A year and a half ago when Taryn got her fish tank for her birthday, she named some fish. Now, forty fish later we just don't bother. I honestly think she looks forward to them dying because she likes to go to the pet store and get new ones. Anyway, we feed them, and care for the tank. Have the water tested regularly, and it is always perfect. But still, fish after unnamed fish dies.
Last night, Taryn felt sick. She had been in and out of the bathroom thinking she might have to throw up, and finally lay down in bed. "Stay". She told me. I thought she meant until she fell asleep, so as soon as her eyes were closed for a few minutes I would stand up to leave, and the moment I would she would open her eyes and say, "sit". It was kind of creepy. A few times I tried to escape, and each time she knew.
After about an hour of sitting on the edge of her bed staring at the lone unnamed fish in her huge fish tank, I named him Dave. I stood up to feed Dave, since I had nothing else to do, and of course Taryn opened her eyes and glared at me. I told her, "I am just feeding your fish. I named him Dave." She didn't feel good, so she didn't care about anything, including what I named the fish. She told me to name it whatever I wanted to. I sat back down for a while waiting for her to sleep, and enjoyed watching Dave explore the plants and sunken ship, and just...keep...swimming. He was kind of cute-ish. By the time I left the room another 20 minutes later, I kind of liked Dave. I hate pet fish. I think they are pointless to have and are basically the same as flushing money down the toilet. But the little zebra fish, Dave, and I had a moment...or an hour and twenty minutes worth of moments. It was as special as human/pet fish in a tank interactions can be.
This morning, Taryn woke up feeling better, and informed me that Dave was not acceptable for the fish to be called. "I know I said you could name it whatever you wanted, Mom", she said, "but it can't be Dave". ("Can't be Dave?", I thought. "I don't think I can handle this. Dave IS Dave"). "It has to be Dave THE FISH, she said." Phew. Dave the fish was what I called Dave already, so I was fine with make "The Fish" officially part of his name. Disaster in my mind avoided.
So, unnamed fish is now "Dave the Fish". I should be pleased, but I just can't help but think that Dave the fish is doomed to die any moment. I mean, when we didn't notice him, or talk to him, or care about him...he was probably going to live forever. But now we NAMED him, and had a CONVERSATION about him. That is pretty much the kiss of death for little old Dave the Fish. I feel bad. And, quite frankly, I am already pretty depressed about the future passing of the unnamed fish named Dave the Fish who hasn't died yet.
What have we done?
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
This One Kid
In my class this year, there is this one kid that keeps catching my heart.
He is kind, and sweet, and smiley, and quiet in a room of vibrant kids that tend to overshadow, and over shout him. He's new to the school this year, and still has that look like he is always only half sure that he is in the right place. This one kid loves to draw, and is a talented little artist. Little is an appropriate adjective too, because he is the smallest little guy in the room. School tends to be a little bit hard for him. The staying focused, the not losing things, and the math. Poor kid. For the first few weeks of school, I thought he would cry whenever I said that the class should get out their Math books. But, this one kid never whined and complained. The students around him, who are all getting A's, they whined and complained and said it was too hard. This one kid just walked up quietly and said, "I need help." This one kid needs so much help with Math. So, so much. But he waits patiently, and does as much as he can without me. And while I help the A students, who really only need me to watch them work and reassure them that they are doing right, I worry about this one kid.
Yesterday, I got a note from this one kid. It was a note that made me smile, and want to cry, and also gave me full assurance that ,Math or no Math, this is going to be one successful kid. The note was a skillful piece of communication, surrounded by flowers and a puppy drawing. It started off with him relating to how I feel. How it must be so frustrating and disappointing for me when he loses or forgets his homework. How very sorry he is to make me feel that way. Then he went on to compliment me, indicating that I am the "most beautifulest" teacher that he has ever seen. And finally, just when the time was right, he finished with a request to please make up his missing work because he will do it all and would I please accept it?
I'm telling you, when it comes to late work, if it is past one day late I don't accept it. But for this one kid, on this one day, because of this persuasive essay that I don't even think he knows that he wrote, I will. That simple note brought me a peace and certainty for this one kid's future. He does work hard, and apparently he is a natural communicator and negotiator. This one kid will probably own his own business one day, where people like me work for him and balance his books, and call him ,Sir. And he will be sweet, and smiley, and quiet as he signs the paychecks. And as he does, he will dream up things that are bigger, and better than Math could ever be.
He is kind, and sweet, and smiley, and quiet in a room of vibrant kids that tend to overshadow, and over shout him. He's new to the school this year, and still has that look like he is always only half sure that he is in the right place. This one kid loves to draw, and is a talented little artist. Little is an appropriate adjective too, because he is the smallest little guy in the room. School tends to be a little bit hard for him. The staying focused, the not losing things, and the math. Poor kid. For the first few weeks of school, I thought he would cry whenever I said that the class should get out their Math books. But, this one kid never whined and complained. The students around him, who are all getting A's, they whined and complained and said it was too hard. This one kid just walked up quietly and said, "I need help." This one kid needs so much help with Math. So, so much. But he waits patiently, and does as much as he can without me. And while I help the A students, who really only need me to watch them work and reassure them that they are doing right, I worry about this one kid.
Yesterday, I got a note from this one kid. It was a note that made me smile, and want to cry, and also gave me full assurance that ,Math or no Math, this is going to be one successful kid. The note was a skillful piece of communication, surrounded by flowers and a puppy drawing. It started off with him relating to how I feel. How it must be so frustrating and disappointing for me when he loses or forgets his homework. How very sorry he is to make me feel that way. Then he went on to compliment me, indicating that I am the "most beautifulest" teacher that he has ever seen. And finally, just when the time was right, he finished with a request to please make up his missing work because he will do it all and would I please accept it?
I'm telling you, when it comes to late work, if it is past one day late I don't accept it. But for this one kid, on this one day, because of this persuasive essay that I don't even think he knows that he wrote, I will. That simple note brought me a peace and certainty for this one kid's future. He does work hard, and apparently he is a natural communicator and negotiator. This one kid will probably own his own business one day, where people like me work for him and balance his books, and call him ,Sir. And he will be sweet, and smiley, and quiet as he signs the paychecks. And as he does, he will dream up things that are bigger, and better than Math could ever be.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
My Grandpa.
My grandpa lived in, what felt to my little girl eyes like, an enormous house. I don't know actual square footage or anything, but it was massive. It was a duplex in Worcester, Massachusetts. He and Grandma lived on one side and rented out the other. I never saw the other half, but my parents lived there when they were first married, and my siblings knew it as home once upon a time. From their stories, I know that the other half was a exactly the same as my grandparent's house which had a basement, first and second floors, and an attic.
The house made an impact when I walked in. Everything about it was interesting, and to me seemed overwhelming, yet wonderful! For one thing, there was always a record playing. "In a spin, love is the spin I'm in, under that old black magic called love..." or "I'm just a gigolo, everywhere I go, people talk about me..." among others. Super cool, swing style or jazz music that just made you want to sing along. Which he did. As well as tap his toe, dance a little, and let his little granddaughter dance on his feet. As I held on tight, even with the faint smell of mothballs from his sweater filling my nose, it was a special place to be. In the closet was an accordion that I am fairly sure my dad played as a boy, and old red leather bound story books that my sister and I used to run upstairs to read as soon as possible. The house had yellow shag carpeting, and thick, plastic covers on the couches that made the back of your legs pool with sweat on a hot summer day. There was a huge mahogany (or so I am guessing) dining room table with, what I feel very strongly were, lime green seat cushions. I would almost quite literally kill to have that now. It wouldn't go in my house AT ALL, but OH the memories that I have of family dinners in that dining room table. The kitchen had black and white tile floor, and on the fridge were wooden, painted magnets of rainbows, cats, and sailboats. There were paintings on the walls done by my aunt when she was in art school,and..did I mention that yellow carpet? Yes, the house was a huge presence, but the larger presence still was that of the man inside.
My grandpa. I can't tell you when I fell in love with him but I certainly did. Maybe it was during one of my dances on his feet. He was the perfect grandfather. Like, cast directly out of a hollywood script. He wore corduroys, and v neck sweaters. He seemed to always wear a cap when he went out, as a true gentleman should. He was Greek---like full on, 100%. Spoke it, tried in vain to teach it to us, went to a Greek Orthodox church, and passed on his Greek heritage to me and my siblings well enough that for a few truly American (little bit of everything in our blood) kids, if you ask us our heritage we all say we are Greek. We are also other things, Irish, English, who knows what else...the only heritage we identify with is the Greek part.He was the cook in the family. He made us some killer blueberry pancakes whenever we went to visit and spent the night, as well as a great Greek cinnamon chicken dish that we had quite often. I wish I could remember more of his specialties, but he had a lot of them! Grandpa went to Cornell for a year which I thought was so cool because only my SMARTEST friend got into Cornell.
Grandpa was not cuddly. He was gruff. When my grandmother got on his nerves he told her to, "Take a bus Helen". When my mom got on his nerves, he would roll his eyes and fake-agree with her, "Is that right, Cindy? Oh yeah? Yeah, I'm sure you're right, Yeah." Then when she got mad at him for fake-agreeing he would laugh a big laugh like the whole thing entertained him. He said some mildly inappropriate words that only people who have lived through the Great Depression and fought in a World War can get away with saying in front of kids, but they never bothered me. It just added to that gruff exterior that I knew covered a cotton ball soft heart. I think that juxtaposition between the first gruff impression, and the man singing to me as I danced on his feet added to my adoration of him.
I am thinking about Grandpa a lot these days. Partly because the Red Sox are in the World Series. I spent a great many games watching the Red Sox next to Grandpa on the couch listening to him go through all the emotions of life in a nine inning stretch. (He cycled through, "Atta boy" and "What a bunch of bums" repeatedly throughout the games.) Only a true Red Sox fan understands the love-hate relationship. Especially for a fan who loved the team from the 1930's through the early 2000's only to see them FAIL to win the World Series way too many times. Too bad he didn't ever get to see them win one in his lifetime. The other part of my thinking about Grandpa is that his birthday is Thursday. I love that his birthday falls on a "holiday" because while the whole world celebrates costumes and candy, I spend the day thinking of the way my Grandpa loved music, dancing, cooking, and his family. He loved us the way that men of his generation did it, without manicures or hair gel. Just taking care of business. Being there whenever they needed to be, and with an occasional curse word. It was all good. Actually, when it comes to Grandpa, it was all great. I miss that man. Miss him a lot, actually. And today, I am so very thankful for all of the times that we shared.
Happy almost Birthday, Gramps. I hope that bunch of bums doesn't blow it this year! Love you for always.
The house made an impact when I walked in. Everything about it was interesting, and to me seemed overwhelming, yet wonderful! For one thing, there was always a record playing. "In a spin, love is the spin I'm in, under that old black magic called love..." or "I'm just a gigolo, everywhere I go, people talk about me..." among others. Super cool, swing style or jazz music that just made you want to sing along. Which he did. As well as tap his toe, dance a little, and let his little granddaughter dance on his feet. As I held on tight, even with the faint smell of mothballs from his sweater filling my nose, it was a special place to be. In the closet was an accordion that I am fairly sure my dad played as a boy, and old red leather bound story books that my sister and I used to run upstairs to read as soon as possible. The house had yellow shag carpeting, and thick, plastic covers on the couches that made the back of your legs pool with sweat on a hot summer day. There was a huge mahogany (or so I am guessing) dining room table with, what I feel very strongly were, lime green seat cushions. I would almost quite literally kill to have that now. It wouldn't go in my house AT ALL, but OH the memories that I have of family dinners in that dining room table. The kitchen had black and white tile floor, and on the fridge were wooden, painted magnets of rainbows, cats, and sailboats. There were paintings on the walls done by my aunt when she was in art school,and..did I mention that yellow carpet? Yes, the house was a huge presence, but the larger presence still was that of the man inside.
My grandpa. I can't tell you when I fell in love with him but I certainly did. Maybe it was during one of my dances on his feet. He was the perfect grandfather. Like, cast directly out of a hollywood script. He wore corduroys, and v neck sweaters. He seemed to always wear a cap when he went out, as a true gentleman should. He was Greek---like full on, 100%. Spoke it, tried in vain to teach it to us, went to a Greek Orthodox church, and passed on his Greek heritage to me and my siblings well enough that for a few truly American (little bit of everything in our blood) kids, if you ask us our heritage we all say we are Greek. We are also other things, Irish, English, who knows what else...the only heritage we identify with is the Greek part.He was the cook in the family. He made us some killer blueberry pancakes whenever we went to visit and spent the night, as well as a great Greek cinnamon chicken dish that we had quite often. I wish I could remember more of his specialties, but he had a lot of them! Grandpa went to Cornell for a year which I thought was so cool because only my SMARTEST friend got into Cornell.
Grandpa was not cuddly. He was gruff. When my grandmother got on his nerves he told her to, "Take a bus Helen". When my mom got on his nerves, he would roll his eyes and fake-agree with her, "Is that right, Cindy? Oh yeah? Yeah, I'm sure you're right, Yeah." Then when she got mad at him for fake-agreeing he would laugh a big laugh like the whole thing entertained him. He said some mildly inappropriate words that only people who have lived through the Great Depression and fought in a World War can get away with saying in front of kids, but they never bothered me. It just added to that gruff exterior that I knew covered a cotton ball soft heart. I think that juxtaposition between the first gruff impression, and the man singing to me as I danced on his feet added to my adoration of him.
I am thinking about Grandpa a lot these days. Partly because the Red Sox are in the World Series. I spent a great many games watching the Red Sox next to Grandpa on the couch listening to him go through all the emotions of life in a nine inning stretch. (He cycled through, "Atta boy" and "What a bunch of bums" repeatedly throughout the games.) Only a true Red Sox fan understands the love-hate relationship. Especially for a fan who loved the team from the 1930's through the early 2000's only to see them FAIL to win the World Series way too many times. Too bad he didn't ever get to see them win one in his lifetime. The other part of my thinking about Grandpa is that his birthday is Thursday. I love that his birthday falls on a "holiday" because while the whole world celebrates costumes and candy, I spend the day thinking of the way my Grandpa loved music, dancing, cooking, and his family. He loved us the way that men of his generation did it, without manicures or hair gel. Just taking care of business. Being there whenever they needed to be, and with an occasional curse word. It was all good. Actually, when it comes to Grandpa, it was all great. I miss that man. Miss him a lot, actually. And today, I am so very thankful for all of the times that we shared.
Happy almost Birthday, Gramps. I hope that bunch of bums doesn't blow it this year! Love you for always.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
True Confessions of a Mix-Tape Lover
We have a fireproof safe in the house. It contains important papers that would be a big pain to replace, such as our marriage certificate, the kids' birth certificates, and insurance documents. It also contains pictures of me from my childhood, which I can only attribute to having had our house (my parent's house)burn down twice taking with it most of our old family pictures. I definitely don't keep them for my vanity as they are not attractive. I had uncorrected teeth, and my hair ran the gamut from the "Dorothy Hamill" to the "Mullet", to the "Aquanet Overkill" styles. So, yeah, it must be the fires that keep me holding onto a few silly snapshots of my childhood. Do you know what else is in there? A mix tape. It is from my best friend from high school, Katrina. She made it for me when I went off to college (one year before her). I played it on my Walkman a lot when I missed home. It made me laugh, which made me cry sometimes. It had songs we had run onto the court to during basketball pre-game warmups, or songs that we sang at the top of our lungs in the car driving around our home town. She wrote the playlist order on the paper insert, and just seeing her handwriting made me feel less far-away. I haven't listened to that tape for a good 18 years, but I have moved it from house to house, state to state, fireproof safe to fireproof safe with me. I may never listen to it again. That really doesn't matter. Just having it enough. Just catching a glimpse of it when I rifle through that box looking for one of the kids' social security numbers is all I need for the smile.
Last week I kind of got a new mix tape. I mean, it wasn't at all a mix tape, but it was music put on a disc with me in mind. My friend Jessica and I are going to see Blake Shelton at the end of August, and she made me an "Essential Listening CD" with songs from the people opening for him, as well as ones that Blake is likely to sing at the show. It gave me that warm, fuzzy, mix-tape feeling all over again. We went to the Luke Bryan concert together, super last minute, and I felt disappointed that I hadn't properly prepared. Many of his songs caught both of us pleasantly by surprise. It was a repeated cycle of cloudy recognition. Upon the first few notes we would think it sounded familiar, and then he would get a couple lines into it and we would shout, "I love this song! I didn't know he sang this!" It was fun, but still disappointing to not be able to confidently sing every lyric. And so, with that in mind, Jessica made me a modern day mix tape. I love it because she put her time into it. I love it because it shows me how well she knows me. She gets me,and how important my pre-concert prepping is. :) She took time out of her busy life to do something nice just because it would make my day brighter.
Before she gave it to me she said, "I have something for you. It's just a tiny something-no big deal". Maybe for some people it would have been no big deal, but for a mix-tape music enthusiast like me, what could be sweeter? I better make some room in the fireproof safe.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Cool.
Trevor is not styling. His hair is usually sticking up somewhere, either in the back in true bed head fashion, or at his forehead where he was blessed with a serious cowlick. He dresses himself every day, and he almost always matches, but sometimes he doesn't. He tells on himself when he passes gas saying, "Excuse me, I tooted". Not cool, though I gotta give him props for the manners. Sometimes he falls down for no apparent reason, and Jayme says he has the Andreson head which, in our particular clan of Andresons, means its a melon. He talks an inordinate amount. I mean, really, we have had cause for concern. You may have know of The Never Ending Story as a book, or movie from the eighties. We know of the Never Ending Story as Trevor telling us...anything. It can be a lot to take.
So, is Trevor cool? Absolutely. He is not cool like the Fonz. I mean. He can't fist pound a juke box and make music play, that we know of. (He has never tried.) He is cool the way he notices little things. Like tonight when he was riding his Spiderman bike with the blue training wheels, and he was staring at the ground shouting, "Watch out roly poly!!!!!!!". I looked and saw the tiniest little pill bug by his back tire. I told him how important it is to keep his eyes on what's in front of him when he is riding his bike, and he told me that is not more important than the roly poly bug. "He lives outside, you know Mom? Outside is where we are now, so I am riding my bike in his home. I just can't ride over him." That's a cool perspective for a four year old.
It's cool how Trevor sees everyone as his best friend. When I ask him who his friends are at school he says, "Everyone is my friend. I love everyone." Sometimes he tells me stories about Regan not playing with him, or Dylan making a mean face at him. I get sad, but he just smiles. "It's OK, I just love them anyway". So cool to be able to love like that.
Trevor's imagination is cool. At bedtime tonight Taryn put his stuffed animal monkey up under the back of his shirt where it became trapped. Trevor did two things. First, he laughed uncontrollably at how "tickly" it felt, and second he said, "Thanks for the jet-pack, Taryn", and proceeded to blast around his bed until I could body slam him onto the mattress for bedtime. As a side note, he is currently sleeping with a panda in the front of his shirt and the monkey in the back, just because he never tried sleeping like that before. Cool.
I think Trevor is as cool as any kid I have ever known. He is brave enough to try new things, and honest when he makes a mistake. He is obedient, and smart with just the right amount of mischief mixed in. You know, enough to make him a fun little guy to be around, but not so much that we have to keep him on a leash in the airport. He makes great facial expressions to make his stories come alive, and since the stories are, well, never ending, the expressions help. I could go on and on, and I would like to think that all mothers could. We are raising cool kids. Cool in all different ways, by all different definitions of the word. They ooze with passion, drama, love, talents, quietness, humor, or thoughtfulness beyond measure...all of which make them each cool in their own way.
In real life "cool" doesn't wear a leather jacket or drive a convertible. Cool is Trevor, just being who he is.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Richie who?
Have you heard of Richie Sambora?
Your answer probably depends who you are, how old you are, what your musical inclinations are, and maybe even just how familiar you are with celebrity goings on. I first heard of him back in 1986 when I started listening to a little rock band called Bon Jovi. Don't worry, this isn't going to be yet another blog with me gushing over Bon Jovi. (Not exactly.) Richie always seemed like a nice guy from Jersey. He wasn't polished; he was Polish, from a hard working family. Nothing but respect there. :) I have always heard that he was handsome, though I could have never noticed that being myself blinded by the light of Jon Bon Jovi.
Even though I took no particular interest in details of his life, I have always generally liked the guy. I like watching him interact with Jon on the stage. When I go to concerts I like to sit on "his side", on Jon's right hand side, so I can have a good view of him rocking out! He has amazing talent. His guitar playing speaks for itself, and I have always known he did a lot of the song writing with Jon, but not long ago I realized that the man can also sing. I don't mean just that he can make "wah wah" sounds in a talk box for Living on a Prayer. Not even just background vocals. The man can S-ING! I don't remember which concert I was at, maybe the Lost Highway tour, but I remember he sang "I'll Be There For You" solo during a wardrobe change for Jon. It was beautiful. Maybe I could focus better since Jon had left the stage, I don't know. :) But I do remember wondering how I had been a BonJovi fan all those years and never really appreciated the scope of Richie's talent.
When Richie went to rehab back in 2011, I was depressed to have to see the concert ( I think it was the Bon Jovi Live Tour) with a "sub" guitarist, Phil X. "Sub" was supposed to mean substitute, but to me it meant sub-par. Phil X (what kind of name is that anyway?) was no Richard Stephen Sambora. I was glad the tour continued, but it was different without Richie. No interaction to smile at between the two front men, no solos to surprise me, and no hat. Richie pulls off the hat like no other. I dealt with it like a champ, but it wasn't the same.
Fast forward the present day. Bon Jovi is on the second leg of a mega world tour for their current CD. They are keeping a schedule that makes me tired just reading it, never mind living it! They are impressing people with 3 hour shows, and a sound that has only gotten sweeter with time. And they are once again doing it all without Richie. Where is he? We don't know. He just dropped out mid tour citing "personal reasons". The band is in their 30th Anniversary year and he quit touring with no explanation to his fans. I, personally, was hoping it was rehab because I can handle rehab, but then they would have just told us like they did in 2007 and 2011. This seemed more serious because no one's talking. People love to yammer on when there's nothing to say, but when there is a lot to say everyone suddenly has nothing to say. I was patient, but as time kept passing I wanted answers. I didn't want answers because Richie's personal life matters to me; I wanted answers because the BAND matters to me. And because despite the money, fame, and Richie's player-esque manner that makes me a little skeeved out by him; I still see a good guy in him.
For a while I followed the discussions on Twitter, and kind of stalked Richie's Facebook page (and maybe even the Twitter posts of his teenaged daughter, Ava) looking for clues. I wanted signs that he would rejoin the tour, and that he wasn't leaving the band. Then, little by little, I stopped caring. I stopped caring because the sad truth is that actions speak louder than words. He may have sung the most beautiful version of "I'll be There For You" that night in concert, but I'm looking now, and he's NOT there. He's not there and all indications are that it is a simple choice, and not a life necessity.
Someday I hope he clears this up, and I hope that when he does I care enough to listen. I probably will. We Bon Jovi fans tend to "Never Say Goodbye". :)
Your answer probably depends who you are, how old you are, what your musical inclinations are, and maybe even just how familiar you are with celebrity goings on. I first heard of him back in 1986 when I started listening to a little rock band called Bon Jovi. Don't worry, this isn't going to be yet another blog with me gushing over Bon Jovi. (Not exactly.) Richie always seemed like a nice guy from Jersey. He wasn't polished; he was Polish, from a hard working family. Nothing but respect there. :) I have always heard that he was handsome, though I could have never noticed that being myself blinded by the light of Jon Bon Jovi.
Even though I took no particular interest in details of his life, I have always generally liked the guy. I like watching him interact with Jon on the stage. When I go to concerts I like to sit on "his side", on Jon's right hand side, so I can have a good view of him rocking out! He has amazing talent. His guitar playing speaks for itself, and I have always known he did a lot of the song writing with Jon, but not long ago I realized that the man can also sing. I don't mean just that he can make "wah wah" sounds in a talk box for Living on a Prayer. Not even just background vocals. The man can S-ING! I don't remember which concert I was at, maybe the Lost Highway tour, but I remember he sang "I'll Be There For You" solo during a wardrobe change for Jon. It was beautiful. Maybe I could focus better since Jon had left the stage, I don't know. :) But I do remember wondering how I had been a BonJovi fan all those years and never really appreciated the scope of Richie's talent.
When Richie went to rehab back in 2011, I was depressed to have to see the concert ( I think it was the Bon Jovi Live Tour) with a "sub" guitarist, Phil X. "Sub" was supposed to mean substitute, but to me it meant sub-par. Phil X (what kind of name is that anyway?) was no Richard Stephen Sambora. I was glad the tour continued, but it was different without Richie. No interaction to smile at between the two front men, no solos to surprise me, and no hat. Richie pulls off the hat like no other. I dealt with it like a champ, but it wasn't the same.
Fast forward the present day. Bon Jovi is on the second leg of a mega world tour for their current CD. They are keeping a schedule that makes me tired just reading it, never mind living it! They are impressing people with 3 hour shows, and a sound that has only gotten sweeter with time. And they are once again doing it all without Richie. Where is he? We don't know. He just dropped out mid tour citing "personal reasons". The band is in their 30th Anniversary year and he quit touring with no explanation to his fans. I, personally, was hoping it was rehab because I can handle rehab, but then they would have just told us like they did in 2007 and 2011. This seemed more serious because no one's talking. People love to yammer on when there's nothing to say, but when there is a lot to say everyone suddenly has nothing to say. I was patient, but as time kept passing I wanted answers. I didn't want answers because Richie's personal life matters to me; I wanted answers because the BAND matters to me. And because despite the money, fame, and Richie's player-esque manner that makes me a little skeeved out by him; I still see a good guy in him.
For a while I followed the discussions on Twitter, and kind of stalked Richie's Facebook page (and maybe even the Twitter posts of his teenaged daughter, Ava) looking for clues. I wanted signs that he would rejoin the tour, and that he wasn't leaving the band. Then, little by little, I stopped caring. I stopped caring because the sad truth is that actions speak louder than words. He may have sung the most beautiful version of "I'll be There For You" that night in concert, but I'm looking now, and he's NOT there. He's not there and all indications are that it is a simple choice, and not a life necessity.
Someday I hope he clears this up, and I hope that when he does I care enough to listen. I probably will. We Bon Jovi fans tend to "Never Say Goodbye". :)
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Spaghetti Squash, BAM!
Theoretically, I love vegetables. In real life, vegetables give me the chills. Not in a good way, but in a literal shaking as a negative physical response to their taste. I will not go into details, but feel free to find my blog "Vegetable Chills" if you want to read more about that. Jayme does not get the vegetable chills, but that is only because he does not give his body a chance. With the exception of raw spinach,which I mix with lettuce in his salads, vegetables are not allowed in. This is what made his newest decision most interesting!
Recently, Jayme decided he wanted to follow the Paleo diet. For those of you thinking, "Paleo as in Paleozoic era? Must be some sort of caveman diet." I know. That was my first thought too. And, you are exactly right. It is great because it takes eating back to nature. A person following a Paleo diet eats unprocessed foods. Things should be organic, and should be eaten the way they grow. Even meats should be natural. Beef, for example, must come from cows eating grass only, since that's what they eat in the fields. Fruits, vegetables, and raw nuts (meaning not salted or roasted, etc.) make up the snacks. And, here's the kicker, a Paleo dieter eats more vegetables than fruit.
Now, I pride myself in my supportiveness of my sweet husband. I am happy that Jayme wants to rehab his typical American, processed food diet, and there are many ways that I can see it being a great fit for him. He loves fruit, meat, and nuts, but "a Paleo dieter eats more vegetables than fruits", and Jayme allowing vegetables to breach his system might be a stretch. I pointed this out, but he insisted that he wanted to TRY, so I promised to try too.
Last night for dinner, I officially tried. I found a recipe from PaleOMG for spaghetti squash & meatball muffin cups. 25 minutes prep. 20 minutes to bake. I could totally handle it!
Jayme saw me fighting to cut the squash and voiced his concerns, stating that "trying" never meant squash. I just kept going. I finally split that squash, made a mental note that it smelled ridiculously like a pumpkin, baked it, rolled some grass fed beef meatballs, and simmered them in plain tomato sauce that I added a bunch of spices to. When the smelly old squash finished baking, I used a fork to get all the threads out. I suppose the threads are supposed to resemble spaghetti, hence the name, but I promise you that I was not fooled. I put the squash threads in the muffin tins, placed a cooked meatball in the center, poured a little egg white on top of each one and then covered with extra sauce. The whole time I was smelling a pumpkin smell that I did not approve of anywhere near my meatballs, but I powered through.
I baked that bad boy until the timer beeped, removed the squashy muffins from their tins, and served some up for my Paleo dieting husband. Thankfully, the pumpkin smell was gone by now, so I served myself some too. I sprinkled some Parmesan cheese on top, and closed my eyes to keep the vegetable chills at bay. Then I took my first bite, and umm, let me just say it was delicious! Mind you, I had to keep the amount of meat, sauce, cheese, and squash well balanced on my fork for it to taste good, but it DID taste good. I ate four of the squash muffins and Jayme ate five. We were full, we were nourished, and we DID it! We both ate our vegetables, and enjoyed them!
Spaghetti Squash, BAM! We owned you!
Recently, Jayme decided he wanted to follow the Paleo diet. For those of you thinking, "Paleo as in Paleozoic era? Must be some sort of caveman diet." I know. That was my first thought too. And, you are exactly right. It is great because it takes eating back to nature. A person following a Paleo diet eats unprocessed foods. Things should be organic, and should be eaten the way they grow. Even meats should be natural. Beef, for example, must come from cows eating grass only, since that's what they eat in the fields. Fruits, vegetables, and raw nuts (meaning not salted or roasted, etc.) make up the snacks. And, here's the kicker, a Paleo dieter eats more vegetables than fruit.
Now, I pride myself in my supportiveness of my sweet husband. I am happy that Jayme wants to rehab his typical American, processed food diet, and there are many ways that I can see it being a great fit for him. He loves fruit, meat, and nuts, but "a Paleo dieter eats more vegetables than fruits", and Jayme allowing vegetables to breach his system might be a stretch. I pointed this out, but he insisted that he wanted to TRY, so I promised to try too.
Last night for dinner, I officially tried. I found a recipe from PaleOMG for spaghetti squash & meatball muffin cups. 25 minutes prep. 20 minutes to bake. I could totally handle it!
Jayme saw me fighting to cut the squash and voiced his concerns, stating that "trying" never meant squash. I just kept going. I finally split that squash, made a mental note that it smelled ridiculously like a pumpkin, baked it, rolled some grass fed beef meatballs, and simmered them in plain tomato sauce that I added a bunch of spices to. When the smelly old squash finished baking, I used a fork to get all the threads out. I suppose the threads are supposed to resemble spaghetti, hence the name, but I promise you that I was not fooled. I put the squash threads in the muffin tins, placed a cooked meatball in the center, poured a little egg white on top of each one and then covered with extra sauce. The whole time I was smelling a pumpkin smell that I did not approve of anywhere near my meatballs, but I powered through.
I baked that bad boy until the timer beeped, removed the squashy muffins from their tins, and served some up for my Paleo dieting husband. Thankfully, the pumpkin smell was gone by now, so I served myself some too. I sprinkled some Parmesan cheese on top, and closed my eyes to keep the vegetable chills at bay. Then I took my first bite, and umm, let me just say it was delicious! Mind you, I had to keep the amount of meat, sauce, cheese, and squash well balanced on my fork for it to taste good, but it DID taste good. I ate four of the squash muffins and Jayme ate five. We were full, we were nourished, and we DID it! We both ate our vegetables, and enjoyed them!
Spaghetti Squash, BAM! We owned you!
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