Shopping with Goats, er I mean Kids

I was recently at Target, just getting some basic supplies; you know the milk, soy milk, toys for the dog, and new Halloween decor. I find a trip to Target relaxing and one of my favorite mom's afternoons out.

Nothing will disturb my shopping bliss, not even the screaming children or the people talking on their cell phones, or the cranky sales clerks. I'm there so much that I have my favorite clerks and they are never cranky. LOL

So there I was on the bread aisle (not on the list, but you never know, some bread could be on sale) when I met up with the first screaming toddler. He was apparently demanding frozen waffles . . . oh and out of the shopping cart where his mom had him pinned down with the seat belt. I could see by the look on her face she was not enjoying her venture to Target. I wanted to whisper to her that I've been there, done that, and didn't even get a t-shirt.

Photo from: www.life123.com

It brought back memories of my children demanding things, or my youngest who did his own shopping. I once reached the check out counter and there were tampons, lots of candy, a container of muscle builder powder, some shoes (not in his size since he couldn't read yet), and best of all, some condoms (the containers are very pretty you know). That's when I started making him ride in the cart, regardless of his whining about walking or wanting.

At the grocery store I would also make him ride in the cart, usually in the back. This only sounds like a good plan until you get to the checkout stand and the clerk offers to get you a new package of hamburger because yours has holes in it. I assure you, it was my son, merrily decorating the package by poking little holes with his tiny fingers. Or the brick of cheddar that had a bite out of it. She offered to get me a new cheese, I told her that was my son. The bread package was a little squashed and she automatically said, "Your son?" Um yup. He was like a little goat that day, eating everything. He ate crackers from the package, took bites out of the apples, and sat on the toilet paper until it was smooshed flat.

But I, crazy as it sounds, miss those days. I often imagined what my offspring thought about a huge store like Safeway -- literally you could buy anything there. And to a toddler, that's magic, until the mean mommy won't buy sugary, teeth decaying cereal. So rude.

Other peoples screaming children don't bother me either, I have nothing but sympathy from the tired looking mommas. People talking loudly on their cell phones are just annoying and make me want to follow them around to find out what happened to great aunt Thelma that had gall bladder surgery; it's like a story you never hear the ending.

from: www.sdkacm.com

As a final note, my children are almost grown up and instead of going to the store to throw things in the cart, they leave me notes on the fridge with their lists of "need to haves" or "we're out of." I still refuse to buy sugary cereal and I often only buy want is on my list. I do believe the goats learned the fine art of list making. Smart goats!

Bread . . . I have to have my carbs!

 

Warm Masterpieces

by Elaine Hagebush (1996)

Baked deep, crispy brown,

bread resting on soft kitchen towels.

Yeasty odors fill a kitchen,

drawing all the family to its warmth.

Battered bread knife resting nearby,

a cube of butter, opened and ready, waiting.

At long last sounds of crunching crust,

slicing crispy skin, exposing succulent spongy depths.

A masterpiece layered with butter,

steam still arising,

mouths watering, craving, wanting.

Teeth tearing into the soft, warm delicacy.

Everyone’s had their fill, the kitchen towel

strewn with dark brown crumbs,

the cube of butter nothing but a sliver,

not a crust of bread to be found in all the kitchen.

Cats Love Owning a Pet Human

  Pixie, luxuriously stretched out in my bed, our daily fight for prime bed real estate begins again. She waits for one of us to get up, sometimes tricking me into getting up by demanding food or shredding paper that may or may not be important tax papers. The minute my feet hit the ground she is on my side of the bed, curled into a little ball, snoring and purring at the same time.

                I love to watch the news in the morning, in bed where it’s warm and toasty and I won’t wake up my sleeping offspring too early. My husband, immune to the TV being on, snores on and ignores our cat shredding, meowing, demanding feline.

                This morning I went to fill my coffee cup and there she was when I got back to my bed, so I moved to the stuffed chair in front of the window in our room (I call it my thinking chair). I enjoyed myself, on this beautiful, rainy coffee sipping, news watching morning. Disgruntled that I would not be coming back to bed, Pixie jumped down and came to the ottoman and meowed and meowed and meowed, which I interpreted as, “I would like to see out of that window. Open it now, woman, open it now.”  So I pulled the blinds up and she jumped up to the back of the chair, surveyed her kingdom, meowing at me occasionally. I was too busy sipping coffee to see if she was just commenting or needed anything.

                I got up to refill the coffee cup. I really should just move the machine up to my bedroom in the morning. Gone two minutes and get back to find Pixie, curled up on my afghan, hand crocheted by me. Her sleeping on my afghan is okay but she is kneading away at it with her little sharp spiky claws, most covered with soft paw covers. She has this blissful cat look. I booted her, anyway. Rudely. She meowed at me and stalked off to the bathroom to perhaps poop in my whirl tub bath again. Too bad I keep water in it now. What a drag. She came back and meowed at me. Insistently. So I returned to the bathroom and gave her fresh water and stirred the existing full cat dish. No, Pixie does not own me, not at all.

                I wandered back to my chair, with a paperback book and turned the volume down on my way past the TV. To my astonishment and chagrin, there was the stripy beast, in my spot, again! So, I figured I’d go down and stretch out on the sofa. Meow, meow, meow. Seated in prissy cat style at the bottom of the steps, she glared at me until guilt overcame me and I came back to my flowered chair. The couch was hard to sit and read and sip my coffee without spilling anyway. Right, if that’s what I want to believe. My cat just manipulated me into coming back to her domain.

                I sat in the chair and sipped and went back to reading. Pixie jumped up on the arm of the chair and placed her head on my arm, making it hard to turn pages. I pushed at her and she didn’t move, so I let her sit on the arm of the chair until, in her quest to have the best seat in the house, she bit my book. Really! Now my cat is a book-ivore. Eating and sampling paper from the shred pile isn’t enough? Nope, apparently a book is her new delight, leaving her little sharp teeth marks on my book like a toddler teething. I’m just glad it’s not a library book, now that’s hard to explain.

                My morning routine began as the news ended and the soap operas began. Making the bed, which for the moment was cat-free and shuffling around aimlessly, as we humans are prone to do. Pixie tried out the chair, but apparently it was no fun to be there if the human was off doing two-legger stuff, so she crawled back into bed, on the man’s side of the bed, trying to get under the comforter. And yup, last I checked she was contentedly purring and snoring on his pillow. Sorry dear, you’ll want to change your pillow case for tonight. The cat has won.

The Labor that Came Later!

Written by Elaine Hagebush

October, 1997

Megan and her Grammy

This job I hold is not for wimps, it's true.

Today the chores begin, another mess!

Expensive furniture is gone -- this was blue!

For Cheetos fingies passed this way -- my stress!

A sofa, green no more, is that Kool-Aid?

Poor kitty licking peanut butter fur.

Thy floor twice scrubbed, but clean it never stays.

Oh stop small knave, no snack in here, dear sir!

Most mothers labor harder after birth.

The doctors fees include no owners manual;

Give up, get down to play awhile -- all mirth!

And add some fun, buy a cocker spaniel.

          All moms one day wake up and joy to find

          the Cheerio brown carpet is divine.

Happy 19th Anniversary!!!

David and Elaine at our Rehearsal Dinner

            David and I said “I Do” 19 years ago today, in the most beautiful ceremony I have ever imagined. Our ceremony was held in the beautiful Methodist church we were both attending, with an amazing pipe organ and a full choir (anyone that knows David will find this not the least bit odd). Not one thing went wrong that day (that I remember anyway) to mar our perfect day.

                Recently I watched a movie called Timer, a very scientific, futuristic movie about a dating company marketing a small device, implanted on the clients’ wrists that counts down, to the second, when you are destined to find the love of your life. And not just a good spouse, no this company guarantees you will find your soul mate, the one in a million, the one that is THE one. Well, first of all, the implantation device looks a little painful and perhaps not the best fashion statement for those fashion minded among us, not only that, the movie proves that perhaps there’s a tad more to finding your soul mate than using technology. I certainly was thinking of how I met my spouse 19 years ago as I watched the movie.

                I met David at church one afternoon, as he busily rounded up any and all single woman that had attended church that day. Since I had my 2 year old clutching my leg and climbing me like a flag pole, I really could not believe when this man, who I had never even seen, asked, no stated, “You’re single . . .  come on over the Pedro’s restaurant for a planning meeting for the new Single Group.” Okay, hello, Mr. Moustache man, how do you know I’m single? Don’t you see this monkey kid climbing on me, chanting, mommy, mommy, mommy?  Do I have, “Single, done with toad-like men” on my name badge or something?

                My jaw dropped and I stuttered and stammered, as my aunt reached out to take my daughter and said, “Go, have fun!” I was thinking, as I drove to this restaurant, what in the world was I getting into? So far my dating life had consisted of dating men who could very easily win no personality awards or worst boyfriend in the world contests. One guy stood me up, after I got a babysitter and drove my daughter 20 minutes both ways for a date that did not happen. Another one thought that dating could very easily just be drinking a few beers and then maybe going to another bar. Nope, not good dating material so far in that department, so I figured okay, I’ll go to the single’s group and then just say, “no thanks to the single dudes who would no doubt be there.”

                It ended up being a MUCH different luncheon that I though. First of all, we all sat at a long table and planned some fun events we could do, and not one topic included “finding the perfect spouse.” David sat across from me, joking with all the people at our end of the table. I could tell from his personality that the man had never had a problem fitting in any social situation, so it was no surprise to learn he was a Marketing Product Manager at a local biotech firm. I also found out that he was very easy to joke with and the laughter went on all afternoon. I have to admit I felt a little safe, chatting with him. I had seen him enter with the other planner of the group, Susan, and my assumption was that he was dating Susan, which made him safe to talk to. No chance of getting hurt or being disappointed.

                Imagine my surprise when I received a phone call that evening to tell me what a great time he had had and how glad he was that I had decided to join their group. A few minutes of conversations and I found out he was NOT dating Susan and was currently single. Uh oh. The little warning bell went off in my head and I felt that skidding feeling of my emotions crashing into each other . . . but I thought, what the heck, let’s just see where this goes. David was off to the East Coast for a weeklong conference, but he wanted to be sure we set something up when he returned since, he’d then be off on another business trip (ah, a traveling marketing dude). We set up the date, a fun walk along Laguna Beach with breakfast on the beach and ice cream later. I was impressed that not only did he mail me a post card from Chicago, but he also called during the week, just to be sure we were still on for Saturday. This guy was serious about our date and wanted to be sure all his “duckies” were lined up.

                Our first date was so much fun. We cruised down to Laguna, a beautiful picturesque city in Southern California, where we dined, right on the beach. After our delicious brunch, we walked the beach and had ice cream and talked and talked and talked. When he dropped me off at my apartment that night, I thought to myself, I hope he calls me back.

                Done!  I was trying to get my toddler into bed (kind of a long process, being a single parent, there was no one else to play double the meanie on bed time),when the phone rang. David wanted to know when we could go out again. I knew during church service the next day, as he walked by with the other choir members and he gave me that little smile, the one that says, “Later, right now I have to sing Hymn #2203.” Oh boy, I felt a little jolt or tickle up my spine that is so hard to describe. I wonder if I had a timer, like from the movie, would it have been easier to see he was the one? What if the Timer said he was NOT the one and I ignored him? We dated less than a year and he proposed. We were married September 6, 1992, slightly a year after we met. I never doubted he was the one and, to this day, I truly believe it was the best decision I have ever made in my whole entire life. Who needs technology when the heart is the best indicator of true love?

Knock, knock!

  There is one door to door salesman that will probably never troll through our circle again and I don't even feel bad about it. I find it alarming to find a stranger, on my porch, selling anything after I have read about houses being cased and the story of the woman raped by the magazine sales man in her neighborhood a few years ago.  Plus it’s just annoying, I mean, I could be stamping a cute card or something and I have to be interrupted to tell some guy to SCAT.  Read the sign on my door, dudes! Do I have to add “No Sales of any kind”, just in case you don’t know what solicitation means? 
 

He HAS to have googly eyes!

            After receiving so many of these door bell intrusions one day, I called our Police Department information line to find out exactly what the laws are protecting citizens of our city from door to door solicitation. I found out that door to door selling of any kind is allowed in San Ramon only if you have a permit from the city of San Ramon to sell, and you have checked in with the police department to alert the city you are selling that day, which I’m pretty sure most of these people do not do. They also are not allowed to go to a door if there is a sign on the house that says, “No solicitation.” I have actually seen a full size van drop off 4 or 5 adults with clipboards and then the van pulls around the corner and waits for the 4 or 5 people to make the rounds. Then he picks them up to drive them to the next neighborhood. (Seriously, who buys magazines from a guy on their porch anyway?) 


            Yesterday my friend, Katie and I, minding our own business, scrapbooking and merrily cutting out owls, ladybugs and trees with our fancy Cricut die-cut machines, were interrupted from our creative endeavors by a funny knock on our door. You know the kind that is in a rhythm. Thinking it was our daughter’s little boy she babysits; I opened it and said, “Hi, Timmy!” Only nope, not a 3 foot child, it’s a young 20 year old, 6 ft guy standing in front of me, in some kind of alarm company polo shirt with a clip board and a stupid grin on his face.

            The hair stood up on the back of my neck, not a good sign either, even if you aren’t a salesman bugging me on my front porch. At least this guy had all of his teeth and they were not capped in gold, with writing etched into them, like the scary, smelly guy last year. I always look through the peephole before taking my garbage out to the curb on trash day now. That is just not something you want to see first thing in the morning. I almost had a pee accident, like our dogs, who by the way, were napping at the time. Some guard dogs. Don’t worry though, when I screamed and dropped the garbage in front of this guy's feet and slammed the door, I’m pretty sure he got the message. He left anyway.

            Yesterday’s incident wasn’t anything like that. I wasn’t scared, I was annoyed. He interrupted our crafty time and that’s just wrong. Our exchange went something like this: (I’ve tried my best to get it exactly the way it happened, but let’s face it; I sometimes add things to embellish or, you know, fill in the details.)

Alarm Sales Dude: “Hi, my name’s Josh (that wasn’t really his name, but I forgot since I was too busy thinking "I wish I had my scissors with me, or at least the pokey tool I use to install brads in my scrapbook pages") and I’d like to tell you about this amazing home alarm system I'm selling.”

 Me: “Didn’t you see my “No Solicitation” sign right by the door bell?”

 Alarm Sales Dude: “Oh, so you don’t like getting the newspaper, magazine people, right? Do you have an alarm? Because our alarm won’t allow anyone to cut the phone lines to your alarm system, it’s better."

Me: “I don’t like being sold ANYTHING on my front porch, did you know you need a permit to sell in San Ramon? Did you check in with the city of San Ramon Police Department today?”

Alarm Sales Dude (now backing off the porch, one step at a time): ”I have a permit, (Which I see is, in fact, clipped to his polo shirt and he is trying to show me.) and I have a permit in San Ramon.”

Me: “Oh good, because the next call I’m making is to the police department to make sure you have a permit. Also, you can’t go to doors that say, “No soliciting.” That’s against city laws.

It was a googly eye day!

            I shut the door. Not slammed, just shut. And where were my dogs anyway? They barked hysterically when the knocking first commenced, but then, lazy beasts, just went back to lounging. No milk bones for you today. Ugh. Before I could get back to my stamp table, I see the sales guy through my front window, jogging to his 4 door sedan, throwing his clipboard in through the open window. He zipped away from the curb, quickly down our street.

            Good, now where was I? Oh yes, googly eyes on the owls are going to make them perfect and the best paper crafted owls EVER. I look up and Katie is staring at me. Yes, Katie, I did in fact chase off a salesman. I’m not going to even call it in to the Police Department this time, I’m pretty sure the dude is up at McDonald’s, in their bathroom, throwing up. No one interrupts my crafty time. No one.

O'Neill ignored the squirrels and now look!

Squirrel Sheriff, on duty

Loki and I took a long walk today up to the picturesque Eugene O'Neill property, located high above he town of Danville. Once a thriving ranch, the O'Neills raised chickens and Eugene wrote some his famous plays here. The National Park Services now offer tours of the O'Neill's property, called the Tao house, and some of the grounds. Loki and I ventured up the path to see the burial site of "Blemie," the O'Neill's beloved Dalmation. Loki, with his long doggy tongue hanging in his goofy way, made sure to mark every bush he could and looked with interest at the cattle that mooed at us from the fence. He did not seem to care that Mr. O'Neill penned Blemie's Last Will and Testament, but he did note the squirrel hanging out near the smelly cow pasture and an old bathtub . . . maybe used to water the cows, now a thriving meeting place for the squirrel metropolis.

There are tours of the house itself, but Loki, not invited, being a dog and all, was not interested in the inside of the house. He preferred to scope out the abundance of rodents that seemed to dot the hillside like ants . . . they were everywhere you looked, some even brazen enough to dart right across Loki's path. Standing up and surveying the villages, no cities, they have created far and wide, the little brown creatures scurry about their rodent way. Things to do, burrows to dig . . . on the look out, always on call.

Really, do squirrels care about people signs?

Apparently the squirrels have multiplied so much they have invaded Mr. O'Neill's garden and have dug up some of his prized planters. I wondered why there would be so many squirrels in one place, don't the hawks and snakes eat some of them? I was also very amused by the sign, made of cardboard, that someone is using to block the bottom of the gate. It reads "Squirrel Barrier" and has been munched all along the bottom of the sign, probably by, you guessed it, a squirrel.

Front of the Tao House

I saw so many squirrels and ground squirrels that day I dreamed about them that night. The house was crawling with them, pathways and roads and the house itself caving in. I don't think I've ever seen that many rodents in one place . . . so I went home and did a search on the plays that Eugene O'Neill wrote and guess what? Not one was about a squirrel! Not even a mention of squirrels in any of them! I checked, I searched. Nada. Did the man know what would happen so soon after his death? The squirrel invasion is on! If only he'd written something about the little brown rodents, maybe they would not haunt his house! Perhaps instead of the Iceman Cometh, he could have penned, the Squirrels Cometh. Just saying.

Loki, certified in Squirrel Hunting

  

Loki would like to know if the Park Services needs any help . . . you know, in rounding the buggers up. He's available.

I'm not a June Bug, Really!

The June Bug and the Gaggle of Geese

By Elaine Hagebush, Jason Mraz lover

Teenagers are known to love, no ADORE singers and actors and buy posters and beg to go to concerts and wear records out. Remember when we had records and not CDs or MP3 version? I never had a crush on a singer when I was a teenager and well, that’s sad, I guess. I loved lots of music, but I didn’t buy Teen Beat or other teen magazines or records of any of the famous teen musicians or hang posters on my walls. It wasn’t until last year Jason Mraz came into my life via my very good friend, Tatiana. My heart melted when I heard his first song. Jason’s songs speak to me . . . the lyrics are thought provoking and catchy, they are hip, and Jason Mraz, well, I’m not going to lie, he is HOT, especially when I see that fedora. I read his Tweets, his blogs, and his Facebook statuses and his philosophy of love the Earth reminds me of the hippies of the 60’s. Okay, yeah, maybe I stalk him online, I admit it, but before you say, “You Cougar!” he’s 33 so NOT a Cougar, hello! I’m 29, yes, even though my oldest is 22, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Jason embraces a philosophy that advocates love thy neighbor and be a thoughtful consumer. The Santa Barbara concert last year left Tatiana and me loving him even more. The concert resonated with his voice and his band singing our favorites as well as new tunes, with the most beautiful stage background. Jason announced that it was created using reclaimed water bottles, all saved from the landfill. The lights shone through them, giving the whole stage a beautiful surreal effect. Tatiana and I thought,” WOW!”

Tatiana and I planned and plotted (come on hubbies) to see him again at the Mountain View MUSE benefit concert,  playing with a very impressive lineup like the Doobie Brothers, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Bonnie Raitt . . .  what the heck, we were in for a treat, right? How could we pass that up and the husbands agreed!  We were on Cloud Jason 9! Oh my goodness though, what a different mix in that crowd compared to Santa Barbara. First of all, I want to say that I’m mostly conservative, but more of a middle of the road maybe. I believe in live and let live. If you want to drive your gas guzzling huge vehicle to the store to buy a single olive, okay, kind of stupid, but do it. While you are there, don’t forget whatever else it is you put in your martini. Also, tip the guy that pumps that gas into that huge Hummer and be sure to buy organic olives.

Sitting in this Mountain View audience I felt like a June bug that just flopped into a gaggle of hungry geese. Shhhhhh, don’t look too conservative and yeah, I really do use natural energy! Liberals and radicals loudly declared their thoughts and feelings on ways to get the whole world to only use wind energy and picket those nuclear power plants. There were dozens of people wearing NO NUKES on their shirts and hats. Lots of hippie type people; tie dyed shirts, long dred lock hair, and the totally spacey look on faces, probably because there was so much pot smoking going on that I may have had a contact high, if I even knew what it felt like to be high (happy, right?). That didn’t bother me, these folks appeared more peaceful, easy going, rather than anything else. No, the scary, “don’t even think about your damn olive in your huge tank of a vehicle” people would liable to be all over my little June bug self if they suspected that I wasn’t buying into the entire “picket anything philosophy.” Save the world, save the planet, save yourself, and don’t think about doing anything without conserving. Maybe I won’t have that olive in my martini after all.

I felt peace descend on my June bug self when Jason appeared on stage. I felt like maybe what the hippy guy in the row in front of was feeling. It was just as amazing as Santa Barbara. His songs were powerful and thought provoking. He not only talks about conserving, I mean the guy does not use bottled water, only  reuseable containers. Tatiana and I were in heaven as we listened to his melodious voice sing to our souls and refresh our renewal in the whole Save the Planet and a tranquil peaceful relaxation descended on us like we had just left the best spa in the world. We sang along, even through the shushing couple in front of us who angrily wanted us to just be quiet. (We did sort of yell, we love you Jason, loudly.) We shushed them back . . . it was our Jason, baby! Look at him up there . . . we’re Lucky and he’s the Remedy! Then the Night Watchman came onto stage and POP, gone was the feeling of Jason peace.

This guy, dressed in black leather, STOMPED onto stage. He SCREAMED his lyrics and pounded his guitar, brutally covered with graffiti done with a huge black magic marker declaring . . . “ARM THE HOMELESS.” Yikes, his lyrics called for us to go to war with the government, with the big brother, with anyone who doesn’t believe in his way of thinking. His hat was a militant German style army beret with a big silver star on the front and his face . . . it was angry and threatening. I was frightened and I looked at Tatiana and saw her eyes were huge, and she had a look that said, “Get me or him out of here and where’s our Jason?”  Many people in that audience looked enthralled with what this Watchman was singing (if you call that singing). David and I whispered we were a little alarmed and the couple in front of us shushed us. Again. We’d been shushed earlier when David sang along with a Doobie Brother song. Seriously, I could not believe he was shushed for singing, (telling David to NOT sing is like telling him not to breath), but for talking during a shouting Night Watchman? Incredible.

The Night Watchman did not want to help the environment. He was not interested in how I buy an olive at a time or my gas guzzling vehicle (which I do not do, by the way own), although I think long and hard about ways I can help, there can be NO help if you are going to be militant and demand violence. I was SO wishing Jason could come back to the stage and sing his song, Life is Beautiful. Life is good and as I was thinking this I couldn’t help noticing the hippie dude sitting next to the “shushing” couple. He’d been smoking, (I know, not allowed, but the kind of thing he was smoking wouldn’t be allowed even IN the smoking area.) He was so relaxed and enjoying the concert. The whole concert. His tie dyed shirt and his long grey dred locked hair hung loosely on his thin frame and his head was bobbing to the beat so hard I was a little afraid he would get whiplash. I smiled as I imagined a long line, illustrating the Conservative and the Liberal population, with me smack in the middle and the Hippy at the far end . . . way out there. The Night Watchman was on the warrior path end, save the Earth at ALL costs, with guns and violence if need be. If I had to pick one camp or the other, I’d join the peaceful old dude, I bet Jason would be there too. Happy in his heightened state of chilling, enjoying the music, save the world, save the planet, but do it your way, one olive at a time. And please don’t eat me, I am NOT a tasty June bug, just ask Jason, he’s a vegetarian, and I’m sure he buys his olives in bulk, from organic fair market vendors. Just saying.