Come in and Laugh at Me

So. I had a little adventure the other day. Zoet and I are doing a pretty good job staying isolated, but we take the occasional day trip. enmasked and socially distanced, of course. All I wanted was a damned scenic drive home. Then this happened, as told to my family's group text. Notwithstanding Jack's Samsung that makes us all green, he's worth a follow if you're a Twitter user.

And then, as you're pulling the U-turn as instructed, you'll wonder if you're supposed to use your blinker because there's no one else around except a passel of policemen, and drive the next 1000 feet looking for another blue light in the rearview mirror.

In case you're wondering what's so special about Great Falls National Park, here's part of it: 

Originally published in Fall 2020

Newsletter 2016

Originally published in December 2016

Holiday Greetings from the Gentiles!

Well, 2016 has been nothing if not eventful. A hinge broke on a kitchen cabinet (stay with me here). This was the third time this particular hinge had broken and it was a corner cabinet and a pain to replace. So, if I had to replace the hinge I might as well replace the stupid door. And I can‘t replace just one door and have a mis­match, so I have to replace them all, so why not get that pull-out pantry I’ve been eyeing forever? And since I’m replacing the cabinets, I might as well move the fridge to where I’ve always wanted it and replace it with the French door model I’ve always wanted, right? But the new stainless fridge would certain make the ivory dish­washer look shabby, so that’s gotta go, too. And with the new appliances and new cabinets, of course I need a new counter, which gives me an excuse to put in a peninsula where the table’s always been. And you know what would really pop? A backsplash that plays off the blue flecks in the countertop. Don’t mess with me, hinges. When I go, I go all in.

Probably my favorite part of the whole project (which also included a new floor. There should be a law against using grout on a kitchen floor) – when they pulled off all the backsplash they found the walls were not sheet­rocked, but were plywooded. “We’ve never seen anyone do this before,” the project manager said. “You never met my husband,” I laughed in response, but secretly confident that a cabinet would never rip away from the wall from being overloaded. Oh, Tom -- always taking things to the next level just because he could. The counter installers called me “Deb” for good reason: Scrawled in pencil on the plywood, and not in Tom’s handwriting, the message, “I’m sorry Deb. Will you still marry me?” As far as I know, Tom only knew one Deb, and she did marry the scribe who was apparently visiting from overseas during the last kitchen renovation. I’d love to know what that fight was about.

In September I spent 6 days in Iceland. I wanted a place where they drive on the right, somewhere I could get to nonstop, and where language would not be a barrier, so Iceland seemed a logical choice. It was the coolest vacation I’ve ever had, in the most beautiful part of the planet I’ve ever visited, and on the flight back I was already plotting my return. Loved it. Loved everything about it.

David had an eventful year too. He and Hannah are still doing well.  Now a junior, he changed his concentration (they don’t do majors at SLC) from theatre production to computer science and advanced math­ematics. That’s almost the same, right? He’s also starting to think about grad school, or what else might come next.

I mentioned last year that Geof would be joining the Army in 2016. He did, indeed, leave for basic training and armor AIT in August. The Army was not a good match for Geof, and the Army agreed to release him from his obligations in Nov­ember. He’s back home now and planning to start school in January in an aviation mechanics program. So while his career plan no longer includes the Army, that experience got him on the path he’s on now, and he hasn’t ruled out returning to service after graduation. So I see a good year coming up for him, too.

We wish you all the best for 2017, but now that weed is legal in Massachusetts … let’s be honest, we’ll talk again in 2018.

                                                                             Linda

http://twoboysfourcatsnodogsyet.blogspot.com                             linda.gentile@ymail.com

Kitchen Update

Before. Note the missing cabinet door in the far corner by the window.

I picked the cabinets first.
Apparently I'm fond of light wood kitchens.

Then I picked the counter. I knew I wanted something
with a little more character than the plain ivory Corian, 
but I loved that  nearly indesructable Corian counter. 
I went with quartz. Apparently these drainage grooves are very European. 
La-di-dah. I just wanted to free up counter space.

My colors. I wanted to get rid of the tile and grout on the floor,
but also knew I didn't want hardwood since you step directly
into the kitchen from outside. I thought about trying to
add a mudroom, but instead I went with a vinyl plank floor
that is actually commercial grade with a lifetime warranty
in residential applications. The planks lock 
and it looks like hardwood, but is very soft on the feet.

Backsplash detail.
I'm not fond of the vast swaths of solid color of plain subway tiles,
but I knew I wanted a solid color with just a little visual interest.
This blue perfectly matches the flecks in the countertop. The grout is an epoxy-type that requires no sealing.
Only the wall behind the stovetop is on the diagonal. The sink backsplash and box window seat are straight..

The famous proposal.
She still loves you, man.

I had a very hard time finding them online when I was calling them handles.
They're knobs and pulls. Duh.

Now, the fun stuff.

Here's my pull-out pantry ... 

... and my broom closet! My brooms
have their very own space now.

The pantry and broom closet butt up against each other,
back to back. These tiny shelves  are perfect 
for the shot glass collection.

I kept my much-loved range, hood, oven and microwave. 
The microwave predates me, but man that thing is a monster,, and has
a convection feature. I put a warming drawer under the oven. 
The drawer has a slow-cooker feature, so you know I'll be trying a pulled pork in there soon.

I always wanted a french door refrigerator, but it couldn't go in its original spot because of the dining room wall, so I switched the oven and fridge locations.
The stovetop stayed where it was originally.

And what kitchen is complete without a pull-down, hidden knife rack? 
I never even knew I wanted one and now it's my favorite part of the kitchen.

I Wish My Dog Spoke English

I know she understands when I say, "Good dog, good dog," and I give her plenty of those, because she really is a sweet little thing. And I'm pretty sure she knows "Sit" and "Stay" if there's a milk bone involved.

But it would be much more helpful to me if she understood a few other colloquialisms:
 
"I'm going to bed after this, so if you don't pee now, you won't be able to go again until the morning." 

"It's a litterbox, not a snack bar."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I'm only going to the washing machine.   I'll be back in 90 seconds."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I've only been gone 90 seconds, just like I said."  

"Get away from that rubbish barrel, please."  

"Have you never heard of toilet paper?"  (The cats could stand to learn that one, too, come to think of it.)

... and the related ...  

"OMFG, Zoet, not on the mouth!"

Happy Birthday, 98

98's birthday was last month, and I gave him tickets to Blue Man Group.   We didn't go until tonight, a month later, because this was the first 5:00 pm show I could get five front row seats for, and I knew I couldn't be trusted to stay awake for the 8:00 pm show.   It was: me, 96, 98, and two of 98's friends, let's call them Curt and Rod. They weren't twins, but if I had twins I would totally have named them Curt 'n Rod.  I am happy to report that I survived the evening without running away screaming, leaving them to take the train home alone spent the evening with four teenage boys. I love all four of these boys, and would run in to a burning building to save any of them but man, oh man, are teenage boys insufferable.

They argued about Pokemons (the plural of which 96 has reminded me more than once is Pokemon, but I say Pokemons because, well, I know it bugs him) and they argued about how long ago 15 minutes was.  They disagreed about 'Droid or iPhone.  They debated the merits of public vs. private vs. parochial.   They each knew stuff that the others didn't know, and they each had to make sure that all the others knew they knew this stuff they didn't know.   Do you remember Charlie Brown's teacher?   By the end of the car ride, that's all I heard.   That, punctuated with the random, "No, you're wrong," and "Shut up," and "You don't know anything."    Good to know it's not just mine.

The other thing I noticed about teenage boys: They havetohavetohaveto have the last word.   Every. Single.  Time.   The last word.  Spoken.  Has to be theirs.   And not someone else's.

See how annoying that is?

All's well that ends well, though. 98 made it home with a piece of spit-paintball-artwork from one of the bits.  As we were leaving I handed him a sharpie to ask one of the Blue Men for an autograph on the way out. The Blue Man did him one better, and swiped a bit of blue ink/makeup/whatever it is off his face and planted a cool thumbprint in the corner.  And the next time we go, we're going to count how many marshmallows that one guy ultimately crammed into his mouth.  Double digits, for sure.

Multiple Choice

I could really use some advice.  Seriously.

So, remember the Great Flood of 2010?   Because the creek behind my house was bringing so much of the flooding to the neighborhood, the city spent a fair amount of time hanging around my house, watching stuff.    They sandbagged the creek, the sandbagged my driveway, and we all got to be good friends.  The foreman, Charlie, had a peek at the cellar before and during the worst of the flooding and arranged for a plumber friend of his to install a sump pump for me, and an electrician friend to install a new outlet, since a pump requires its own, separate, grounded power source.  So that gets all done in the wee hours the day before that second flood, and the whole system worked like a charm.   Sure, I got a couple of inches of water during the second storm, but the week-old water heater and furnace, replaced after the first round of flooding, were unscathed. And dry.  I was immensely grateful, and made them cookies.

Well, the plumber that did the work is a city employee (who did the work on his own time, so no tax dollars involved).   But the only number I have to reach him is the city water department.   Thinking it was his cell phone, I called him on Saturday for a rather urgent plumbing ... ah, let's just call it a "situation".    More about that later.   So the city guy (who remembered the cookies) passed along a message, and the plumber called me Saturday and told me he'd be here on Sunday afternoon.   Well, here it is now Monday morning, and still no plumber.

And in case you're curious, here's the sequence of events:  I came home on Friday night to a wet downstairs bathroom floor and both boys denying any knowledge of a toilet backing up. This was just the first "hmm" of many this weekend, it would turn out.   The toilet flushes fine, but for lack of a better word, it's a little gurglier than usual. Then, on Saturday morning I went into the cellar to do laundry, only to find an inch-deep puddle, about 10 feet in diameter, directly under said bathroom.  With an appropriately audible "harumph" I cleaned this up, did my laundry, and went on with my day.

Ah, but now the plot thickens. The washer drains into a soapstone sink, which thankfully has a greater capacity than the front-loading washer, because when I returned to the cellar to change the laundry, both basins of the sink are filled with water.  Not overflowing, but filled 4/5 of capacity.

And the toilet that was gurgly but working fine? Not so much. Someone flushed and walked away, leaving lucky me to discover another wet floor and another inch-deep puddle in the cellar.  Thank you, FEMA, for that awesome shopvac.

No, I'm not done yet.  There's more.
 
So this morning I'm sitting quietly on the couch with Zoet, and we're watching Good Morning America (yeah, she thinks George Stephanopoulos is hot) and we hear a very distant ... can't quite place it ... barely audible woofing sound from ... is it outside?  Even Zoet noticed it, and I was curious.  It didn't sound like Daisy, our shepherd next-door-neighbor, and it didn't sound close enough to be a dog walking into the Fells right outside our window.  So I pulled a Timmy, and sent Lassie Zoet to find the source of the noise.

One of the boys was in the shower, which is directly over the downstairs bathroom, the aforementioned gurgly-toilet-bathroom. And the running shower was somehow causing air to bubble up through the toilet bowl: hence, the gurgling.  What's worse, as the gurgles continued, I saw the water level in the bowl rising.

So here we are, in a house with an upstairs shower that empties into a blocked downstairs toilet and a downstairs toilet that empties directly onto the cellar floor. (So no shampoo-rinse-repeat today, boys. Today you can take an if-you-really-took-a-shower-why-is-the-soap-still-dry shower.)

I am reluctant to call the city department again to try to get ahold of the plumber I was expecting to see yesterday, and in the meantime, I have found the name and number of a actual plumber who did actual work for us a couple of years ago.   So do I ...

A.)  Wait for the first guy?  And if so, how long do I sit in silence?
2.)  Call the city again and have them pass along another message?
C.)  Call 2-years-ago-guy and hope he remembers us and can come out?

Please advise. Quickly.

Valentine's Day, 1996

It seems to me I'm always mentioning how I find treasures rifling through drawers and files while I'm looking for something else. Today's tale is no different, except I don't recall that I was particularly looking for anything.  I just recently stumbled across the little card I used to tell Tom I was pregnant with Agent 96 on Valentine's Day, 1996. And even with the evidence in my hand, including the positive pregnancy test, which today still shows the [+] (and no, I'm not going to show you a picture of it!), I honestly have no recollection of doing this. I recall the card; in fact, when I was putting together photos for his memorial I wanted to include the card, a small, die-cut tiger.  A little secret between us was that I called him "Tiger", and he called me "Kitten". Eww, I know. What worse, when 96 was born, we called him "Tigger" sometimes. (Remember that rattle Zoet chewed up? It was 96's Tigger.)

Quick, get the insulin.

I remember giving him the card for Valentine's Day in 1996, I just don't recall the whole "I'm having a baby" spin.  How does a person forget something like that?

Usually, events with the second child take a back seat to the first: 96's baby book is complete, including the first day he sat, unaided, in a grocery cart (5 months) and his first fat lip (during the April Fool's Day blizzard in 1997); I sold 98's baby book in a yard sale, factory seal unbroken. The photos in 96's first year album are labeled; I don't even have a first-year album for 98. Of course, I famously have both boys' umbilical stumps in a carton in the attic. They are in the jeweler's boxes my engagement ring and wedding band came in.  Suffice it to say, saving those little belly buttons had me off raisins for a while.

Back to Agent 98. It's hard to imagine a memory burned more strongly into my synapses:. There I was, 40 years old, in the upstairs bathroom: 6-month-old 96 (who was still nursing full time, for the record) in one arm, and there, in my other hand, another [+].

"Tom ... can you come up here for a sec?"

No Snow Days Allowed

One of the early lessons we learned on Kwaj was that a person could, indeed, survive a full year, a complete trip around the sun, without so much as a single snowflake. Four years, in fact. I have made it my life's plan to experience another such existence, but alas, this plan shall have to wait a few years, probably until the boys are in college. But I predict a warm climate for this blogger's retirement years.

Why would I have days like this ...

... or this ...

... or this ...

or this ...

... when this ...

... qualifies as a snow day in San Antonio, Texas?  I kid you not: a snow day. A classes-cancelled, government-offices-opening-late, honest-to-God snow day. Can you see my nephew Isaac inside that heavy winter coat? No? That's because he's in a sweatshirt! For the record, he doesn't even own a winter coat. I own three: dressy, everyday, and a one just for snowblowing. Blowing snow blows.Unlike the Inuit, I don't need fifteen words to describe it. I only need four: It belongs somewhere else.

I have no use for snow. I don't ski, or skate or play ice hockey or make snow angels. I don't make ice cream out of snow.  My nose gets red and stays red the rest of the day. I look like I've been crying, or I've had too much to drink when I come in from the cold.  I really like hot cocoa, but I can make that a summer drink: I'll just turn my air conditioning on full blast. Yeah, that'll work.

Give me a good tropical  downpour any day of the week. It took some getting used to -- that bath water that fell from the sky on Kwaj. I can recall a dreary November day, the first day of the rainy season there in 1998. Maybe I had the a/c set a little too low, because I was kind of chilly. I looked outside before we left the house on our errands (as always on foot with the double stroller; I used the bike with the trailer as little as possible) and bemoaned to the boys, babies at the time, the grey and bone-chilling kind of November day I was so used to and was surely unconsciously expecting. I even took off my usual flipflops, trading them in for  socks and sneakers. Then I opened the door, and the warmest, humidest solid block of air I had ever felt knocked me backwards. Especially during the rainy season, you had to have at least a couple of sets of clothes planned for the day, because you knew you'd get rained on at least once. You had to plan photography ahead, because you had to give your camera 20 minutes to adjust from the dry 70's inside the house to the humid 88 it invariably was outside. The lens would instantly fog over, like eternally living in your bathroom after a hot shower. 

But by golly, it didn't snow once. And we lived to tell the story!

Interstate Adventures

I found myself in Cranston, RI this morning, where Agent 98 had a bowling tournament at Lang's Lanes. (Don't miss the chili cheese fries!) It was our second time bowling in Cranston in as many weeks. He didn't have the best day, but with a high score of 103, he beat his average, and that's really the point anyway.

So I get on the highway to come home after we're done, and notice a couple of interesting buildings that I hadn't noticed on the ride down ... and then another one ... and then I think to myself, "Where'd Providence go?"   I had driven eight miles on 95 South before I realized my mistake.

If that was only the first time I'd ever gotten lost on 95 that would be one thing. Or if it had been the most lost, I could accept that. But I have an even stupider lost than that. One that makes me cringe every time I think of it. Thankfully, I was alone in the car when it happened.

I had just moved to Medford, and had previously had few, if any, reasons to take Rte. 2 west to 95.  I was headed to Waltham (this was in our Costco days) which meant 2W to 95S. After a couple of minutes on 95 I noticed that the Burlington Mall was on the wrong side of the road (and later learned it wasn't even along my expected route). I absolutely believe that any normal, functioning human being, on seeing the Burlington Mall on the left hand side of the road but expecting it to be on the right, would think "Oh, I'm going the wrong way." Totally normal reaction.  But me? I thought to myself, "Hey, when did they move the Burlington Mall?"

So you try waking up with this brain every morning.

January 17, 2011

I have struggled with how to recognize today: what would have been, and what should have been, Tom's 58th birthday.  So I thought I'd share some more moments. In no particular order:

This was Agent 96's first cous cous dinner. About a half-step lower on the spectrum than a Thanksgiving feast, cous cous dinners were a ritual at our home. In fact, on Kwaj we once had a cous cous feast instead of a Thanksgiving turkey dinner. Tom loved himself some Moroccan food. Tom loved himself food, and sharing it with his friends.

We had to put Neko to sleep in 1998, when she was 18 years old. I knew we'd be going to the vet later this day, and my heart knew Tom wouldn't get to hold her again. Poor little Neko looks comfortable in this photo, but she could barely stand, and could no longer walk. A few months before she died, Neko, who had taken to hanging out with Tom in the office (where Tom had jury-rigged a running water fountain out of a plastic box, an aquarium pump, and tubing) and increasingly tired of walking up and down two flights of stairs to the litter box, had taught herself to use the toilet. We were alone in the house one day, just Tom, sleeping 96, and I, when from the kitchen we heard someone using the bathroom upstairs. We looked at each other, and remarked upon it, but it wasn't until days later that we actually saw that little kitty sitting up there, assuming the position.






Oh, how we loved our tropical Christmases. And what better way to spend Christmas Eve than teaching your 4- and 5-year-olds how to drive? 

 This might be my actual, official wedding portrait ...

  ... but here, my friend Laura caught Tom speaking his vows  -- proof!  This is my favorite wedding photo.  In our church service a few months later, Fr. Hehir, unhappy that we used the same vows, tacked on to the end that God had put Tom in charge of family security, and put me in charge of the household. So whenever I'd ask Tom to take out the rubbish, he had to do it  ... because God said so!

About two weeks before we pcs'd from  Kwaj in 2002, Tom and I spent a long weekend in Pohnpei, FSM, where we visited Nan Madol. We met our friends Mooch and TOO (short for "The Other One") who let us stay in their thatched hut at The Village as long as we fed them.  I don't remember which is which, but I know they were fatter when we left than when we got there.

Our first visit to the Big Island, 1999.   Don't you love  96 & 98 all matchy-matchy like that?  I'd still put them in matching t-shirts if I could! This was moments before the dotcom bubble burst, and if we had had our checkbook with us the day we stepped off the plane on that vacation we would own a little piece of paradise today. And we would never have left.

Lake Mooselookmeguntic, Oquossoc, Maine. Tom had been going there with friends for years before we met, and I was quite honored the first time he invited me along. We went once with the kids in the early days, but were so mortified by "the great magic marker debacle of '99" that we were afraid to make reservations again until the summer of 2006. Ever wonder what to do if you find an unattended black magic marker?  Stop.  Don't touch.  Leave the area.  Tell an adult.

I don't know which was more of a chick magnet: the cool Daytona, or Maxwell. They're both pretty hot. Hmmmm ... all three of them were pretty hot, actually!

I treasure every moment, every memory.  The lifetime of moments that make the life of a man.

Dogproofing Fail

I remember the days when putting a cup on the coffee table got it safely out of reach. I remember scrambling to move stuff to the end table, because suddenly the coffee table no longer meant childproof. Then, to the kitchen table, or higher and higher on the stairs; or, God forbid, I'd have to put something away in order to ensure its safety.

If I wanted to have to childproof my home, I'd have had another baby, thankyouverymuch. Said baby wouldn't have stolen my leftover orange chicken, though, or eaten my Burt's Bees lip balm, container and all. Admittedly, the baby might have chewed through a rattle or two, and maybe an occasional bag of dog treats. But really, Zoet? Pipe insulation?

This is a straggler I just found under the couch.  I really hope this was an open can she found and thoughtfully cleaned for me, and not a can she opened herself.  Have I mentioned the dog only gets dry food?  The cats eat canned.  Miraculously, this treat did not require a followup visit to the vet.  But I predict this episode did not involve any learning, either (by either one of us.)

About the only pristine stuff in my house anymore: dog toys.  Man, they make that stuff to last!  The orange ball and the bone? Those came with Zoet in August.

Oops - gotta run. Duty calls ...