If It's Spring, It Means Thermostat Wars.

This morning the temperature is in the 50s (13 C for European readers). By afternoon, the temperature will be in the mid to high 70s (24 C). This is the way of spring in the South. I love it. My kids…not so much. Here’s a typical spring day.

Early morning. My children get up. Shivering. I have left the windows open all night to get the house cool and bring in fresh air. (I’m a big believer is fresh air. My kids are big believers in keeping the house shut up—they point to the fine layer of pollen coating everything. I hand them a dust rag and remind them that they aren’t allergic to pollen.)

The children protest. Some do it audibly. Another wears a robe. And another… Let’s just say that I found myself saying, “Turn off the gas fireplace now!”

By late afternoon, the windows are sealed up. The temperature in the house has risen. My children have changed clothes. And they are protesting the heat. There are cries of “turn on the air conditioning.” I give them a cold stare and say, “Absolutely not.” I remind them that in an hour or two, I’ll open the windows and cool air will flood the house. There is grumbling and gnashing of teeth. Protests begin. A male protester takes off his shirt. Apparently, it is “the only way I can survive the heat.” A male sibling follows suit. They say to their sister, “Don’t you wish you could do this?” The sister rolls her eyes.

Late evening comes, the windows have been open for a couple of hours. The house feels blissful. I walk into the living room. The fireplace is on. A child is sitting in front of it, warming his back. I order a child to “turn off the fireplace!”

The current rumor is that mom is too cheap to use the air conditioner. Yep, it’s true. I’m cheap. They can add that to their exit interview.

(BTW, if you don’t remember exit interviews, click here.)

Photo by Vincent de Groot, courtesy of Wikimedia.

Purse Buying

The other day, I realized that I had to buy a new black purse. My old one is coming apart at the seams. Bits of stiff wire are sticking out. But this is a problem because I hate shopping.

But, hey, that’s why Amazon exists. So people like me can purse shop from home. I pulled up Amazon and typed in “purses” and hit enter. Then, I discovered that Amazon carries 76,802 different purses. Really.

I don’t have time to look at 100 purses left alone 760 times that number. So I tossed in limiters like black, zippered, women’s, etc. (I had no idea you could buy “man purses.”) Then, I began looking through pages. And pages. And pages. Boy, there are a lot of ugly purses in the world. Rooster purses with heads and tail feathers. Purses with faces of saints. There was even a “wolf beater” purse, which had a picture of a snarling wolf with blood stain teeth and red leather bows on it. Though it may be appropriate for a Goth party, it’s not what I wanted. Not something I’d even dreamt was possible, even in a nightmare.

Eventually, I found regular purses. Except some didn’t have a shoulder strap. Others were the size of carry-on suitcases. Still others had reviews that said, “Don’t buy this—it’s a piece of junk.”

So, I kept looking. I did find some that I liked. But they were too small, only a lipstick tube or a credit card would fit inside. I need space for a wallet, cell phone, migraine medicine (just in case), two red pens and small notebook (you never know when a great idea might hit), and space for a Kindle. (Not completely necessary, but nice if possible. Having a Kindle available helps when I’m at the grocery store and a cashier and customer decide to “visit.” I’m a transplant to the South, so “visiting” seems like a huge waste of time to me. But here it’s done, and having a Kindle keeps me from saying, “Uh, excuse me, let’s move it along.”) Oops, digression. Sorry.

 And because of all those purse needs, I don’t really want a grocery sack of a purse. Purses should have organization compartments. I shouldn’t have to paw through my purse looking for the cellphone. There should be a pocket for it. And for my pens, notebook, migraine meds, etc. No doubt, you see my problem. I’m way too picky.

Eventually, I found a purse. It’s perfect in every way. Lots of pockets, proper size, shoulder strap, black, good reviews. Except it’s kind of ugly. But not as ugly as the wolf beater purse. So I guess I can live with it. 

Here's a photo of the wolf beater purse. Okay, it's kind of cute in a weird sort of way.

Iron Fist tote bag (see more iron fists)

Fire

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, my phone rang. That’s never a good sign. When I answered, my mother told me their house was on fire. For a split second, I thought it was the new house that they’d just moved into. But, thankfully, it was not.

It was their old house. The one they were ready to sell. A nasty thunderstorm moved through our area during the night, and, according to the fire marshal, a lightning bolt (or perhaps two) struck my parents’ house, plunging through the two stories and hitting the propane gas line. The gas immediately caught fire. The marshal said it was like a massive blow torch burning through the house. The fire was so hot that the flames were blue.

Much of the inside of the house is gone. The entire kitchen and dining room no longer exist. Though a few of the walls are still there, suspended from the ceiling like teeth in an old crone's mouth. Eventually, their weight will pull them loose, and they'll fall to the basement. Most of the metal in the house—wrought iron railings, brass chandeliers, etc., are all melted.

Thankfully, my parents had their belongings out of the house. And even more thankfully, no one was in the house. Had my parents and my 94 year old grandmother been in the house, I doubt they would have escaped. The fire was too fast and too violent. In fact, a neighbor said that when the bolt struck, it knocked him off the couch. God was so merciful to my family. 

Thanks to Rachael Venema of Raeven Photography for taking the photo of my parents' house.

The Real Reason I Had Kids

This morning, my son Luke is taking his last final exam as an undergraduate. (It’s in advanced inorganic chemistry—better him, than me). My daughter took hers yesterday. I now have two college graduates who will soon be leaving home. (Though, of course, in the intervening days, I have plans: please help Matthew study for the math section of the SAT, help me plant the new hedge plants, scrub and re-stain the deck, etc.)

And soon they’ll be moving out. Luke moves out in June—to starting working at a university lab where he plans to begin his PhD in organo-metallic chemistry in the fall. Ariel will move out in August to start her PhD work in mathematics at Emory.

A dear friend took me aside the other day to tell me that having two kids leave at the same time is extra hard. (My friend had twins.) I’m trying to prepare myself by reminding myself of a promise I made to myself sixteen years ago—that I’d be truly grateful.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that I have an autistic son. And at the time he was diagnosed (and we were told he might never learn to speak), I heard several mothers complaining about how sad they were that their children were leaving home. While I understood their grief, it seemed to me that they were missing something huge. That they should be celebrating too. Our children don’t belong to us—not like some kind of possession. God merely gives them to us to raise. And if all goes well, then they begin lives of their own, which is as it should be.

Soon half of my kids will be gone. (And, yes, I’m sure I will cry.) But I will be cheering them on in their new lives. And I’ll be trying to figure out how to get them to visit—I’m guessing roast beef dinner and laundry might do it. And when they’re here, I’ll hand them a paintbush—after all, the deck needs re-staining. And one of my kids will say, “You had us just so you could have slave labor, right?” And I’ll say, “Absolutely.”

Photo by Chenspec, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

BTW, today is the last day of 99 cents sale for Screwing Up Babylon.

Romance Does Not Have a Place in Gardening

The other day while I was weeding, I turned and saw my daughter Ariel blowing on a dandelion puff ball. My vision clouded with red.

I stared, trying to find words.

Daughter, noticing the stare, said: “I guess I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Me, trying to be patient with said child whose mind has been addled by finals: “No.”

Daughter, with a shrug: “It’s not so bad though. Look at all the other weeds—what’s a few more?”

Me, considering whether daughter is intentionally provoking me: “Not funny.”

Daughter: “It’s stress-relieving.”

Me, wondering whether provoking your mother or blowing weed seeds everywhere is stress-relieving: “Go blow the dandelion puff ball into the trash can.”

Daughter, laughs and flounces away with the puff ball: “That’s not very romantic.”

I watch my daughter suspiciously all the way back into the house. And I plot that if I see that child blow a puff ball into my lawn ever again, I will teach her eventual children how romantic it is to blow puff balls into her lawn. Turnabout is fair play.


Okay, dandelion seedheads are gorgeous. But still, one does not simply blow the seeds across the lawn.

Photo by Magnus Manske, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Alpha Centauri, Portal 2, and Finals

It’s finals week at our house. (Three of our children attend a university near our house and live at home—saving lots of money. Two are graduating, without any debt, which makes me giddy.)  This is what finals week looks like.

1. Everyone stays up late and sleeps in (except in the case of 8am finals). I’ve tried suggesting that they go to bed early and get up at 5am to study—a well-rested brain retains knowledge better. I explain that it’s what I did in college. They all look at me like I clearly cannot be related to them. In fact, a rumor has begun that I’m from another planet. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Mom is from a lopsided planet that rotates around Alpha Centauri.

2. Coffee and tea are a constant. Of course, if they went to bed early and got up early…right, I’ll let it go.

3. Great breakfasts. I make really good breakfasts the week of finals. Bacon, eggs, chocolate-chip pancakes, etc. (The other day, I overheard someone asking my daughter if she was worried about the math in grad school—Ariel will be beginning a PhD program in math. Ar said, “No, I’m not concerned about the math. I’m worried about cooking for myself.”)

4. Deep breathing. This is on my part. It happens when I pass a bedroom and I hear Portal 2 instead of seeing a male person studying Advanced Inorganic Chemistry or Static Physics. Then, I take a deep breath and tell myself, “Study break. Back away from the adult student’s study area.”

5. Calculators. Everyone seems to be walking around with calculators. Not for exams. Usually, they are calculating what their current grade is and what’s the lowest they can get on an exam and still get an A in the class. I’m guessing it’s so they can decide how long they can play Portal 2 during their study break.  

Apparently, this is Alpha Centauri, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Oddly enough, I don't see my lop-sided planet.

N.B. Screwing Up Babylon is on sale at Amazon through Friday for 99 cents!

How to Get a New Fridge

We’re getting a new refrigerator. (It’s hand-me down, but a really nice hand-me down.) I'm excited. But don't get me wrong, I appreciate the one we currently have—it's a 1950s model and it came with the house when we bought it over seven years ago.

As the realtor walked us through the house, he said, “Well, you’ll have to get a new fridge—this one’s very old and it’s so small it’s not good for much beyond chilling soda.” And because no one has any extra money when they buy a house, we decided to wait for the fridge to die. Only it was made before planned obsolesce. And it’s still running. Of course, the internal lights don’t work. So when you open the door, you can’t really see anything. On the other hand, it’s not that deep. But you do have to move food around in order to see anything.

But I’ve learned to take an odd sort of pride in my fridge. It’s kind of like an antique. And a friend who visited said, “Hmm, if the Kellers with their six adults can live with a fridge like this, I need to stop complaining.” And we could live with it. Sure, stuff sometimes fell onto the floor when we opened the door.  But I discovered that those years of playing Tetris had real life applications—I can pack a fridge like nobody can.

Despite my old fridge love, when I was offered a new fridge, I jumped at the chance. The new fridge is stainless steel and has an ice/water dispenser—we’ll be living the high life. (Though one of the older minions pointed out that we’re getting the new fridge just months before two kids leave for grad school. Too bad.)

This experience has taught me an important lesson. Contentment. Clearly, contentment leads to very cool hand-me-downs. Now I’ve decided that I’m really content with my lawn. The only thing…I don’t think anyone will be giving me hand-me-down-weed-free grass. Oh, well, a girl can hope.

N.B. I finished the first major edit of book three in the Screwing Up Time series. In celebration, I've put Screwing Up Babylon on sale for 99 cents! It will be on sale at Amazon from today through next Friday, April 26.

Okay, our fridge is more modern than this one. But only a decade or two.

Photo by Infrogmation of New Orleans, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.