CollageMama's Itty Bitty Blog

Losing my mind? No just my brisket!

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Tue, 29 May 2012 21:43:00 +0000

To thaw or not to thaw? That is the question for GrillMama, or whether it would be nobler to finish the brisket and black beans I made in the crockpot before I try to make teriyaki pork chops.

Now where did I put that brisket? I took it out of the crockpot Saturday and put it in some Tupperware and it should be right-- No!

Is it behind the lettuce or that darn honeydew melon that makes me sneeze? No.
You gotta be kidding. Did I stick it in the freezer? No.
In the veggie crispers or the cheese drawer? No. This is getting weird.
Check the trash.
Check the cupboards for canned goods, Tupperware, crackers, First Aid. No!
Laundry room. No.
Recycling bin. No.
Car trunk? Well I once did forget a bag of groceries with a nice rump roast in the trunk of the Skylark. It took awhile to get rid of the smell.
Repeat searches except for the car trunk.
Check the cupboard of doom that holds a weird mix of parmesan, cottage cheese, hummus, and yogurt containers. No.

Oh! There wasn't any Tupperware that fit the leftover brisket so I put it in the vanilla yogurt container. Phew. Glad I didn't buy any blackberries to go with that vanilla yogurt. Let's just put the honeydew in the dumpster and not have an allergic reaction that might cause further memory loss because we've got bigger questions.

Wonderful visit with good friends sitting around at Cafe Brazil. [My daughter-in-law makes better empanadas, though.] Then a noon-ish walk at Arbor Hills Nature Center. Good to see so much water in the mossy pond, and look, there's a blue heron, and another! Put the camera on zoom. One has a blue bill. One is short. Wait one has a black and white mask with goofy head plumes. One is writing words in the mossy surface of the pond. It's spelling:

K I S S T H E R E S T O F Y O U R A F T E R N O O N

B Y E A N D G E T O U T Y O U R F I E L D G U I D E S

Who knew herons could write and predict the future?

Field guides out. Check.
Enlarging photos. Check.
Online sources bookmarked. Check.
Afternoon shot. Check.

The heron with the blue bill seems to be an adult Little Blue Heron, possibly with brighter breeding season colors.

The short blue heron with yellow legs, blue body, and purple throat is illogically a Green Heron.

The heron on the other side of the fallen tree that I didn't even see at the beginning is not either of those two. It is a Yellow-crowned Night Heron, only the second one I've ever seen.

That's all the mysteries I can handle for one day, even if I'm on vacation from school. Maybe a nap now and some leftover brisket later!

Crockpot Brisket with Black Beans
(Because you've got bigger mysteries to solve):

Dump a bag of black beans in 3 cups boiling water. Turn off heat, cover, leave overnight. Drain.
Put an eight-dollar beef brisket, trimmed of most fat, in a big crockpot. (Packaging removed, but then I don't have to tell you that!)
Might be smart to plug in the crockpot
Add 2 stalks chopped celery, 2 cloves smashed and chopped garlic, 1 can of beer, 1 chunk of pineapple from a teacher appreciation edible bouquet (At this point eat the grapes, raspberries, and strawberries from the bouquet and write a thank you note)
Juice of one lime or not.
Lots of chopped cilantro since what are you going to do with it otherwise?
A peeled and diced potato
Maybe an onion, chopped
Three sliced mini sweet peppers or one-half sliced bell pepper
Maybe another can of beer
The rest of that can of Rotel and half a can of diced Hatch chiles (Hot).
What the heck, peel and chop that last carrot.
Add 2 cups water
Dried parsley--Note: Is shaker lid securely on parsley jar? Oops. Not a problem, just fish out the plastic lid
Tablespoon of molasses
Add water to fill the last of the bottle of Sweet Baby Ray's Honey Barbecue Sauce. Shake. Stir in

Set crockpot (already plugged in) on Low overnight, then on High when you wake up. Try some over a flour tortilla, but it's not just for breakfast anymore. Add more Sweet Baby Ray's if you've got it. Turn crockpot to Warm. It kind of perfumes the whole house, and smells lots better than potpourri.

It isn't easy being _____

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Mon, 28 May 2012 23:51:00 +0000

a. green
b. quiet
c. alone
d. all of the above

It 's a matter of perception and acceptance. My blogger friend at Hummus Anonymous proposed a quiz about the trials of Cubs fans. They have it rough.

On the right please note a rough green grass snake that was hanging its head way out into the trail space like an unruly vine Sunday morning. I was just getting going uphill on my hike at Dogwood Canyon Audubon Center when I realized I was inches from this fella/gal. Was he just lying in wait for me to stumble along? Was she venomous? Did he have lots of friends nearby? Were they inclined to drop down on me from the branches like in my rain forest nightmare?

There wasn't another person on the trail that early. It was heaven to have the place to myself except for the snake, a wolf spider, a cute lizard, lots of swallowtails, hordes of hackberry butterflies, awesome moths, singing birds, and my own thoughts or lack thereof.

Our culture often seems aghast that a few oddballs actually want to be by themselves sometimes. That's because so many of us are trying to fake it as extroverts in a business world that demands team players and people persons. Maybe that lyric about people who need people being the luckiest people in the world is just envy of those for whom togetherness comes easy.

And now a coworker has thrust a new book upon me, sure that I will find it interesting. She has seen through my flimsy disguise! This afternoon I've begun reading Susan Cain's Quiet: The Power of Introverts In a World That Can't Stop Talking. And more, I've watched Cain's TED Talk. How refreshing!

It's time for educators to realize kids don't necessarily learn or work well in the small groups that have been the devil of me since about eighth grade. You put seven kids together to brainstorm over two joke-filled sessions. Three kids are just too busy because of football and cheerleading to help write up the report. The remaining two introverts write up the project or experiment, find or create the visual examples, and carefully follow the required bibliographic format so everyone in the group gets an A+. All the while those two are internalizing the message that they are somehow defective for not being go-go social animals. Not that I'm bitter, except it isn't just high school. Employers need to reexamine this whole collaborative process to respect those who need time alone before they bring their ideas to the project. What about the worker who would rather slowly consider, painstakingly document, and strive for clarity in a written analysis instead of blurting a reaction that sounds all yo-ho-ho me hearties at the time?

This Memorial Day I am thankful for the servicemen and women who keep us safe. But I am also grateful for two parents who respected and ensured time for solitary thought and quiet creation in my childhood.

Thanks to www.colourlovers.com for this perfect image!

Recommendations needed?

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 27 May 2012 21:24:00 +0000

Ask me what book to take to the beach. Ummm? A history of con artists? A family memoir of assimilated Jews in Berlin mixed in with North Carolina potters? The overwhelming world of garbage or the pretty strange lives of math prodigies? I'm just not your source for sunburned chick lit. Not good with fiction fluff either, but I did read all about Feathers last year.

When did we start asking others to make our choices? Are the stakes really too high to just pull a book off the shelf based on the spine design and the amount of dust on the edges? Do we really need expert advice about such minor matters? Do we need a concierge to tell us whether to go with the hash-browns or the sweet potato fries?

And when we get expert advice, do we pay attention? When children started demanding white owls for pets because of Harry Potter, the experts said "not a good idea". Parents obtained owls anyway!

Duh. Owls are nocturnal, need a lot of space, have sharp beaks and talons meant to tear flesh and bite through bone. Owls don't want to be cuddled, and cough up pellets of mouse bones and hair. So now who can those parents blame?

Wander the dimly lit stacks. Smell the worn bindings and disintegrating paper. Read reviews if you must. Sniff out your own reading material and just let the librarian stamp the date due. If you don't like the book by page twenty-five, return it. In the big scheme of things this is not a major deal!

Danger Will Robinson

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 27 May 2012 20:47:00 +0000

Ran out of gas before I told the whole story of Crazy Day. In the grocery store I had to settle for a bouquet of yellow daisies. The school garden has white daisies that just didn't happen to be blooming on demand. We were trying to fake it with store-bought so the preschoolers would think they "grew" the flowers. Honestly, I don't think they are that observant. But the grocery store employees and customers were definitely observing! I hope I gave them good laugh to start their day.

As for the bank and the estate account, that has been the ordeal of the week. Spent three afternoons after work with my personal banker, who happens to be named Chase, at Chase Bank. And believe me, there are good reasons why I didn't go to Wells Fargo!

To set up an estate account as an independent administrator you need a federal EIN (employee identification number) from the IRS. The EIN I obtained showed up in Chase Bank records as the Social Security number of a guy in New Braunfels, Texas. The bank computer system freaked out. Was the guy in New Braunfels doing something illegal with a bogus SSN? Was I doing something fraudulent? Thank heaven Chase at Chase has known me for many years and even though he is sure I am totally nutso he is also sure I'm not smart enough to perpetrate a financial fraud or steal an identity. Heck, I can barely open the pneumatic canisters for drive-through banking!

The bank system inputs federal ID numbers without those pesky hyphens, so it can't tell a SSN from an EIN. Apparently it is possible but very rare for duplicates to occur. But when they do occur, it is best not to have weird spiky hairdos.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Spiked hair with errands and SSNs

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sat, 26 May 2012 00:00:00 +0000

Crazy Day is a favorite tradition for the final day of class. Most of the children arrive in their PJs wearing mismatched shoes and socks. Some wear tutus over their PJs. Some pee all over the floor as soon as their parents drive away. Sigh. A tutu is a soggy thing with waste. I think Dan Quayle said that.

Good thing I saved that tube of Got2b glued spiking goop from my sons' bathroom drawer when I threw out all the other guy stuff. Since the downstairs shower faucet is broken, I use the former guy bathroom each morning. This is all good, since the orchid in the upstairs shower window is still in glorious bloom.

My Mohawk hairdo looked great for Crazy Day. It was drying in all its water resistantness when I got the call from my boss. Could I please please pretty please with a cherry on top stop by the grocery store and buy a bunch of white daisies for the staff appreciation bouquets? Sure. What the heck. Live dangerously!

Tom Thumb at 7:45 a.m. with not a white daisy bouquet to be had. All the daisies were used in red/white/blue Memorial Day arrangements. The checker paged the manager, and the manager checked the back room. No daisies Everyone checked the security camera. Fifty-seven year old woman impersonating marine iguana in Aisle 4...

And after a fun-filled day with product in my hair, the banker wants to meet with me about Dad's estate account. Sure? Maybe a quick shampoo before that fiduciary moment is in order!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Choreographing a swallowtail ballet

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Fri, 25 May 2012 02:47:00 +0000

Inspiration plus perspiration plus going where angels fear to tread into the thistle meadow in search of the dramatic black swallowtail photograph. The butterfly always one more giant prickly weed beyond the range of the sun-dazed photographer with her tiny camera. Digital click click click zoom point zoom out of focus tangled on thorns wondering about snakes click click swing zoom. Percussion mostly. Vertical stripes pink black glaring white yellow greens. A Seventies disco floor flashing backdrop. Exaggerated prickly prancing silhouetted photographer sharp shadow dancing spiky.

Corps de ballet in pink tutus. Male corp in shades of green-- vertically striped tights. Photographer frames shots larger and smaller circles. Lighting changes from soft to stark contrast.

Floor a glowing pink light projection. Back a bokeh of greens and bright whites. Dancers in yellow leotards and tights with black markings, orange and blue spots on the floor. Legs open close angle point pivot from floor. Small shifts to other pink circles of light.

Solo. Black swallowtail prince. Slightly battered. Short movements between vertical green translucent banners. Sense of confinement. Needing nourishment. Corps returns in front with windy shielding and frustrated photographer.

Sphinx moth interlude. Low to floor. Two moths with three fading thistle flower dancers. Hovering with strobe. Rosy hues and browns.

Color invert dance. Black light effect. Sharp wire sculpture wings with pearls and jewels. Neon edges glowing. Sphinx moths, dragonflies, damselflies, hornworms, wheelbugs, tiger beetles, orb spiders, weevil, caterpillars, praying mantis. Grand, triumphant, dark. Sousa meets Pink Floyd.

Brown. Roly-polies. Millipedes. Snails--how to leave a sparkling silver slime trail?? Worms slightly pink by comparison. Cicadas. Dark background and floor.

Grand finale starring fabulous black swallowtail male in dances with strong, leaping yellow swallowtail female. Occasional entrances of small groups of female yellow swallowtails. Prolonged threesome frolic with black swallowtail and two yellows. Exit into dark woods.

Finale--Black swallowtail emerges from shadows and flies weightlessly toward the glittering crystal sunlight on the creek. Ode to Joy?

DIY mystery on the playground

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Wed, 23 May 2012 01:25:00 +0000

Who is making this fortification out of mud balls? And why?

Standing around staring at the mudpile at the tunnel opening we were guessing the builder was a misguided crawdad. Instead, it seems to be a cicada nymph emerging. In the second photo the critter is pushing a mud-ball into place at the top of the tunnel.

But why would an emerging cicada bother enlarging its tunnel and making a fort around the entrance? Is it planning to flip this remodeled home? We watched the critter come to the surface many times and push a slimy mud ball into place. Then it would disappear back down into the tunnel for a long time.

Nature is just so very weird!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Hairy Raindrop

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Tue, 22 May 2012 11:35:00 +0000

This is the hairy raindrop. The project was simple flower forms for the very youngest students, the threes and fours. We use raindrop shapes often, along with baked potatoes, in our drawings.

I talked about a bud, a flower just starting to open, but the kids only remember the hairy raindrop. Tomorrow I'll have to show them some photos of flower forms. But they will probably just remember the hairy raindrop.

If they remember anything at all. What a long, discouraging school year this has been!

Titanic going down

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 20 May 2012 04:08:00 +0000

"To Ms. Nacy [sic] from Sophia"
reads the note on the back of the drawing placed in my teacher mail box. Nothing like a seven year old's drawing of the Titanic listing at a 45 degree angle and sinking fast in red, blue, and black crayon to summarize my week. Going down with the band still playing and the lifeboats overcrowded.

Yes, teaching is so rewarding! Dang, if I don't feel as perky as Debbie Reynolds in "The Unsinkable Molly Brown". Or else not.

This has been a draining school year. My lead teacher and I have had so many major personal, life, automotive, and health stressors it is a wonder we can slap the snooze buttons on our alarm clocks, let alone get up, dressed, and to work each morning.

Four more class days, not that I'm counting.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

There was a WormMama who swallowed a fly

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 20 May 2012 01:37:00 +0000

I've been fussing around trying to make a worm blog on WordPress just to learn a little bit about making a website with pages and categories. Silly me, I still haven't figured out the new version of Blogger with its options for multiple pages. For the moment my efforts are WormMama's Travelling Worm Show. I've got another vermicomposting gig June seventh.

At this late date in the school year some of the five year old students are figuring out rhyming words! Because why? fly? guy? eye? spy?

Because why I am also reading about Buzz and Fly Guy. The kids like the one fly in Lucy Micklethwait's I Spy Two Eyes, but they LOVE Can You Make a Scary Face?, by Jan Thomas.

We don't want our fly on the guy. We want the fly off the guy, and in the air. It's a positive/negative puzzle. Paul Klee does not rhyme with knee or buy, but sounds like clay, and he's our art guy!

So just a sample of our project masterpieces:

My three minutes in court

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Fri, 18 May 2012 03:03:00 +0000

Having done printmaking in art class Wednesday morning I was dreading the swearing in oath part. The palms of my hands were bright magenta and orange. Do you solemnly swear that you can't get your hands any cleaner than that?!?

The reason I was coming before the county probate court judge was to be deemed sane enough to be the independent administrator of Dad's estate. Friends and family had cautioned me against mentioning my side career as a vermicomposting edu-tainer aka Worm Lady.

The lawyer just told me, "Oh, by the way, you are sworn in now," before we ever went in the courtroom. No raising colorful hand. Not one bit like on Perry Mason.

Then we sat at a table with the judge, and I said yes or no (as appropriate) to questions like:

Did your dad have or adopt any children after 1996?
Have you ever been found mentally incapacitated?
Does your family still have that meth lab down in the holler?
Will your brother Darryl or your other brother Darryl contest this will?

Raise your right hand and repeat after me ... No, your other right hand.

I kind of wanted to stay and watch the probate judge's final hearing of the day as it was going to be a doozy. The old lady had already cussed out her court-appointed attorney in the lobby for never having contacted her, for arriving late with no necktie and no yellow legal pad, and for limping with a torn knee ligament. She was scattershooting her disgust with the over-air conditioned courthouse. Her husband and daughter were with their attorney who had a mouth like Martha Raye trying to get some kind of guardianship over the woman so she wouldn't do something financially wacko.

Maybe I just haven't watched Judge Judy since Dad died.

No, that is not me. That is Elena Kagan being sworn in. And Midge being sworn in to Barbie's court. And a magenta zebra puppet ready to tell the whole truth. And some lady who is the new health commissioner of the US Virgin Islands. And an altered photo of Michelle Obama's glove on Inauguration Day.

Grocery Cart Lady

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Tue, 15 May 2012 23:51:00 +0000

Took this snapshot through my dusty windshield. I was struck by the sunny halo over Grocery Cart Lady when I was leaving the parking lot.

Grocery Cart Lady weighs about 105 lbs. She is somewhere between thirty and sixty years old, nationality of origin unknown. I don't remember her ever speaking, and I've probably never verbally acknowledged her presence even though I see her at least three times a week. Her eyes are dark, bright crow's eyes. Her face makes me think she was horribly burned at some time.

This grocery store is on a hill. Pushing a long train of carts up from the parking lot to the store must be extremely hard work in all kinds of weather. Sometimes she wears a plastic rain poncho. She always wears a cloak of invisibility, existing outside the range of awareness of those she serves.

Her presence, her work has scratched my consciousness now. I have taken her picture if not her portrait. I need to be a better human!

What does Grocery Cart Lady do at the end of her shift? Does she ride a bus to another part-time job, putting on a different shirt with a different logo to scoop ice cream cones or clean offices? Does she have a home? A family? Does she save her earnings and send them to her family? Can she walk safely down her sidewalk after dark?

What about all the other workers laboring on the hazy fringe of my consciousness? That's the trouble with with letting that little ray of awareness in! You get a shot of responsibility with a call to action on the side.

Call for public morality or Christian kindness. Call suffering inevitable. Call me with a personal arrogance foul for assuming Grocery Cart Lady is unhappy, overworked, or underpaid. Maybe her life is vastly more authentic and sublime than mine. My house is built of flimsy cards.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

School gardens & the future of education

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 13 May 2012 02:03:00 +0000

On the plane back from Oregon I still got the middle seat, but my aisle neighbor was a delightful, not-too-talkative young mommy who found her own seat belt and had no service dog. My window neighbor was a large man drinking Heinekens who ate a whole can of Pringles, then snored and drooled. But the delightful mother of five had children attending Stonewall Jackson Elementary in the Dallas school district. We talked about the value of school gardens to inspire kids in studies across many subjects.

Stonewall Jackson's 20,000 square foot garden is one of the most acclaimed school gardens in the country, but in 2008 the Dallas Independent School District eliminated the position of Mark Painter, the gardener/outdoor lab science teacher. School parents and area businesses had to form a 501c nonprofit, Stonewall Gardens, to keep Painter employed and the garden going. It figures. If something is working in our schools, cut the funding, quick!

Remembering the in-flight conversation I stopped at Wilson Middle School just down the street from home. The school already has a butterfly garden along Custer Road, but I wanted to see the new vegetable garden that's taking shape this year. All these photos are from my walk-through in the early evening last Saturday. Life Skills teacher Sharon Russell was nominated for Plano Teacher of the Year 2012. She is obviously a woman with a passion for connecting kids with learning through gardening. Do teachers get to have passion and model creativity and problem-solving for kids? Or is it all about measurable performance?

My little Montessori school's garden is about seventy square feet if I can trust my three a.m. calculations. It's basically the same size as the dirt area next to my back patio at the condo. In this space the kids are growing tomatoes, peppers, radishes, dill, basil, red salvia, daisies, zucchini.What are the preschoolers learning?

Plants need water and sunshine. We can take turns with the watering cans. You have to hold the watering can underwater in the big bucket to fill it. Carry a watering can so your shoes don't get all wet. We don't waste water by sprinkling the sidewalk.

We can see how plants change. They start little and get bigger. We can draw the sequence. We can make a story about what we see. It's fun to tell our friends when we notice something different in the garden.

It tastes good to eat the fruits of our effort.We can be brave and taste new things. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time. Food isn't always cellophane-wrapped in a styrofoam container. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time.

It feels good to dig and take rocks out of the dirt. Worms and grubs live underground. We wash our hands after we work in the garden.

Bees help plants grow. Bees are not really interested in you. Spiders make pretty webs. Spiders and ants are not that interested or dangerous, either, and it is fun to name them. It is more fun to watch an insect than to step on it.

Caterpillars eat dill. Dill smells good! It is fun to cut dill, basil, and rosemary to feed the class pet rabbit, Norton. It feels good to think of others. We have to remember to carry the bucket of food inside!

Animals visit our garden at night! What animal stole the whole strawberry plant?

Tony Wagner, author of Creating Innovators : The Making of Young People Who Will Change the World writes about developing a culture of innovation based on collaboration, interdisciplinary problem-solving, and intrinsic motivation. Even at the preschool level that sounds like the job description for a school garden!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The lime tree that Jack grew

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Fri, 11 May 2012 21:27:00 +0000

It started with the Teacher Appreciation lunch. We were being appreciated in such a creative way. The parents had brought story books to accompany their food contributions, and excerpts were read to us while we dined on fabulous veggie soup, Indian chicken, artichoke bread, spinach quiche (Green Eggs and Ham, of course), fruit salad (The Very Hungry Caterpillar), and so on through the chocolate parfaits. The centerpiece was sculptures from Play With Your Food.

Then we were each given a lime tree with a reading of a poem by a parent about nurturing children. Wow! My very own thornless key lime pie, no I meant TREE, with matching lime green gardening gloves. So I stopped at Calloways Nursery on the way home to get expert advice, a very large pot, a saucer with wheels, plus a big bag of tree/shrub soil mix. The tree has to grow in full sun outside, but be covered it if gets below forty degrees, and brought inside if it gets below thirty degrees. This is way beyond my normal gardening method of sticking plant in pot and promptly forgetting it.

When I took the trash to the dumpster I met my neighbor's son who was digging out bushes on the side of a condo building. The condo association is gradually moving to heat/drought resistant landscaping, so Knock-out roses will be planted. Plus an older woman who lives in that unit will be safer without overgrown shrubs hiding her entry. I talked to the son about removing my patio bushes. I don't know what the bushes are, except that they are prone to some kind of mite infestation and have an unruly growth pattern. Every few years I take out my frustration and prune them way back. I've only kept them because the anole lizards use them for cover.

One thing led to another and I started sawing the bushes. It was therapeutic. Got four out of five down to the stumps before the rain started. I'll get the son to remove the stumps. I'm hoping to move all my cannas right next to the fence so the lizards will have their shaded hiding places back. Then there will be room to transplant some of my other plants in front of the cannas and reclaim most of the paved patio for humans, chairs, and grill. The hardy mint, mums, and giant sedum might be able to fight back against the aggressive myrtle.

I get volunteer plants sprouting from the vermicompost I add to the pots. Some sort of surprise squash plant was already growing up and over the ugly bushes and blooming. It might not survive transplanting. And then there's the volunteer tomato that is doing better than the intentional tomatoes of last summer. Add a hummingbird feeder, and let the wild rumpus start!.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Sitting in the Chinese fire drill row

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Mon, 07 May 2012 05:00:00 +0000

It's so my colors! Received this Dakine beach/tote bag as a birthday gift from a dear friend to use on my trip to meet Grandbaby O. I could put everything in it--purse, notebook computer, Kindle, progress reports to be written, snacks, Simon the Genius in My Basement even. When the fellow passenger on the shuttle from Park 'N' Fly going to the terminal realized he'd forgotten his wallet at home, I could give him a sad, commiserating little smile and hug my perfect bag a bit closer.

My wheelie suitcase slid nicely into the overhead bin for row 12, and I settled into the skinny middle E seat. A pleasant fellow had the aisle seat. For a long time it seemed the window seat might stay empty. Ah, wouldn't that be a treat?

The last minute passengers arrived to take the A and B seats across the aisle. The petite pretty hippie chick sat by that window. Her boyfriend, a 6'6" blond guy with rasta hair and a black Labrador service dog folded into the B seat. The dog's head hung over the seat in front, just an inch above the pony-tail of a young Barbie coed. The dreadlocks hung over the seat in back.

Finally boarding is an AARP couple. The woman wants to wedge a large piece of luggage up into the overhead bin, but is too short to see the bin is already overflowing. A chorus of frustrated passengers who got up at four a.m. chants, "It won't fit, it won't fit, it won't..." She squeezes into the middle E seat in the row in front of me after taking her carry-on to the back of the plane. Then she pantomimes instructions for her spouse to sit in the window F seat next to me. His hearing aid isn't working. The pleasant man and I exit row 12 so the elderly fellow can enter the row.

Two flight attendants have arrived to arrange a move for the rasta and his dog. No, he's fine.

"Well, I've never seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog cannot sit in the aisle."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog will block the beverage cart."

No, he's fine. The dog will sit on the rasta master's lap.

"No, I've NEVER seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

The pony-tail is rolling her eyes. The AARP man is searching for his seatbelt.

A trade is arranged so the rasta and his dog can sit in the bulkhead aisle, but he won't go without the hippie chick. Another trade is arranged.

Meanwhile, the AARP man is waving the head end of his seatbelt in the air like a snake-charmer's puppet show, but cannot locate the tail end. The flight attendants want the AARP man to move across the aisle to the seat vacated by the rasta dog since the plane has pushed away from the terminal. That means the pleasant man and I will have to get out for AARP man to exit. He stands up, and I reach under his butt to fish the tail end of the seatbelt from beside his seat. Why, just lookie here! We can strap you in now, sir!

"This must be the Chinese fire drill row," says one attendant, with a barely perceptible strain to her smile.

The first beverages are served without rolling over the service dog. The AARP man is proud that his wife found this better flight to speed them toward Boise, you know where the football field is blue, where their daughter is expecting twins, but they may have an eight-hour layover in Portland. This is an improvement? PDX is a nice airport, but I wouldn't want to camp there.

After my nap things are surreal and groggy. The AARP man's wife pantomimes emphatically that he should get out and walk in the aisle so he won't be stiff. Swell. The pleasant man and I exit the row so he can go on a march. The flight attendants take our beverage orders. This time the pleasant man and I both ask for coffee, fresh, steaming coffee. No sooner are the cups on our tray tables than AARP man wants back in. We put our tray tables up, and pleasant man steps up. I burn my tongue on the coffee and spill on my fabulous new tote bag. My shoulder tremor is acting up. I stand up and bump my head on the overhead bin, spilling coffee all over me. Fresh, steaming, black coffee, but at least I'm going to Portland where coffee is major and attire is minor.

AARP man is back in his seat waving his seatbelt puppet. He is reaching down beside his seat against the window wall for the other end. He comes up with a very scraped wrist bleeding profusely onto his shirt cuff, and still no seat belt. His wife freaks and pushes her aisle neighbor out of the way to go running down the aisle for assistance. I push the Call button. The flight attendants come. One goes to get the first aid kit. She returns with iodine wipes, and warns AARP man that the iodine stains. We get the wipe package torn open and the wound cleaned with AARP's wife supervising from the next row. The wipe goes into my coffee cup along with two bandaid wrappers. I buckle AARP man into his seat and tell him to run cold water on his cuff before it goes into the washing machine.

Swaddling and bouncing a fussy Grandbaby O is going to be a piece of cake by comparison to the flight. And, true, "Chinese fire drill" wasn't the most P.C. thing for a flight attendant to say. Maybe Keystone Kops would have been better.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Looking out my back door at the big moon on the rise

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 06 May 2012 13:45:00 +0000

Watching the big moon rise over the neighbor's shed roof where the tiny bluejay figured out how to fly. It's been a busy few hours on the patio, and the dish hasn't even run away with the spoon yet.

Got home from work to find a patio soap opera unfolding on the fence. A very scruffy young and clueless bluejay was parked on the top of the gate. That's just where the green anole like to sit and show off his pink neck fan, so he was turning yellowish in aggravation. The baby bird's eyes were going bubby-agoggy. Please don't let it go humpty-dumptying splat on the concrete!

The anole finale left in disgust, and the baby bird sat down and drowsed on the gate. It woke up and stretched, then a parent flew in with a nutritious snack and a pep talk. Reenergized, the baby started looking all around for a close destination, then hopped down the fence top. It made the flight across the alley to the neighbor's shed roof and did a victory hopping dance. After another little rest it flew to the roof of my condo and out of sight. The anole returned to do its own victory performance, once again the master of the fence top. I was ready for a victory snack of hummus myself.

Who said "fledge"?

Pathetic and woe-begone

Better after a feeding and pep-talk

Yee-haw! This might be fun!

Cue the "Rocky" theme song!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Doctor, doctor, doctor give me the news

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sat, 05 May 2012 00:06:00 +0000

DR3 starts my new license plate (aka "tag" in Texas). Time to learn the number using mem nonic devices. Or pneumonic. Pneumatic? I get confused, and having Wild Bill on the phone while I'm searching for a large Phillips screwdriver doesn't aid my concentration. I need the screwdriver to put my tags on the new Buick. Wild Bill lives in the condo next door and is nearing 89 years of age. He and his little-dog-not-named-Toto are watching me out the doggy-peek window. A WWII vet whose airplane went down in the Pacific, Wild Bill is a frequent reminder of my dad. And Dad's veterans life insurance paid for my new/old car. Dad played complex games with himself to remember names and nouns in the last five years of his life. So this is the circle of life.

Just returned from meeting my grandbaby in Oregon, so I'm aswirl in baby fabulousity and grandparent love. Earth's axis has shifted. Most of the things I can't remember just aren't that important at the moment.

Still, it might be good to know my tag number. Doctor Three, Doctor Three, Doctor Three .... paging DR3. Mnemonic device needed STAT. ("Stat" in medical parlance is actually not an acronym; it's short for statim, the Latin word for immediately.)
"Mnemonic" trips me up and makes me seem really clueless because I always say it wrong. The m is silent. ( Everybody is silent if and when the grandbaby goes to sleep!)

Turns out Henry F. Phillips started the Phillips Screw Company in Portland, Oregon, and I have three Phillips screwdrivers too small for this job. My shoulder still hurts from lifting my carry-on into the overhead bin at PDX. It doesn't want to torque:

Torque is a measure of how much a force acting on an object causes that object to rotate. The object rotates about an axis, which we will call the pivot point, and will label 'O'. We will call the force 'F'.

We will call the grandbaby "O". We may call the whole screw project "F" if I can't get Wild Bill off the phone and the license plates onto the car! DR3 give me the news. I've got a bad case of Phillips screwdrivers!

Dr. J wrote out prescriptions at my appointment, and I went straight to my WalMart pharmacy to get them filled. I was down to my last blood pressure pill. Standing in the line at the Drop-Off window, I was fascinated by the pharmacy tech's nametag. It was on backwards, and showed a grid of emergency situations and store code words:

Lose your child at WalMart? Code Adam.
Fire? Code Red..
Bomb in the store? Code Blue.
Chemical spill? Code Orange.
Accident? White.
Hostage situation? Code Green.
Tornado about to blow the roof down? Code Black.
Terrorist or shooting? I forget because I drifted into a scary daydream. That would be the pits to be waiting for a Zoloft refill when terrorists take over the WalMart!

As a preschool teacher I suspect Code Yellow would mean somebody peed in their pants while driving around on a motorized shopping cart in the Twinkie aisle.

Way back in my hospital kitchen hairnet days we were always agog about "Dr. Red" and "Code Blue" alerts on the PA. Code Blue was a cardiac arrest call for the crash cart.

Remembering to say the tags are successfully attached to the vehicle. The Grancy is totally bonded to the grandbaby. Holding said infant reduces blood pressure significantly and causes euphoria. Wild Bill and his little dog are good for right now. Can't lift the toolbox back up on the shelf...

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Breathing easier tonight

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Fri, 04 May 2012 01:57:00 +0000

Twenty-four hours ago I was a nervous wreck. I'd received a phone message from a Brandon Callahan claiming to be the Director of Litigation for Attorneys Network preparing to take action on a case "connected to the names and Social Security numbers" for myself and my ex. My waking brain was scrolling through every possible scenario from my past life that could lead to any sort of litigation in my county, mentioned by name in the phone message. Think there's nothing possible? You haven't had a good scare and some time alone stewing with your wild imagination.

"Don't lose any sleep over it." That was Danger Baby's advice. "It has to be a mistake. You have been divorced sixteen years". Happily divorced, I might add.

Okay, but Dad's estate administrator application was just filed, plus my ex seems to be in foreclosure. It's pretty amazing what info you can find at your county's case search website. More fuel for the fevered imagination!

Alas, I had wild, wild nightmares that included plumbing leaks, huge piles of dirty laundry, my former in-laws, Jackie Onassis, marathon runners at a church for the deaf, and a reception for the fashionably late members of an opera board of directors! The hors d'oeurves looked really appetizing but we never got to eat. Welcome to the Hotel California...

Tonight we have determined that this is an obnoxious and ridiculous scam. If you get a call, don't return it or leave any personal information on the voice mail. I'm putting these terms in this post so future victims will be able to search them:

http://knowncaller.com/ReversePhone/866-410.php

http://whocallsme.com/Phone-Number.aspx/8889593802

Brandon Callahan

Brendan Callahan

James Newkirk

Zimmerman, Young & Associates

Attorneys Network

Kenneth Weinberg Grayson

888-959-3802,

866-410-8063

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Take a walk on the white side

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Thu, 03 May 2012 01:51:00 +0000

Fritillary

This is not anything racist! Heavens no.

Snout

I've been walking the Richardson trail and seeing so much capital N nature happening before my very eyes.

These white-flowered weeds/wildflowers line the trail. The plants are umbrels similar to what I consider Queen Anne's Lace.

After much searching I am going to guess they are Anthriscus, known as Cow's Parsley or Queen Anne's Lace. The visitors should sign in.

Some are visitors are shiny.

Others fuzzy.

One ghostly predator, a man-in-the-moon spider..

Mystery guest, please sign in.

Worm poetry with professional input

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 01:00:00 +0000

Between Buds and corn

on the cob in the fridge three

nightcrawler boxes

One nightcrawler box on the counter.

Okay, sort of hokey haiku, but hey, it's National Poetry Month and I'm running out of time. Danced the worm Hokey Pokey with 4-5 year olds at my worm show Thursday morning.

This post has had an edit thanks to input from Kathleen who said...

I love the nightcrawler boxes in the fridge!!

Kathleen did not say the other hokey haiku did not work, but it didn't take long after reading her comment to realize they did not. That's why she is a real live professional poet and I am a worm lady. Alas.

Never got around to grilling the corn last night after talking to the probate attorney and trying to understand what is going on with my registered domain name.* You will just have to envision the cornsilk in the plastic grocery bag. And the Buds are gone. Today I took the three bait boxes to school and the preschoolers released the nightcrawlers into our garden. Twenty-five of twenty-six students were brave enough to hold a worm. The worms were pleased to get out of the boxes and into perfect worm weather--dark, humid, cool with rain approaching. They put on a splendid movement and tunneling exhibition for the children.

Then we found this tiny moth on the lock to the playground toy chest:. A few kids liked the sound of "lock moth" so they stomped and staggered around chanting

lock moth

Just glad they didn't form a conga line.

lock moth lock moth LOCK MOTH!

During the Q&A at the worm show a mom asked if there were really one thousand red wigglers in a pound. Yup. Then a pre-K teacher asked how I separate my worms from the humus they have made so I can use that good dirt. I said on a Friday evening after a really rough week in the preschool I go home and sit on my laundry room floor with my worm bin and I pull the worms out, count them, and put them into a different bin. After about five hundred worms I feel much better. Blood pressure and respiration normal. The earth even seems to be spinning properly on its axis.

1 red wiggler

2 red wigglers 3 red wigglers

4 red wigglers 5 red wigglers 6 red wigglers

*The estate doesn't have a domain name. These are separate issues, although they are both opened cans of worms.

Tdap dancing up the wall

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 01:38:00 +0000

I gladly clicked my heels and toes up to the Minute Clinic to get an adult tetanus/diptheria/pertussis (Tdap) shot so I can hold my grandbaby next week. This adult booster vaccination became available in 2005. Adults only need it once, although the regular Td is still needed every ten years.

Pertussis, aka whooping cough, is potentially fatal for infants. At your next annual exam ask your doctor if you are vaccinated. Not just for your grandbaby, but for all grandbabies! That's the great thing about vaccines. When we are protecting the one we love, we are also loving and protecting the greater oneness of our community.

Whooping cough is coming back with a vengeance. We thought it was eradicated, but it didn't stay that way when parents stopped vaccinating their children. Fears of vaccinations causing autism have been proven unfounded. But now there is an epidemic of parents who do not want to inconvenience or discomfort their children in any way for even the slightest moment, as that might be a tad inconvenient or uncomfortable for the adults. If you have not guessed, this makes CollageMama VERY, VERY CRABBY.

My shoulder was sore for three days, or my solder was shore. It was a short term sore shoulder for long term prevention. Whining of the individual weighed against a win for my community. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Every parent has to weigh for a moment the possibility that a shot might make a child uncomfortable for a couple days. Is it worth the immediate discomfort and inconvenience for the long-term protection of both the child and the larger community? Absolutely!

Whooping cough — known medically as pertussis — is a highly contagious respiratory tract infection. Although it initially resembles an ordinary cold, whooping cough may eventually turn more serious, particularly in infants. Whooping cough is most contagious before the coughing starts. The best way to prevent it is through vaccinations. The childhood vaccine is called DTaP. The whooping cough booster vaccine for adolescents and adults is called Tdap. Both protect against whooping cough, tetanus, and diphtheria.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Who me? Yes u!

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 15:10:00 +0000

I had no idea Friday the Thirteenth was also Scrabble Day, but I thank Kim for playing! On Friday I was short of sleep and still reeling from the school music performance of "The Alphabet Tree". The Word Bug in the story had to arrange the preschoolers wearing letter t-shirts into words. The preschoolers were, how to say it, not necessarily ready or wanting to participate in this word-building.

For privacy reasons I can't post identifiable photos of my students, just as they couldn't always form identifiable words. In the show they had to be formed into:

hot dot

rats sour earth

and

Treat others as you would like to be treated!!!!

I kid u not.

As the art teacher, I had to watch powerless from the sidelines. Felt like the time in '91 when Oil Can Boyd was pitching for the Texas Rangers and could not get out of the inning. If I didn't have to rehearse my red wiggler worms for their upcoming performance I would waste time tracking down how many runs the opponents scored in that inning. I really wanted to Little Bunny Foo-Foo old Oil Can:

bop nim on da hed

The spring semester rolls on over gravel ruts. Five year old boys are practicing writing their letters. They all have a future creating security words for blog comment verification.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Rowdy neighbors, continuous party

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 23:30:00 +0000

I keep getting distracted from composing this post by the wild spring party outside my window. For a week now the red admiral butterflies have been playing beach volleyball in wet t-shirts in the soapberry tree. Cedar waxwings have fought for the karaoke mike. Monarchs, swallowtails put in celebrity appearances, and a new stubby-tailed anole thinks he is the bouncer.

It's all just so 1974!

The soapberry blossoms have a scent one would not call "subtle". It is like Boone's Farm Apple Wine mixed with Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo. Seems odd that it is "natural".

Maybe Mother Nature has been yarn-bombing and joining Zumba flash mobs.

Wild strawberry

Passionvine

Six-spotted green tiger beetle

People are even wearing platform shoes again, but I haven't seen any Famolare crepe soles.

Flagrant is not the word I'm searching for, nor blatant. Conspicuous, yes, but that's not sufficiently pumped. Even the word "SPRING" does not seem sufficiently fuchsia alligator crinkle-patent leather enough this year...She's got electric boots and a mohair suit. You know I read it in a magazine....B-b-b-Bennie and the jets.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Easter in Fort Worth's Cultural District

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 02:18:00 +0000

Raindrops on roses were not the problem driving home from Fort Worth. Nor whiskers on kittens. It was a dang scary downpour, and I was praying it wouldn't hail on my new old Buick.

I went over to Fort Worth on a first highway test drive, and because I never made it to the Impressionist exhibit at the Kimbell Museum during spring break. Wish I could have shared the exhibit with my parents, capped with a delicious buffet lunch in the Kimbell's restaurant. The green chile and rice soup was nirvana! Howie and Fritz would have loved it.

Last year when the Woolly Mammoth had a burst of soup-making creativity, I mailed him Fritzi's well-worn Kimbell cookbook. Tonight he sent back this recipe:

The green chiles with rice soup had a cheddar cheese and cream base, but also had celery and carrots today. I've made a grocery list to make my own version when the brisket stew is gone.

Got to watch the rain begin from inside the Fort Worth Modern Museum. Tadao Ando's building has become one of my favorite places even though I don't often like the art on display.The angles, reflections, and textures of the museum feed my inner artist.

Other buildings on my Favorite Things list:

I.M. Pei's Meyerson Symphony Center for the Dallas Symphony Orchestra.
Louis Kahn's Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth
Philip Johnson's Sheldon Art Museum in Lincoln, Nebraska
Renzo Piano's Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas
Moshe Safdie's headquarters for the U.S. Institute of Peace.on the National Mall in D.C.

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

This is a strange, very tiny bee/fly I saw today. It was smaller than my pinkie fingernail. Love the see-through striped wings.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Infinite number of monkeys OR red wigglers with Legos

noreply@blogger.com (Collagemama) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 13:57:00 +0000

I gave the red wiggler worms about an hour on the two Lego base plates in my search for activities to keep forty preschoolers engaged at a two-hour "Worms and water conservation" program for Earth Day. The worms did not write "Hamlet" or even any letters. They were surprisingly clingy, preferring to stay in clumps rather than venture out. I expected them to be in a hurry to find the edges of the base plates so they could go underneath where it was dark. These must be Pre-Columbian Flat Earth worms. When they got to the edge of the plate, most turned around and went back to the middle. In the first half hour only one worm went underneath.

Worms don't write Hamlet

In the first act of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard, Guildenstern muses that "If six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they would land on their heads"

“There's an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out.”
― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

You can watch a little video of a worm moving on a base plate here.

OR

You can learn about infinite monkey theorem, probability, and randomness here.

I will add that the worm movement was much more purposeful than our preschool students' search for plastic eggs on the playground Thursday morning.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder