Holiday Week Mix-Up—Thanksgiving


Kind of have a dilemma here. Since it’s a holiday week and all, I’m going to combine a few posts. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “Crap, and she slacked off last week too!”

Oops. Sorry.

So. Let’s start with prepping:

Around here, folks, it’s getting chilly. Last weekend, at the farm, it was 19 degrees when I got up Saturday morning. Insulation of one’s home is very, very important . . . we knew it was great, because we can’t hardly hear a thing outside when all the windows and door are closed.

Fortunately, they say it’s better to sleep in a colder room than a hot one, because that 19 degrees translated into 55 in the house!

We do not have central heat—and we usually turn the thermostat to 68 at night when we’re in town—but we do have an electric fireplace that’s set to turn off about two hours after we go to bed, and we have a shop heater in the bathroom (turned off overnight) and a heater on rollers in the bedroom area.

And an electric mattress pad.

This is the known around our house as The Best Thing Ever. Nothing beats it for keeping warm, and it’s great for sore muscles too, at the end of the day. That, with a heavy quilt, will keep you toasty.

Until you get up. Ha.

Dressing for the weather, too, is something to consider. Thermal underwear, layers, or even those battery-operated warming boot soles that keep cropping up in my newsfeed . . . Shivering burns calories, which can sometimes be good—like the week after Thanksgiving—but in a survival situation, you’ll be limiting calories in the first place, and a warm night’s sleep will do wonders for your physical health and mental outlook.

Moving on to the remodel:

Last week, the kitchen came out—all but the refrigerator, which got shoved over to block the lean-to door. Good thing we aren’t using that lean-to just yet.

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Of course, this also requires some cooking/kitchen adjustments:

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But—NEXT week, you’ll get to see the progress on the NEW kitchen! Yay! Oh, and while the guys were busy, I set up and wired the CB base unit. Pretty sure, though, that someone else will be installing that 30-foot antenna on the roof . . . pretty darn sure it won’t be me!

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And finally, Fan Friday: Man vs Woman, or “Things I’ve Learned this Week:”

My husband occasionally needs my help with projects, not just the ones we work on together. I’ve learned, over almost 19 years, to wait at least ten minutes before jumping up and running to his side to hold something or whatever.

Unless, of course, it’s an urgent situation with “Hurry, dammit!” thrown in there.

But typically, if I come a’runnin’, I have to stand there and wait for at least five minutes while he recalculates or refigures something. Or looks for a part or a tool. No, guys, five minutes isn’t long unless your wife is standing in one spot listening to you mutter to yourself and wondering if you’re talking to her.

See, if a woman needs help, say, in the kitchen—am I being sexist? Too bad. That’s how we roll around here. Well, not really sexist, but I guarantee you that he’s the one that calls for help with a project and I’m the one in the kitchen—she’ll call you in and hand you a jar and say, “Open it, please.”

There I go again. Sorry. Men ARE typically stronger than women, so deal with it.

But she won’t leave you standing there for five minutes.

Part II of Man vs Woman:

When you, a dude, walk into a kitchen where your wife is preparing a meal, you need to realize that she’s not only chopping an onion, for example, but she’s timing the asparagus in the oven, mulling over which dish to start prepping next, and wondering if she has enough of that one type of seasoning.

While trying to hide the birthday cake topper for the 18-year-old’s cake, in case he actually wanders out of his room before the dinner bell sounds.

Okay, we don’t actually have a dinner bell, and he’s gonna love this cake. Or hate it. Heh.

My point is that, walking into the kitchen and not seeing the mop bucket by the door should NOT prompt the question, “Where’s the mop bucket?”

The bucket is either by the door, outside the door, or emptied and put away and in the laundry closet.

LOOK FOR IT.

If, and only if, it’s not in one of three usual places, THEN you can ask. You are not interrupting the onion-chopping, women are very good at multitasking, you are interrupting her train of thought.

And before anyone says something like, “Your husband USES the mop bucket??” I will tell you that yes, he does. And the reason it wasn’t by the door was because he left it there yesterday, instead of taking it outside and emptying it, and I moved it.

And he did bring it in and he did use it and then put it outside again.

But here’s the cake. What do you think? Too much flashback for the kid?

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Fan Friday—More Offense


No, not football. Not quite. I’m talking about the recent dust-up at Mizzou.

I lived in CoMo for about 15 years. I’m even a Mizzou alum, sorta kinda. Okay, just one semester, and it really stunk, GPA-wise, but still.

I’ve also been called a lot of names over the years. But I guess that’s okay, because I’m white, right? And I have this “white privilege.”

I’ve certainly been “privileged” in my lifetime, and it may have been because of the color of my skin, but it’s not like God said, “Hey, what color do you wanna be when you’re born? Have any preference?”

Besides, if people are complaining because they’re being “offended” by comments due to their skin color, but then turn around and accuse me of “privilege” because of my skin color, isn’t that a little, well, unfair?

I get the slavery thing: black folks sold other black folks to white folks, who worked them to death and held them against their will and usually treated them like crap.

And then came Reconstruction and the black folks were still treated like crap, even when free, and in many cases it’s still happening.

I get that. I really do, even if I, personally, haven’t experienced it.

But.

There’s always a but.

If a black person is treating ME like crap, because I’m white, that’s not okay either. Even if—and they didn’t—my ancestors had “owned” this person’s ancestors.

Because I am not responsible for what anyone did 150 years ago. I wasn’t there.

Neither were you.

So, back to Mizzou:

Some people insulted some other people. This happens all the time. Everywhere. In this case, the insulters were white and the insultees were black. This, too, happens all the time. No difference. None.

I’ve been insulted, and I’m sure you have too.

Do you call on everyone to give in to your so-called demands? Do you call for the resignation of anyone?

Of course not. You fume and stew and maybe even toss an insult right back. You might blog about it.

That’s it. The End. Move on and take care of your own life.

And what’s up with this “safe space” garbage?

On a college campus, or anywhere, you should be safe from physical harm. You cannot legislate or demand that other people stop thinking or saying things you don’t like.

That’s your safe space. The rest, it’s what you make of it. How you react. Wait, what’s that? How YOU react. No one can “make” you think or feel something; not bad, not good, not anything. Your feelings are YOUR choices to make.

Someone once told me that there are four basic feelings: sad, mad, glad, and afraid. If you’re insulted, you’d probably feel mad; even sad. Glad, of course, is off the table. Maybe you’d feel afraid.

Let’s talk about that for a moment.

Why were you afraid? Did the insulter have a means at his disposal, right then, to physically harm you? Probably not. That’s why he was insulting you. If he’d had a weapon and actually threatened you, you could and should call law enforcement.

But words? Meh. Get a grip. People will keep calling you names your whole life. You won’t like most of them. But it’s not legally actionable. Or even protest-actionable, IMHO.

All it says that you’re a big wuss and too tender to be allowed to be an adult. You need a padded room with zero input or stimulation. Do you really want to live like that?

Oh, you want change? Don’t we all. But change isn’t affected by stomping around and screaming about how unfair things are. Change comes from, trite as it is, one act of kindness at a time, one person at a time.

Change happens with conversation and getting to know people—think about it: you’re probably much more forgiving towards your friends, people you know, than you are to a stranger, right? One of your friends can piss you off, and usually, eventually, you get over it. If you don’t, you have bigger problems than I thought possible.