughly chopped 3-4 leaves basil, chopped -In a small bowl, combine yeast, water and sugar and let stand 5 minutes. In the bowl of a stand mixer fit

You know I occasionally check my hometown newspaper's website to scan the obituaries (morbid, I know, but I'm at that age). Over this past weekend, I read the obituary of Indiana State Senator Anita Bowser . She was a noted Democrat who championed causes protecting the neediest in the state's population. She was respected on both sides of the aisle for her intelligence and plain and outspoken approach to law making. The picture on her senate page is lovely. I remember none of those things about Anita Bowser . My first year or so in college was spent at a branch of Purdue University, and in the early 80s, Anita was a political science professor. She taught my American Government class my freshman year, and she was a mess. Somewhere in my old text book, I have a sketch of her drawn on a particularly dull day in class--her hose sagged at her ankles, her slip showed at least half an inch all the way around, her hair had been slept on but not brushed, and her bright red lip stic

The Monday Melee from Fracas: 1. The Misanthtropic: Name something (about humanity) you absolutely hate. Our general inability to remember the lessons of history. 2. The Meretricious: Expose something or someone that’s phony, fraudulent or bogus. I suspect Newt Gingrich is a little bogus, wooing the churchy voters by fessing up to and being contrite for an affair while talking to a churchy media source. 3. The Malcontent: Name something you’re unhappy with. My lack of good consistent horn practicing time. 4. The Meritorious: Give someone credit for something and name it if you can. Daughter #1 has set rowing goals while on the crew team in college, and she is succeeding. 5. The Mirror: See something good about yourself and name it. Oh, I don't know. I swept the kitchen floor. That counts for something. 6. The Make-Believe: Name something you wish for. A cleaning lady to sweep the floor and vacuum the carpets. Oh, and maybe she can get rid of the cobwebs, too.

It's Lawrence Welk's birthday, so crank up the bubble machine and turn on the schmaltz. I hated The Lawrence Welk Show, which aired on Sunday night, at least I remember it as airing on Sunday nights. My parents made us watch it every week. We had to listen to the Lennon Sisters and then listen to our mother say if we tried a little harder, we could all sing just as well and get us a spot on the show. We had to watch Bobby Burgess waltz with Cissy. Myron always did an accordion bit, and Tom Netherton sang some swooning thing--ack. It just never seemed to end. Just when you thought the pain and suffering had ended, Arthur Duncan would do an arm-swinging tap dancing number, and Joe Feeney would whale away on something like "Those Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Then my father would say, "boy that old Irishman sure can sing high." Then finally, it would fade to an Alka-seltzer commercial. Thank God. Can we watch something else now, or is there more of this programming

My iPod is misbehaving and will not play properly on my Mac at the office. So, I started poking around iTunes and discovered that some people here share their stuff. These people are who I have come to call the Younger Set, kind of like a new generation of employees. Maybe "generation" isn't quite right--I am not old enough to be their mother, just an older sister, a graying one with nearly grown children. When I first started working here years ago, some of these people were in the 8 th grade. Now they fill the marketing and graphics and typesetting departments. When I was part of "the younger set," we all sat in a conference room at lunch time and talked and laughed so loud the old guy in the controllers office would shut the door and stomp his feet back to his desk. We had a time during lunch. Now, the new "younger set" gathers to watch The Office online. What a great idea. Their other great idea is to share their music, so now, even though my m

Prudence has posted some lovely cozy pictures of her two cats on her desk (I am extremely jealous!). I have nothing to show but this mess. The green things are my finger puppets--they help me design book covers. The thing-a-ma-jig is two dancing lady bugs, and the mini-Etcha-a-Sketch is just fun to play with. The Goofy mug holds my coffee, and the little black container holds my 72% chocolate. Ho hum.

Yee ha, it's garbage day again. It's such a special day for me, I have written about it before . I do love garbage day, which would explain why I get itchy when we forget when it's garbage day, and we have to hang on to a week's worth of trash for an extra week. It's not so bad in the winter when the cold air freezes the unpleasant stuff, like shrimp tails and chicken carcasses. But when it starts to warm up, like around this time of year when we're more likely to reach 45 degrees at noon instead of 25, those shrimp tails and chicken carcasses begin to thaw, and an extra week in the can is no good for anybody. Then there was the mishap with the bag of used cat litter last week that left an unsightly trail across the cement and out into the street. After yesterday's snowfall and subsequent melting, that mess is just about gone. So, this garbage day, this lovely Thursday, we'll drag out just one week's worth of crud, and we'll hope the highly-skil

Yea for Sassy--another quiz. Here is my visual DNA: Read my VisualDNA ™ Get your own VisualDNA™

There is a model in the JJill catalog (my favorite source for clothes)--she is older than your typical model who shows off clothes meant for 30- and 40-somethings. She has long gray hair, and she is a natural beauty. My mother would suggest she cut her hair and get a nice lovely perm, but this woman is what she is. She is my hero. My hair is graying rather quickly, and against the wishes of my hairdresser, I will not color it. Neither will my friend J whose hair is just as gray. Neither will my friend C whose hair is white. It's doing exactly what it's supposed to be doing, and what it's doing isn't bad. It isn't bad to allow your hair to be its natural color. It isn't bad to allow a few laugh lines to mark your face with some signs of life. And it isn't bad to allow gravity to do it's thing here and there. This notion of remaining 30 or younger well into your 60s is an odd one, and I reject it. I have heard people defend all the things they do to thems

The other day when I was tipping my hat to Chopin and griping about my faded piano skills, Lynn suggested I let you all have a listen, and then you can be the judge. Well, I tried playing a Chopin piece, but they're all too darn difficult and sounded like my cat when he walks across the keyboard. But here is a simple Debussy piece, La Fille aux cheveux de lin. Since I don't speak French, I'll translate--Maiden with the Flaxen Hair. It's a short piece, so it should only take a minute or two. powered by ODEO

Taken from Sassy's assignment--typing in Robyn Needs in google and listing the first 10 results: Robyn needs to feel What is Above and not be afraid that It is an enemy ROBYN -- a long-haired tortoiseshell cat -- is recovering after using up most of her nine lives. She needs a home. Robyn needs our help. Robyn needs to be sure. Robyn needs to go home. Robyn needs some Gloria posters for her Rocketown door. Robyn needs angels for her Christmas shop. Robyn needs to chill out a bit. Robyn needs advice. Robyn needs to stay here as long as treatment is required. Robyn needs a bunny. It's name is Hoppy. Hmm.

When I posted my tribute to Patsy Cline yesterday, the general agreement seemed to be that people used to look a lot older when they were young. When I was a kid, my mother had strict rules about how a woman should look and behave according to her age. Adult women shouldn't have long hair. The looked better in knee-length dresses, should always wear hose, and should always powder their noses before going out. They didn't speak too loudly or too assertively in public even if they were smarter than all the men in the room which she quite often was. Women should look and act their age, and from my perspective, women like my mother all looked like grandmothers. When it was time for me to have a new dress, my mother would drag me into the fabric shop to choose a pattern and fabric. I liked playing with the wall of buttons and spools of thread, but beyond that, a trip to the fabric store was as appealing as going to Home Depot for two by fours. My mother would sit me down in front of

On this date in history (1963) Patsy Cline died in a plane crash at the age of 30. The picture here makes her look more like 50. Must be the hair. And dig those appliqued sixteenth notes. If you were to ask me to name my least favorite music genre, the one I despised, absolutely detested with every fiber, I would say Country and Western, but there is something about that Patsy Cline. I can't help but love her and her voice than could glide over notes like honey. I have secretly loved her for years. My other yankee sister and I visit our southern sisters and mother every Christmas, and a few years ago during one of those visits, we all went to a barbecue place (when visiting the south, you must visit an authentic barbecue place--not a chain, but a local joint with crud on the floor and misspelled signs on the walls). My yankee sister and I started singing a Patsy Cline number because it just seemed right. Our wonderful southern gentleman brother-in-law, loaded down with quarters, qu

Fresh back from a short walk down the driveway to the mailbox, I had to side step Lincoln Logs of mushy kittie poo in my driveway. Lovely. On Thursday, when the highly-skilled trashmen picked up the trashcan and dumped its contents into the back of their filthy truck, they let slip some litter from a plastic liner that evidently had a hole. Of course, they did it in a way that left a 6-foot trail of poop and litter across the end of the driveway, and of course they drove away, letting the day's rain soak the entire mess. When I got home from work (gosh, that feels so weird to say), I drove right over the poop and litter-turned-to-mush, and I hoped the torrents would wash it all the way to the sewer drain. It turns out kittie litter washes away nicely with just the slightest rain, but kittie poo must need more of a tornado to clear it from the cement. So, now I've got Lincoln Logs, Tootsie Rolls, cat poop dotting my driveway. I protest.

Now that I am an office worker again, that means I will occasionally be a meeting attender as well. Today's meeting, a marketing/sales meeting, will be held off site, as many of these larger meetings are--this one will be held at the National Football Hall of Fame. Who knew they had conference rooms and catered lunches? I have lived in Ohio for 19 years and have never once been to the National Football Hall of Fame. I have cursed the traffic brought to town during the annual induction ceremonies, and I have mocked the football-shaped portion of the building, but I have never felt even the slightest interest in seeing the actual...um...is it a museum? Fortunately, touring the exhibits will be optional today. I'll just sit and think about lunch. I heard an interesting report on NPR this week about how companies try all sorts of gimmicks and off-site events to build team spirit among their employees. Managers think that if their marketing team were to engage in a couple of games

...to Frederic Chopin, born in Poland on this day in 1810. I learned to love his music when my sister gave me an album of Chopin piano concertos for Christmas--I must have been 15 or 16, and I wore the thing out on the old hi fi. Sometimes when I have time to just sit at the piano and play my old crumpled up music from those years, I like to pound out Chopin pieces--I use the word "pound" correctly here because I play it so poorly, but to my ears, it's joy. He died young, but he started early, so it's fair to say his life was a full one. Here is a quick 3-minute etude. Enjoy.

Last night, I was checking my e-mail one last time for the day when I remembered I had made a fresh pot of after-dinner coffee. I stood up from my big comfy couch and heard myself saying to no one in particular, "Coffee me, fat girl." It's a very unpleasant command that just pops out of my head when I'm not careful. Here is its background: When I was in college, I had a very good friend named Kathy. Kathy was a short, overweight Italian girl from New Jersey who had just a bit of a mustache. Her father was Italian, and her mother was German, a foul woman perpetually dazed on Valium. Kathy's mother spent the day propped up in bed barking demands to anyone within ear shot, and when she would catch a glimpse of Kathy passing by, she would shout out, "Coffee me, fat girl!" in her smoking-for-decades-filled-with-tranquilizers voice, consonants and vowels all mixed together in a big slur. She was the mother from Throw Mama From the Train but so drugged she was