Households and the Mother of Invention: Part 3

Gaps in the Week-in-Klamath-Falls Migration Planning don't always mean Household splurges.  Sometimes it just means I have to get a little more clever in my inventive thinking.

For instance, rice is part of tonight's dinner, but I've overlooked packing a sauce pan and lid.  The only thing I have on hand which is along the lines of what I need is a cast iron skillet and foil (by the way, foil?  Excellent, excellent invention.  One of the best inventions ever.).  I'm not about to go out and waste a precious household splurge on a rice cooker, so here is the result - which by the way, worked very well:

  

 

Perfect rice.  Some of the best I've ever made.

Not quite a gap in the planning, but a hole, for sure, is laundry.

While we do have access to a coin operated washer and dryer, I rarely remember the quarters needed to run them.  I suppose I do  keep the apartment's laundry area in the back of my mind for catastrophes – which are not unlikely given we are still in the final throes of potty training – but for several little things dirtied, meet my K Falls no-coins-necessary clothes washer: 

The Listerine did manage to sneak in a cameo, but is not a part of the process.  ...Although things would smell mintily germ-free.

Hot, hot water and soap.  Swish swish swish.

 

More hot water.  Rinse rinse rinse.  No fabric softener though - haven't gotten that clever.

As for the dryer, I use an old technique my mother taught me for delicates that require air drying.  After rinsing the articles, I wring them, lay them flat on a towel, roll the towel up – sandwich wrap style – and then proceed to step on it.  Step, step, step, STOMP STOMP STOMP.

 

 

Please ignore the unpainted toenails and the house pants.  Yoga pants and a pedicure - that's all I ask.

Then the little things are hung with care in the spots of the house most likely to assist with their drying.  

Yeah, I wonder about the neighbors.  But they wonder about me, too.

In this colder, wetter season, prime drying real estate is on the drapery rods, directly beneath the heating vents.  The example above is the living room picture window.  When not being used as a dryer, it gives us nice little views like this one:

  There are a family of pheasants that live in this little cove of trees.  We've been able to watch them quite a few times.  They don't say much to us; I secretly wonder if they frown on my clothes line in the front window.

Random Facebookness

And if you join Facebook, here is some of the stuff you'll have to put up with (especially if you become my friend):

Facebook Savvy

I must admit, I'm a Facebook fan.  I'm a fan without being an addict (yes, it's possible) and I wouldn't even call myself an avid Facebooker.  I can go several days without even logging in (urban legend has it that there are some poor souls incapable of  doing this).  I don't do most of the applications available on FB (Farmville) and I don't believe I'm a fan of anything not directly related to a friend (i.e., although I do enjoy hugging, I'm not a fan of it on FB.  This includes breathing and not-getting-murdered-with-an-axe).

Facebook is fun and I do owe it many thanks for making it easier for me to keep in touch with friends far away and in worlds very different from my own (no alien jokes here, please.  It'd be too on the nose).

During a random visit to urbandictionary.com today, I was amused to see that they included a definition for something I'd just recently been discussing with my sis-in-law Anne.  (See Anne?  It IS a real thing!)  And I felt I absolutely must share it with you, my fellow and future fellow Facebookers:

Vaguebooking

An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.

Mary is: "wondering if it is all worth it"
Mark is: "thinking that was a bad idea"

Example:
"Have you talked to Mark? He's vaguebooking again. I wonder if he's back with Mary..."

Opposite:
Tammy is: "in line at the grocery store"

If you're not already a Facebooker, I suggest you join.  Remember, you CAN always stop whenever you want.

Happy Hearts Day: Our First Date

I realize Valentine's Day is often deservedly maligned and overrated.  A source of guilt and disappointment.  A reminder of things lost or things not yet arrived.  I well know all the reasons to avoid the day of red and pink.

But I, as I may blog on later, do like the day.  Lord knows I waited long enough for THE guy to come along before I gave my own heart away for keeps.  During the long wait, I did my share of solo Valentine's Days; hung out with girlfriends, bought my own chocolates, watched Meg Ryan movies.  Result: I'm pretty balanced when it comes to the big Puffy Hearts, Over Priced Roses, One-More-White-Teddy-Bear Day.

So that being said and my qualifications out there, I welcome the holiday.  And to celebrate its coming arrival, I post a picture of the very first date of Jason Kantola and Jessica Nunn.

Alas, my legs were so tan.  ...sniffle.

Households and the Mother of Invention: Part 2

Every so often, I find that I've left something out of the Week-in-Klamath-Falls Migration Planning, not just oh say, a can opener, but something that simply cannot be solved with the business end of a hammer.

On these rare occasions, I am required to make a household splurge.  I do try to keep these splurges as infrequent as possible.  But sometimes, they have to happen. 

In this case, the something left behind was a knife.  This was what I had on hand:

There are teeth there, but when the chips are down, they're more like gums.

The cutlery we keep at the apartment is from one of the picnic backpack sets we got when we got married.  Good stuff, but really just made for infrequent and preferably romantic excursions, not for the serious housewife looking to make dinner for her family in her sparsely furnished second home.

I needed a knife that could slice and dice.  Mr. Butter-Knife-with-the-Gum-like-Teeth was not going to get the job done.  So, enter the splurge.  I packed up Siennalee and we headed down to Fred Meyer, which was the closest thing to a home store I could find in the town.

And for $5.99, we found this:

 

No cute little teeth, but he'll get the job done.  Dang it.

Now, let's be honest; my Henckels back home will not be shaking in their knife block at this purchase, but for the K Falls apartment, the Hampton Forge will be juuust right.

Let's be honest: who would you rather have on your side in a dark alley?

 

Especially a dark alley with an ill-tempered onion and a pepper with dark intentions.

The nice thing about the K Falls Household splurge?  One less thing to have to remember during the Great Migration Planning.  The downside?  Future garage sale fodder. 

Households and the Mother of Invention: Part 1

As most who know us are already aware, my little family is split between two cities right now.  Weekdays find Jason in Klamath Falls, working hard Monday through Friday afternoon when he braves the winter pass to head home for the weekends.

Siennalee and I spend our days in our Albany home and, about one week a month, travel down with Jason to stay that week with him in our little apartment in K Falls.

Visiting is one thing.  Living is a whole ‘nother ballgame.  Essentially, we now have two households.

Our first household is our charming house in Albany, completely outfitted with the comfortable, the familiar and the cherished things we’ve put together through our years as a family.  Our second household is the cozy little two-bedroom apartment in Klamath Falls, more like a duplex than an apartment, and about 5 minutes away from the main JELD-WEN campus.  Jason can walk to work.  He loves that.

We are attempting to run two households without the expense of two households.  Anyone who has attempted to do this is now nodding knowingly at their computer screen.  It’s not a job for the faint hearted.

Our K Falls apartment is virtually bare.  I’ve managed to finagle a few things down to make it a little homier.  I’ve picked up a couple things at Goodwill.  Siennalee and I have created artwork for the bare walls.  And then there is the great migration of household items that travel down with us each month for our week in Klamath.  Picture Charlton Heston leading the Israelites out of Egypt in the Ten Commandments.  Yeah, like that.  Only Jason doesn’t normally do the whole head-to-toe robes thing, we have an Infiniti instead of a camel, and we’re not too worried about any Egyptians/Albanites pursuing us with spears, chariots and evil intent.

Every so often, my Week-in-Klamath-Falls Migration Planning has holes.  Case in point – tonight’s dinner.  Cuban black bean soup.  Quite tasty.  Klamath Falls caveat: one must have a can *opener* in order to access the black beans in the *cans* of black beans.

Solution #1: wine opener’s beer bottle opening feature.
Solution #1 failure: the opener was meant to pry, not pierce.

Solution #2: hammer and knife.
Solution #2 failure: knives don’t care to be pounded.  They pierce, but only in one area.  And they can get really nasty when angered.

Solution #3: hammer’s claw end.
Solution #3 success: the claw is sharp enough to pierce and deft enough to pound over and over again in a little line of piercings.  Then the claw is able to – very carefully – pull up the newly-pierced jagged strip of can metal so the little bean gems can be accessed.

The cans fought back, but you can see who won - eventually.

Man, nobody messes with The Claw.

 I have a new found respect for the saying, “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

Pictures That Pretty Much Guarantee One Day They'll Put You in a Home.

Meet Me at the Pole

It’s been one of those melancholy, slightly-off days.  Odd little things happened, which by themselves weren’t a big deal, but together they grew to kinda be a cloud in my sunny sky.  Days like today make me think about running.

I’m not a runner.  I never have been.  Three out of four years of high school found me going out for track (mostly for social reasons. Okay, purely for social reasons) and although I “specialized” in field (honestly, “specialized” is so wrong, it should’ve been I “sub-par’d”), I still had to run in practice.  And I was not a runner. 

My track coach was a monster.  A real live monster.  And a runner.  He was a running monster.  He’d run and run and run until we found him puking his guts out in the bushes alongside whatever country road he had dragged us out to to run.  He was not empathetic to my non-runner plight.

So I did what any good non-running girl would do in my position.  I cried.  I cried and cried and cried.  (Bonus fact:  he was also my Algebra teacher and I cried for every Algebra test he gave me.  What can I say; I preferred not to do numbers.  Or to run.)  But I still ran.  I ran and cried.  I got pretty good at it.  But still not good enough to place at any meet, of course.  Even if they had an event that incorporated running and crying, I’d still not have placed.  I’m just not a runner.  I do, however, seem to be an excellent crier.  

My track coach, aside from being a running monster, was a brilliant youth pastor (yes, he was all-purpose.  We went to a small school, okay?) and he used to incorporate life lessons into everything we did.  Ignoring my tears and choking sobs, he’d run alongside me and say, “See that telephone pole?  Just up there?  All you have to do is make it to that pole.”  Then the pole would come, and just before we reached it he’d say, “Now see that green mailbox?  Right there?  Now just make it to that green mailbox.”  He’d continue this until we reached our goal, which was usually like a block.  (He was no dummy; he knew what he was working with.) 

But he did succeed in part; he imparted to me an important life lesson.  A running life lesson which I’ve incorporated into many a season of life: if I can’t see the end, or I can’t see ever even making it to the end, or I can’t see what the end even is, I can at least make it to the next telephone pole.  Then the next green mailbox.

I used that running lesson to make it through the rest of high school.  I used that running lesson to make it after I quit college, broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and entered the workforce world.  I used that running lesson when Jason was activated with his Navy Reserve Unit and sent to Kuwait for the first year of our daughter’s life.  I picked a “telephone pole” – a holiday, an event, a visit, an appointment and told myself just to make it to that one.  Then, just before that one arrived, I’d find another landmark to reach. 

I’m incorporating that running life lesson now.  My next “telephone pole”: I’m big on holidays.  You can bet I know just what I’m going to make for Jason for Valentine’s Day.  Once I’m within shouting distance of the Happy Hearts Day, you can bet I’ll have picked another landmark to head toward.  I don’t know when this particular leg of the race I’m in will end, or how.  I just know that I’ll be making sure to have that next telephone pole in sight. 

And after that, the next green mailbox.  Some seasons of life are just a marathon.  I may not be a runner, but I know how to run.  Even if I have to cry a little along the way.

Dance Class!

Our little girl has always been active.  We knew right away that we'd want to make sure an activity was always available to her.  When music class ended a year ago, Jason and I kept our eye out for a new something that would be just right for Siennalee.  And now here it is: dance class!  One hour, once a week, it's actually a mix of beginner ballet, tumbling, and some dance.  Our first class was last week and Siennalee was so excited.

She got a tutu for her birthday from Auntie Anne, Uncle Paul and the Cousins and we've been busy practicing some basic moves.  She's got moves, baby.

 

 

One of her favorite moves is the simple jump.  She employs this move a lot.  A.  Lot.

 

 

 My excited little ballerina

 

 Dance class was a little intimidating.  She needed to watch a bit first.  

We'd decided to leave the tutu at home to make sure she had full range of movement until she's learned the moves and is comfortable with them.

 

 Watching time was over and after some mommy-encouragement, she joined right in.

 

 After warm-ups, the class stretched.

 

Then it was time for some fun.  The rolling exercise was right up her alley.

 

Is there anything cuter than kidlets sitting on a balance beam?  I think not.

 

Siennalee was in her element on the mini-trampoline.  

We've really got to get one of those bad boys...

 

 Aww, hi cutie.

 

One of the fundamental things Siennalee will learn is the ballerina curtsy.  

Here the teacher is showing Siennalee how to point her front toe in the first of the three-part curtsy.

 

This is the part where the teacher split the class into two groups: the performers and the audience.  She said that every good performer needs to know how to be a good audience.  

Excellent life lesson, folks.

 

It is hard, though, to sit in the audience.  

Siennalee's mama knows this all too well.

 

Sometimes we just can't help ourselves.  We gotta dance!

 

Finally!  Time to be a performer!  

(Note the little girl standing in the "audience" area - she's feeling the audience-performer-frustration, too.)

 

Siennalee is engrossed in the performance.

(The "audience" girl has moved herself back into the performance, lol.  There's her grandma, fishing her out.)

 

Siennalee followed the routine fairly well.

 

 Class's end.  I think she looks happy.  ;)

Here's to many more happy ballerina moments!

Back... and Blogger Than Ever

Well well well.  Looky what the cat dragged in.  Yes.  It is I.  Back from various and sundry dangers, toils and adventures; one of the worst involving a very stubborn case of Holiday Potty Training Regression which is still in the twitching stage of the Bugs Bunny death throes.  It's been quite a month-and-a-half, indeed.  But I won't bore you with the details.  If I'm very lucky - and by extension, YOU - I'll upload the pictures I took in two and a half cameras, unload the words still crammed constipation-like in my brain, and weave it all into interesting, entertaining, and hopefully mildly-inspirational-at-times blog posts.  And if not, well, we're no worse off than we were before.

To Blog... or Not to Blog

I was born for blogging.  Really.  If you put a tiny computer screen on my forehead, you’d be shocked (and hopefully amused, if not horrified) at the commentaries, random bits of trivia, sarcastic remarks, and storylines that continuously run like breaking headlines and stock prices across my brain.

Now the problem isn’t me having material to blog, it’s actually getting it from brain to blog.  If I was a much more organized person I could probably be more successful at this.  But for now, juggling toddler, house-on-the-market, day to day meals, laundry, errands, and throw in bits of designing and photography – not to mention those miscellaneous things which do roll around - and you’ve got a Jessica at her full capacity.  Blogging, writing and reading are forced to live in the spare time, shoved up against the walls of impossibility and insanity. 

It’s with admiration tinged with longing that I read other mommy blogs – reveling in their daily experiences and the way they – against all odds – manage to be industrious and witty and capture it all for the encouragement, exhortation, and entertainment of little ol’ me.

For now, my own dear readers, I hope you’ll be content with my random postings.  I do enjoy you and hope you continue to enjoy me – when I can pull the blog-trigger.  Maybe I’ll make a New Year’s resolution to put blogging up there with, I don’t know, cooking and cleaning, and then my blog can enjoy some welcome regularity (as I navigate a messy house and flee a hungry and angry toddler).

Or, maybe I can finally get that USB port installed in my head…

The Flintstone Dilemma

A big change happened in our family, not too long ago. My little girl went from getting the vitamin drops I’ve given her since she was an infant to getting a daily, big girl, chewable vitamin!

Standing in Costco (alone, of course, which allowed the following-), I perused the children’s vitamins and weighed the various pros and cons of each. Sugar content? Gummy versus chewable? Mommy-guilt levels (because as all good mommies know, mommy-guilt is the secret ingredient hidden in just about everything)...

Mommie Guilt:  It's not overt - but it's there.  For instance, see where it says for children 2 & 3 years of age to "chew one-half tablet daily"?  Yep, you guessed it - she's been getting 'em whole.

...By the way, we're really expected to guillotine these things?  Really?

Finally the choice was made: Flintstone’s Vitamins!

I made my purchase and left, feeling very excited to be taking this next step of the Big Girl Journey with my little girl.

Aw, hi there, Fwed and Bawney.

I couldn’t then foresee several problems. The first being, my 3-year-old doesn’t have a clue who the Flintstones are. I think this is an issue with most contemporary toddlers, unless their parents hunt through random cable channels that run ancient cartoons at odd hours and can then DVR said cartoons. Or possibly the parents find them on YouTube and commence education thataway.

But not having that foresight here in our home, I’ve managed thus far to circumvent the issue by, every morning, telling her the name of the lucky character who tumbles out of the vitamin jar and into her chubby, outstretched hand.

Which brings us to the second problem. When something’s so cute and has a fun name, “Barney Rubble,” “Dino,” “Pebbles” or “Bam Bam” – how can the kid be expected to NOT play with it? Once named, our Flintstone vitamins began taking all sorts of side adventures on the way to their proper destination. Only this morning I had to assure Siennalee that her little purple guy - this time it was the alien… was there an alien on the Flintstones? - that he definitely would not do well venturing down into the bread machine as it hummed and bumped along with dough.

See?  Aliens.

And the third and last dilemma, which is perhaps the most disturbing: Am I the only parent who finds it disconcerting to announce a cutesie name and character to a wide-eyed toddler holding the wee stamped vitamin and then follow it up with, “Now eat him”?

I really should’ve gone with the gummies.

Thankful

“How’s your house going?”  A friend asked me at our last MOPS.

“Stalled,” I returned, then added frankly, “In fact, everything feels stalled right now.”

And it does.  House.  Baby.  Body.  Moving.  Church.  It’s all stalled.  Waiting for something?  A jump start?  New spark plugs?  Just more time?  I don’t know, and it’s a tough place to live.

Suddenly here comes November.  November:  The season we remind ourselves to remember to be thankful.  Allow me to be painfully honest when I state that this season of life may very well be one of my hardest seasons ever in which to remember to be thankful.

There you go.

I said it.

It’s out there.

I’ll say it again:  Life right now makes being thankful very, very hard.

I won’t run down a list detailing the current and past hardships that have visited us this past year; those close to us know them all too well.  Those who don’t know might possibly begin searching old posts or calling me - or instead begin warming up to send me a well-intentioned message exhorting me on to thankfulness.  And yes, all my training and upbringing shout at me and quote scriptures and teachings as to why, in spite of everything, I should still be thankful. Be thankful in EVERYTHING!  In EVERYTHING give thanks!

But here’s where I live:

Sometimes the cloud of a heavy heart can turn the natural sunshine of thankfulness to cold shadow. 

Sometimes thankfulness can feel like a mockery to a heart that has days of burning sorrow. 

Sometimes when I remember to be thankful, it turns on me; at some unknown point – today, tomorrow, months from now – everything will change, and these things for which I’m thankful now will then undergo a profound adjustment.  Some will stretch.  Some will break.  Some will simply go away.  But all will be changed.

It can be very hard to be thankful; to purely and simply “give thanks.”

But yet somehow, deep inside, I acknowledge that it’s still important.  I still push myself to do it.  Why?

I find the term “give thanks” woven throughout the Bible.  Sometimes God’s people were told to request things of God in order that, once those requests were granted, they might then give thanks (1 Chronicles 16:35).  Sometimes God’s people first had to give thanks in order that God may then grant their requests (2 Chronicles 20:20-22).  Sometimes God’s people gave thanks spontaneously when things were good; sometimes they just gave thanks because they knew they should. 

Jonah gave thanks after the whale spit him back onto dry land.

Daniel still gave thanks, even when it meant the lions’ den awaited him.

Even David, throughout all of Psalms, gives thanks in all manners and circumstances –sometimes in joy, sometimes in tears.

In Romans, the Word also talks about those who do not give thanks – “For although they knew God, they neither glorified Him as God nor gave thanks to Him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened.  Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools…” (Romans 1:21-22, emphasis added.)

All through His Word, God encourages, reminds, and requires us to give thanks because, to put it one way, that seems to be what’s best for us.

It’s easy to rattle off a list of the things in my life that I love.  I always love them, even when I’m crying for the things I still yearn for and the things lost in this life. 

But I think being thankful and giving thanks goes deeper than merely regurgitating happy lists.

I’m called to be thankful and to give thanks to God so my heart and life are released from my own desperate grip and God can move more freely.  I’m also called to be thankful so my thinking does not become futile; so my heart does not become foolish and darkened.  This can easily happen when I’m only focused on the shadowy, heartbreaking things of life.  When I do not make the choice to give thanks – to remember all the things God has done, all that He will do, and all that I continue to ask and believe Him to do –  I tighten my grip on my heart and my life, and I spiral down into futility, foolishness, and, ultimately, darkness.

This doesn’t mean that, even after making the difficult choice to give thanks, life is suddenly all sunshiny and rosy again.

God knows that.  It’s why the Word sometimes terms it to “sacrifice thank offerings” (Psalm 50:14, 50:23, 107:22, emphasis added).  Of course, this idea can get very theological and detailed – areas I tend to avoid – but what this tells me, very simply put, is that God knew that giving thanks wasn’t always going to be a joy.  Sometimes it would hurt.  Sometimes it would cost us.  Sometimes giving thanks would be a sacrifice. 

That’s where I live today.    

So here are a few of my thank offerings, a small list of goodness and blessings, which God has poured out onto this foolish heart:

My wonderful, beautiful little family – remarkable husband, marvelous daughter, the promise of children to come and those that await me in Heaven.

My loving, supportive, treasured-beyond-value mother and brothers; my closer-than-a-sister sister-in-law Anne and precious nieces and nephew and those that await me in Heaven.

My godly in-laws, aunts and uncles-in-laws, and fabulous cousins-in-law from whom Jason and I and our children are blessed with a beautiful heritage and who were very important reasons I said yes.

My beautiful home, for as long as it remains mine.  The adventure and promise of another wonderful home down the road.

The kindred spirits I’ve met and whose friendships continue to bloom and grow and bring beauty to my life; the promise of new ones in another plot of earth down the road.

The sweet friends of old who continue to mature and blossom and fill my life with spiritual fruit and loveliness and those who return from time away to bless my life now and then.

The small talents God placed in me that have found root and nourishment in this chapter of my life.  May they grow on!

This is just a small list which, when I read it, inspires more thankfulness and gratefulness than I can include in one already-sprawling blog post. 

I’ll likely read it again and again though, perhaps making another – a private – list to remind me that, though life may feel stalled right now, that's not all there is.  And I'm thankful for that.

Sometimes You Just Can't Wait to Go Back...

Ahh, Cannon Beach... the crisp, cool, coastal morning of my 34th birthday, and a rockin' mug of  Thundermuck.

A Clean Peace

And now - a tirade.

For several days now I have been attempting to clean our refigerator.  Noble cause, you say.  And I would agree.  Except for this fridge.

This fridge is a fridge like no other.  During our pre-child, apartment dwelling years, it was only a happy dream of which Jason and I hardly dared speak.  THE refrigerator - the one we would one day buy when we bought our first home.  Our hopes were high.

Then, we bought it.  THE one.  The shining, black beauty of a fridge with all the features that had danced like proverbial sugarplums in our heads.  We settled it carefully in our new home.  We were in love.

Things went well - until the drawers began to lose little slivers of white plastic.  Where were they coming from?  Could we glue them back on, somehow?  Then several small wheels appeared - apparently broken off from regions unknown.  Again, we could not find their home.  They were relegated to live, gypsy-like, in the back of the fridge; in the wilds behind the drawers.

I began to feel stirrings of concern.

Then, the fridge tried to kill us.

It was summertime; Jason was away at his two-weeks training with the Navy Reserves.  Siennalee and I had just gotten home from being out when - sniff sniff.  What was that disturbing odor?  I tracked it.  Unsettling memories were surfacing in me - memories from childhood when the spatula or random plastic cup would fall to the bottom of the dishwasher and melt on the heating element.  It was a burning stench that told one "something is very very wrong."  

I tracked the burning stench to the fridge.  Opened the doors.  HEAT resonated out!  STENCH of melting, burning plastic!  The fridge lights glared at me.  I closed the fridge doors quickly.  Opened them again.  GLARE!  STENCH!  Closed them again.  Ran back and forth in a frantic little line of panic.  Finally, I opened the doors again and now saw the light cover that was literallly dripping away from the burning lights.  The lights were not switching off.  

I ran to the garage and pulled the breaker, heart pounding in my ears.  Who would help?  Jason was away.  Sears!  They would know what to do. 

The Sears guy came out promptly.  "Good thing you came home," he threw over his shoulder as he looked over my fridge, "The whole thing coulda gone up in flames."  He stepped back, surveyed my fridge, scratched his head and said something in technician-speak.  What?  He repeated it.  

"You mean,"  I tried to interpret his words in easier-to-understand girl-language, "it's my fridge's motherboard?" 

What?
 
"My fridge doesn't know to turn off its lights?"  The motherboard.  Somehow, my fridge was not listening to its motherboard and the lights were not shutting off.  My fridge was in rebellion.  My fridge was a teenager.  Great.  This was not the happy dream I'd dreamt with Jason throughout our years of enduring apartment refrigerators.

"But we bought a Kenmore,"  I said, helplessly, "Kenmore and Whirlpool - those are your best brands."

The Sears guy, after somewhat trying to conceal a smirk at my precious naivety, explained that those brands had long ago been bought out by the cheaper brands.  They were all the same now, he confided.

I was dumbfounded.  

Whenever we'd done any household appliance shopping, I'd been adamant to Jason that we would only buy Kenmore, Sears' best brand - at least, it had been Sears' best brand back in the college days that I 'd worked part-time for a small appliance repair shop.

But now, apparently, things had changed.

So, almost $500 later, my one-year-old fridge had a brand new "motherboard" and a new plastic light cover and two spanking new light bulbs.  Our beautiful, wonderful fridge.  The fridge that had cost more than my first car.  I was brokenhearted.

"Could this happen again?"  I asked the Sears guy, fearfully.

"Might."  He shrugged.

"So... what brands should we look for the next time we buy?"  I asked the Sears guy, weakly. 

"Doesn't really matter," He told me, matter-of-factly.  Apparently now buying appliances was going to be a crap shoot.

All this my fridge and I reminisce of as I clean the drawers, ignoring the shedding plastic splinters and wipe the walls, hoping the lights go back off after I shut the doors.  At several points as I clean, the lights randomly shut off - which I take to be a good thing - the fridge is listening to and obeying its motherboard.  I close the doors and let the fridge re-cool, reasoning that if I'm kind to the fridge, perhaps it will continue to be kind to me and my family.  No more attempts on our lives.  I appreciate this.

So now, after several times of closing the doors, grabbing a book and letting the fridge re-cool, ignoring the random plastic pieces being shed - now my fridge is clean.  We live in an uneasy peace.  But it's a clean peace... for now.

The Big Girl Journey: Milestones

 This weekend a new milestone was achieved in the Kantola household.    

 

Daddy took a break from college football to tackle the project.

 

 The instructions proved that while they were written by someone who probably spoke English, the writer himself had most likely never actually assembled, disassembled, and then reassembled one of these bad boys.

 

 Little helper.

 

Did Daddy want the Phillips or the flat head?

 

 It's hard to tell in the still picture, but here Siennalee is mid-jump - a sure sign that she's excited.

 

 Um guys?  This isn't looking so great...

 

 Ah, that's better.  Even the cow approves.

 

 Everybody needs a helping hand every so often - even a little one.

 

 Joy!

 

The finished project!

(Temporarily minus the adorable window valance.)

Oh!  What a cute little big girl bed.  :)

A Girl and Her Cow