Well, here we are, at the end of another summer. My year doesn't run from January through December, but August through June. July is a bonus month! And now, sadly, I bid summer adieu.
There were many plans: walls getting washed; painting the front porch; purging clutter. I painted the front porch - it looks pretty good, much better than the 20 year old green outdoor carpeting! Washing walls? Nah. Purging? A little, but so much more needs to go! A good winter project that absolutely must be done!
Thinking about the year this way made me wonder about people whose jobs make them see things differently. Accountants - their year ends in April, and they judge time by quarters. I'm certain there are other professions where people look at time in varying increments. Mine runs on the Academic schedule, which leaves July as the "let's make all the doctor appointments and fit a trip in somewhere" month.
I've spent the last two days in my respective classrooms - first playing the game of "where did I store this at the end of the year?"! Do I ever put things in the same place? What fun would that be? Once that's done, then I get to start going through supplies that have been delivered - and as an art teacher, it feels a lot like Christmas! However, supplies are getting pricier, and we don't get as much bang for our buck, and nobody is giving me more bucks to keep up with the higher prices. So, time to revert to square one - what did poor, starving artists do? (That might be a bit much for eleven year old kids to take in!) We'll make do. The schedule for this year will be demanding - as one colleague put it - "You have no pee time!", and she's right. This year there is even less time!
"Be Creative." This is the motto for the year. Last year's motto was "I'm not going to be miserable this year." While I'll still be carrying that theme through the school day, I'm also going to have to be really creative - with training the kids to do most of the clean up, using time wisely, and perhaps investing in Depends, since there really is no time to run to the bathroom! (Just kidding - that could be disastrous!)
So, in the final summer days here at the pool, we're still trying to fit in the last doctor appointments, another day out with some friends, and leave ONE DAY OPEN to play around with some artwork. Then, in-service. You might know the old adage "I hope I die during in-service, because the transition from life to death with be barely noticeable..." Good-bye to Facebook friends; solitaire will have to wait another day. And the books? I've read a lot this summer, and will continue, but instead of a book a week, it will become a book a month.
An upside? The new stove will arrive at the end of the month. Until then, we're shifting things around on that calendar, mindful of the limited time one has to prepare the meal. And Ms. Business only has one more week before heading back to school. Ah, summer. Farewell, my friend.
Bring on Autumn - and Pumpkin Spice Bailey's. And, if you're in the neighborhood, stop by the pool and let us know how you're doing. No matter what, the Stress Pool is always open!
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
A Range of Possibilities
Greetings! The last post was about letting go. Guess we're still doing that at the Stress Pool, but not in ways we'd like. The old gas range isn't working the way it used to, but it is old. We're talking eighteen years old - if it were a person, we'd be sending it off to college! It's been a good, reliable range, with lots of bells and whistles, but now it's time to let it go as well. Funny story how we came to get it...
Morticia was probably eight years old, and I was all about the children learning to do things independently. After all, I had been working part-time for a few years, and had given birth to our fifth child. Things were hectic - the boys were teens, the girls were in those early grades, and there was a toddler running around the house. Darling Hubby worked two jobs in those days - teacher by day, waiter by night and the weekends. If my hands were busy and a child wandered in wanting something they could probably get on their own, then aha! a teaching moment prevailed.
Back to Morticia and the stove. I was getting clothing ready for a huge children's clothing resale. DH had looked at me the day before and said I would have to do this - at the time, it seemed like more effort than I really had time for - but in the end, it was usually worth it. (That doesn't mean I didn't grumble a little. Okay, a lot.) This one ended up costing us way more money than it should have - not much profit gained. So, there I am, tagging and folding clothing, when Morticia walked in. "I want chicken." She was always strong-willed, and patience was not her strong suit. And, I didn't have time to stop what I was doing to make chicken strips. After all, we'd had dinner. This was just a little bed-time snack.
We really should buy stock in Tyson chicken strips - it's always been a fave of the children. "It isn't hard to make. Do you remember how to set the oven temperature?"
"Yeah, you just turn the knob. I can read. I know what to do." She went away, put the strips on one of my good Wilton cookie sheets, and put it in the oven when it had preheated. I could hear most of this from my bedroom, where my bed looked like a thrift clothing store counter. When the timer went off, she trundled into the kitchen. "I can't get it out of the oven!"
Eggbert was using the computer in the living room. I called down to him, "Would you please help your sister with the chicken?"
He went in, then called up, "I can't get the oven open."
What? "Use pot holders!"
"That's not the problem."
Down I came, and immediately saw the problem. Back in the day, self-cleaning ovens had a lever in the front. You locked it, set the temperature, and walked away. When it was done and cool enough, a little light went off, indicating you could push the lever back and admire your clean oven. She had locked the oven when she put the chicken in. So, since the chicken had to cook at 400+ degrees, it wasn't going to unlock until it cooled to at least 375. However, Eggbert, in his zeal to help out, forced the lever. There was no unlocking the oven. Ever. DH and I had a very intense discussion when he returned home that night.
"The stove is thirteen years old. Do you realize how much this will cost to fix it? Do you really want to pour money into a stove that's thirteen years old?"
We went to the scratch and dent outlet, and found a beautiful gas range that had a warming burner, a convection oven, and an all digital display. It cost an arm and a leg, but not nearly full price because it had a tiny dent in the side that would never be seen by a human being, but had been rejected by the person who'd purchased it. We talked long and hard about the price. I promised wonderful meals. We bought it.
When they delivered it, the fellow taking away the old range went to open the oven door. "It won't open."
"I know," and told the story.
"So, there's a pan of chicken in that oven?"
"Yup."
"Two weeks old?"
"Yup, on one of my nice cookie sheets."
He laughed all the way to the curb.
Now, eighteen years later, they can't get the bottom of the oven off because the convection fan cover is in the way. The bolts are rusted and won't come out. The cost to fix the oven would be more than the cost of a new stove. But, this time I'm not looking for bells or whistles. I just want to be able to bake and make scrumptious dinners.
Oh, and make pans of chicken strips, because they still like to do that around here. (I really should look into Tyson stock!)
So, in a week or two, even though I'll be back to the work life, maybe we can pop in a pan of brownies, sit around the Stress Pool, and chat about your favorite appliance story - we all have them! Until next time, thanks for visiting, and take it easy!
Morticia was probably eight years old, and I was all about the children learning to do things independently. After all, I had been working part-time for a few years, and had given birth to our fifth child. Things were hectic - the boys were teens, the girls were in those early grades, and there was a toddler running around the house. Darling Hubby worked two jobs in those days - teacher by day, waiter by night and the weekends. If my hands were busy and a child wandered in wanting something they could probably get on their own, then aha! a teaching moment prevailed.
Back to Morticia and the stove. I was getting clothing ready for a huge children's clothing resale. DH had looked at me the day before and said I would have to do this - at the time, it seemed like more effort than I really had time for - but in the end, it was usually worth it. (That doesn't mean I didn't grumble a little. Okay, a lot.) This one ended up costing us way more money than it should have - not much profit gained. So, there I am, tagging and folding clothing, when Morticia walked in. "I want chicken." She was always strong-willed, and patience was not her strong suit. And, I didn't have time to stop what I was doing to make chicken strips. After all, we'd had dinner. This was just a little bed-time snack.
We really should buy stock in Tyson chicken strips - it's always been a fave of the children. "It isn't hard to make. Do you remember how to set the oven temperature?"
"Yeah, you just turn the knob. I can read. I know what to do." She went away, put the strips on one of my good Wilton cookie sheets, and put it in the oven when it had preheated. I could hear most of this from my bedroom, where my bed looked like a thrift clothing store counter. When the timer went off, she trundled into the kitchen. "I can't get it out of the oven!"
Eggbert was using the computer in the living room. I called down to him, "Would you please help your sister with the chicken?"
He went in, then called up, "I can't get the oven open."
What? "Use pot holders!"
"That's not the problem."
Down I came, and immediately saw the problem. Back in the day, self-cleaning ovens had a lever in the front. You locked it, set the temperature, and walked away. When it was done and cool enough, a little light went off, indicating you could push the lever back and admire your clean oven. She had locked the oven when she put the chicken in. So, since the chicken had to cook at 400+ degrees, it wasn't going to unlock until it cooled to at least 375. However, Eggbert, in his zeal to help out, forced the lever. There was no unlocking the oven. Ever. DH and I had a very intense discussion when he returned home that night.
"The stove is thirteen years old. Do you realize how much this will cost to fix it? Do you really want to pour money into a stove that's thirteen years old?"
We went to the scratch and dent outlet, and found a beautiful gas range that had a warming burner, a convection oven, and an all digital display. It cost an arm and a leg, but not nearly full price because it had a tiny dent in the side that would never be seen by a human being, but had been rejected by the person who'd purchased it. We talked long and hard about the price. I promised wonderful meals. We bought it.
When they delivered it, the fellow taking away the old range went to open the oven door. "It won't open."
"I know," and told the story.
"So, there's a pan of chicken in that oven?"
"Yup."
"Two weeks old?"
"Yup, on one of my nice cookie sheets."
He laughed all the way to the curb.
Now, eighteen years later, they can't get the bottom of the oven off because the convection fan cover is in the way. The bolts are rusted and won't come out. The cost to fix the oven would be more than the cost of a new stove. But, this time I'm not looking for bells or whistles. I just want to be able to bake and make scrumptious dinners.
Oh, and make pans of chicken strips, because they still like to do that around here. (I really should look into Tyson stock!)
So, in a week or two, even though I'll be back to the work life, maybe we can pop in a pan of brownies, sit around the Stress Pool, and chat about your favorite appliance story - we all have them! Until next time, thanks for visiting, and take it easy!
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