Kitchen Maven refers to my status in the kitchen. It mostly applies when stomachs are growling (either the human or 4-legged kind), the dishes have piled up, cans need to be recycled or someone can't find something right in front of their face on the top shelf of the refridgerator. I don't actually mind being a maven but I do so tire of being the menu preparer. I think it's the hardest kitchen job there is.
Recently there has been a lot of talk about a kitchen re-do. Everyone agrees that since I am the kitchen maven, I should get to pick what kind of new things will go in the kitchen. I've learned that the Bill Payer trumps the kitchen maven. It appears his desires are going to take precedent over mine.
So far I haven't had the fun that the re-doers on HGTV have when they are in process. I've been stymied over what shade of white I should choose for the cabinets. I don't know the difference between formica, corian, silestone or granite, except that each comes with a higher price tag. I've been thinking that if I were Samantha Stevens, all I'd have to do to get a new kitchen or put dinner on the table would be wiggle my nose. Instead this Cinderella will have to bibbity bobbity boo herself into the slave quarters and put some potatoes on to boil. Stay tuned. me
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
K. keep good
I. intentions
T. timely.
C. cook (only)
H. hardy
E. entrees,
N. not
M. making
A. any
V. vegetable
E. embellishments;
N. no one will eat.
I. intentions
T. timely.
C. cook (only)
H. hardy
E. entrees,
N. not
M. making
A. any
V. vegetable
E. embellishments;
N. no one will eat.
salvation
Clearly no-one is reading this blog. How do I know? No Comments. I just can't imagine that anyone would take the time and go to the trouble of locating this blog, read the posts and simply; carry on. So, to all you folks who aren't showing up anyway. pphhwwwttt, and don't let the spittle getya
Why ??
1. Couldn't Jack have found the Berkline dealer and warranty information before he attacked the chair with a pipe wrench ?
2. Didn't Jack just ask me? I could have told him he was one in a million without bringing Google into it.
3. Did Jack decide to name his private parts on the same day he was being interviewed for a magazine? In all the time I've known the guy, he has never once referred to Mr. Happy as Mr. Happy.
4. Is it so much easier to toot one's own horn in one's personal blog than anywhere else? Don't get me wrong, I'mvery proud of Jack's accomplishments. However, I don't think for one minute if you were having a personal conversation with him that he would ever bring up the aforementioned Mr. Happy.
Just for the record, I'm a "tooter" myself. No, not a "tooter," a self-aggrandizing horn tooter. Everyone can expect a copy of the July issue of skirt! via snail mail. I can't wait to see my sweetie in a skirt. Maybe they'll photograph him holding those manly wrenches.
me
2. Didn't Jack just ask me? I could have told him he was one in a million without bringing Google into it.
3. Did Jack decide to name his private parts on the same day he was being interviewed for a magazine? In all the time I've known the guy, he has never once referred to Mr. Happy as Mr. Happy.
4. Is it so much easier to toot one's own horn in one's personal blog than anywhere else? Don't get me wrong, I'mvery proud of Jack's accomplishments. However, I don't think for one minute if you were having a personal conversation with him that he would ever bring up the aforementioned Mr. Happy.
Just for the record, I'm a "tooter" myself. No, not a "tooter," a self-aggrandizing horn tooter. Everyone can expect a copy of the July issue of skirt! via snail mail. I can't wait to see my sweetie in a skirt. Maybe they'll photograph him holding those manly wrenches.
me
To The Rescue
OK, here's the rest of the story. I googled "Berkline." Sent an e-mail to the manufacturer, whose representative e-mailed me in short order. T.M.A.L.S.-S, Berkline is now sending us a whole new frame to go under the chair. FREE!!! I Love those people! Next step is to get it on the chair. OH, about the user-ship of said chair. Mary insisted that I use the chair. While we were still n the apartment, I sat in the chair and she on the couch next to me. Chair and couch practically touched each other. Once we moved here, and rearranged some furniture in the TV room the chair was on the opposite side from the double recliner where Mary sat. Until this post, I've not heard Mary complain about the seating arrangement. (Or, if I did, I blocked it out.) The black two piece chair, w/ottoman that was in my motor home has been in my office and now is in the tv room. I have to admit it is not as comfortable as 'ol brownie. But it is more in line with the size of the other furniture. 'ol brownie, is built on a larger scale, and really belongs in the living room with the other leather furniture. In fact, 'ol brownie is hidden in plain sight behind the love seat which backs up to the dining room. Anyway, it won't be long before it is operational again. I hope Mary enjoys it, fully!
However, Mary has had her revenge for my purloinment of said chair. Here in Jacksonville, we have a monthly periodical entitled SKIRT. A female only publication as everything in it has to come from someone of the female persuasion. EXCEPT: The monthly feature of a local business man decked out in a skirt who gets interviewed and photographed per issue. Mary volunteered me! Today, I've been interviewed. Next week is photo shoot and I'll be in the July issue. The interviewer always asks two questions; 1- what is the best part of reading skirt magazine. and 2- why is wearing a skirt a good idea? Candidly I said I get a lot of information about what female executives are faced with by reading the mag. I said freedom of movement was nice as far as wearing the skirt was concerned. Then Sara, the interviewer and I talked about The Fisher King. A movie in which Robin Williams ends the movie running around Central Park, naked. He said, "Mr. Happy" loved flopping in the breeze or some such nonsense. With Sara's prompting, I agreed that my Mr. Happy enjoyed the unrestricted movement afforded by a skirt. I'm being quoted on that. You can clearly see that these two women, Mary and Sara have conspired to get me to say things that I would never say on my own. Anyway, in addition to being listed #1 in both Google and Yahoo searches for coach jack cook (over some 1M, + others) I will shortly be viewed by, talked about by, and hopefully contacted by lots of ladies here in good old Jax. What a HOOT!
However, Mary has had her revenge for my purloinment of said chair. Here in Jacksonville, we have a monthly periodical entitled SKIRT. A female only publication as everything in it has to come from someone of the female persuasion. EXCEPT: The monthly feature of a local business man decked out in a skirt who gets interviewed and photographed per issue. Mary volunteered me! Today, I've been interviewed. Next week is photo shoot and I'll be in the July issue. The interviewer always asks two questions; 1- what is the best part of reading skirt magazine. and 2- why is wearing a skirt a good idea? Candidly I said I get a lot of information about what female executives are faced with by reading the mag. I said freedom of movement was nice as far as wearing the skirt was concerned. Then Sara, the interviewer and I talked about The Fisher King. A movie in which Robin Williams ends the movie running around Central Park, naked. He said, "Mr. Happy" loved flopping in the breeze or some such nonsense. With Sara's prompting, I agreed that my Mr. Happy enjoyed the unrestricted movement afforded by a skirt. I'm being quoted on that. You can clearly see that these two women, Mary and Sara have conspired to get me to say things that I would never say on my own. Anyway, in addition to being listed #1 in both Google and Yahoo searches for coach jack cook (over some 1M, + others) I will shortly be viewed by, talked about by, and hopefully contacted by lots of ladies here in good old Jax. What a HOOT!
Mr. Fix-It
Like Goldilocks checking out the 3 bears' chairs, Jack and I plopped our bottoms down in a lot of chairs before agreeing on what we considered the perfect recliner. It turned out to be made of distressed brown leather and had just the right kind of squishy-ness so that when you sat down you could sink back into a nest-like spot you'd already perfected.
It was supposed to be "my" chair, replacing the old and worn rocker I'd brought into the relationship. It didn't take long, however, for Jack to claim it as his own. He stuffed a feather pillow into the crack in the middle, to ease the pain in his back; and kept the matching brown quilt thrown over the back. It was my chair in name only... mostly it was Jack's watching TV chair, Jack's talking to his cat chair, Jack's napping chair.
One day Jack was lying there. I couldn't help myself. He looked so cute - the chair so inviting. I didn't do an actual flying leap, but I did spread my arms wide and kind of flop into the chair with him. I didn't know the chair was unstable, or if I did, I didn't take that into consideration before pouncing on my sweetie. Down we went, and as we worked our way to the floor, as if in slow motion, it was hard to tell who groaned louder, Jack or the chair.
We laughed til we cried. The chair seemed to groan until we figured out a way to untangle ourselves. It wasn't as easy getting out of the predicament as it was getting in. You know how Orca whales look when they are stranded on a dry beach. They can move a dorsel fin (hand) or give a little tail (foot) wag, but mostly they are stuck til the tide comes in. To our disadvantage that day, there was no tide rising in our den. We were beached for sure.
We finally righted ourselves and the chair. But sadly, our old brown friend never worked the same after that. Getting to the reclining position wasn't a problem, but it was always difficult to get the kick plate back where it belonged. The harder it got to get up and down, the more frustrated Jack got. When it became clear the chair was not going to fix itself, Jack decided to take matters into his own hands.
His tools of choice where giantic wrenches whose main purpose, if I were to guess, has something to do with under-the-sink pipes. He turned the chair upside down, and proceeded to operate; no anesthesia or laytex gloves just a man hell bent on getting the job done in time for the ten o'clock rerun of CSI. I have to admit, seeing him with those wrenches kind of impressed me.
Lou, the Furniture Medic, came to assess the situation out. He poked a little here and there under the wires and underpinnings of the chair, just to make us think there was hope. Sadly, it only took a matter of minutes before he declared our worn leather comrad DOA.
Jack brought in a replacement chair from his office. It sits in the same spot that the recliner filled so majestically. The feather pillow has been discarded but the brown quilt rests on the back. Somehow, it's just not the same. Saying goodby is never easy. We're considering turning the chair into a planter!
me
It was supposed to be "my" chair, replacing the old and worn rocker I'd brought into the relationship. It didn't take long, however, for Jack to claim it as his own. He stuffed a feather pillow into the crack in the middle, to ease the pain in his back; and kept the matching brown quilt thrown over the back. It was my chair in name only... mostly it was Jack's watching TV chair, Jack's talking to his cat chair, Jack's napping chair.
One day Jack was lying there. I couldn't help myself. He looked so cute - the chair so inviting. I didn't do an actual flying leap, but I did spread my arms wide and kind of flop into the chair with him. I didn't know the chair was unstable, or if I did, I didn't take that into consideration before pouncing on my sweetie. Down we went, and as we worked our way to the floor, as if in slow motion, it was hard to tell who groaned louder, Jack or the chair.
We laughed til we cried. The chair seemed to groan until we figured out a way to untangle ourselves. It wasn't as easy getting out of the predicament as it was getting in. You know how Orca whales look when they are stranded on a dry beach. They can move a dorsel fin (hand) or give a little tail (foot) wag, but mostly they are stuck til the tide comes in. To our disadvantage that day, there was no tide rising in our den. We were beached for sure.
We finally righted ourselves and the chair. But sadly, our old brown friend never worked the same after that. Getting to the reclining position wasn't a problem, but it was always difficult to get the kick plate back where it belonged. The harder it got to get up and down, the more frustrated Jack got. When it became clear the chair was not going to fix itself, Jack decided to take matters into his own hands.
His tools of choice where giantic wrenches whose main purpose, if I were to guess, has something to do with under-the-sink pipes. He turned the chair upside down, and proceeded to operate; no anesthesia or laytex gloves just a man hell bent on getting the job done in time for the ten o'clock rerun of CSI. I have to admit, seeing him with those wrenches kind of impressed me.
Lou, the Furniture Medic, came to assess the situation out. He poked a little here and there under the wires and underpinnings of the chair, just to make us think there was hope. Sadly, it only took a matter of minutes before he declared our worn leather comrad DOA.
Jack brought in a replacement chair from his office. It sits in the same spot that the recliner filled so majestically. The feather pillow has been discarded but the brown quilt rests on the back. Somehow, it's just not the same. Saying goodby is never easy. We're considering turning the chair into a planter!
me
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Huh?
Well, that was certainly a long involved story. And one that I haven't heard before. I am glad to know that the man I know and love has : a)given up dumpster diving (at least as far as I can tell and b)has found a new outlet for his creative genius - the Internet. Oh Lord, please don't ever let him put two and two together and come up with EBay!
I don't want to be known as a "dream killer" but I think I might have joined the side of the naysayers if I had had to face a garage full of broken down clothes racks. However, I have a feeling that Jack can also relate to the stage of creativity that occurs after the initial "idea"rush is over.
Take quilting, instance. For some there is planning, measuring, drawing, etc. Then there is the actual purchasing of fabric and the starting of a project. For me, and others, there is a phenomenon that happens once the material has been washed and folded and added to the fabric closet. (If one is lucky enough to have a whole closet dedicated to fabric. Some quilters stash it under their beds and some just pile it up wherever it will go.)
Just having the fabric is not always enough. Due to the variety of fabrics and patterns and new ideas a decision has to be made if the quilter is going to actually begin project A, put the fabric away for project B, or have a complete change of heart and shop for project C. Like clothes racks in the garage, fabric has a way of becoming unmanageable even when neatly stacked. Quilters collect fabric; it's part of the whole quilting game. Fabric by the yard, fat quarters, remnants, pre-cut squares and even other people's fabric scraps. After awhile it adds up.
As long as we are confessing, I have to admit that I've had in my lifetime more fabric than my closets could hold. Finally one day, I said enough, and actually had a "yard" sale. It was rather like having a sale on booze and asking all my alcoholic buddies to come over and see if there was anything they could use. Get a bunch of quilters together and they can make a pile of fabric disappear faster than some of us can thread a needle. Alas, the fabric is gone. I miss the idea of it, the feel of it, but not the bumping my toes on the hard plastic boxes when I was on my way to the bathroom in the dark.
You might be asking yourself what does all that have to do with conversation techniques? Here's how I hope to tie it all together.
Jack could have very easily said to me, "Are you ever going to do anything with all that fabric?" To which I might have replied either "Yup or nope." He could have demanded that I store it somewhere other than under the bed. To which I most likely would have replied, "that doesn't work for me." (I aslo might have punctuated that sentence with a few "F" words). Ah, but Jack is a sly one. He's so cute when he looks at me with blue eyes twinkling. Sure I knew it was going to be hard to do, but when he suggested new and exciting ways to spend the money I would gain by selling the material I couldn't help but say "Bingo!" After all Joann Fabrics is always having a sale!
ME
I don't want to be known as a "dream killer" but I think I might have joined the side of the naysayers if I had had to face a garage full of broken down clothes racks. However, I have a feeling that Jack can also relate to the stage of creativity that occurs after the initial "idea"rush is over.
Take quilting, instance. For some there is planning, measuring, drawing, etc. Then there is the actual purchasing of fabric and the starting of a project. For me, and others, there is a phenomenon that happens once the material has been washed and folded and added to the fabric closet. (If one is lucky enough to have a whole closet dedicated to fabric. Some quilters stash it under their beds and some just pile it up wherever it will go.)
Just having the fabric is not always enough. Due to the variety of fabrics and patterns and new ideas a decision has to be made if the quilter is going to actually begin project A, put the fabric away for project B, or have a complete change of heart and shop for project C. Like clothes racks in the garage, fabric has a way of becoming unmanageable even when neatly stacked. Quilters collect fabric; it's part of the whole quilting game. Fabric by the yard, fat quarters, remnants, pre-cut squares and even other people's fabric scraps. After awhile it adds up.
As long as we are confessing, I have to admit that I've had in my lifetime more fabric than my closets could hold. Finally one day, I said enough, and actually had a "yard" sale. It was rather like having a sale on booze and asking all my alcoholic buddies to come over and see if there was anything they could use. Get a bunch of quilters together and they can make a pile of fabric disappear faster than some of us can thread a needle. Alas, the fabric is gone. I miss the idea of it, the feel of it, but not the bumping my toes on the hard plastic boxes when I was on my way to the bathroom in the dark.
You might be asking yourself what does all that have to do with conversation techniques? Here's how I hope to tie it all together.
Jack could have very easily said to me, "Are you ever going to do anything with all that fabric?" To which I might have replied either "Yup or nope." He could have demanded that I store it somewhere other than under the bed. To which I most likely would have replied, "that doesn't work for me." (I aslo might have punctuated that sentence with a few "F" words). Ah, but Jack is a sly one. He's so cute when he looks at me with blue eyes twinkling. Sure I knew it was going to be hard to do, but when he suggested new and exciting ways to spend the money I would gain by selling the material I couldn't help but say "Bingo!" After all Joann Fabrics is always having a sale!
ME
of garbage, garages and dumpsters
I know that this will be hard to believe, and/or accept but; the truth about me is that at one time I was a certified "Dumpster Diver." At the time, I lived in central Florida; dumpster capital of the world. There are more strip malls, grand malls (no pun intended) than a mind can take in-in a lifetime. Some of course were grocery store types which were to be avoided at all cost. Real garbage in there. Others behind big department stores were rife with treasure. Every once in awhile I would find a dumpster that had been set out for a particular reason; renovations etc that were gold mines of opportunity.
For instance. I pulled in behind a department store one day that had just closed down. My God, there were several dumpsters there with every thing from chrome clothes racks to furniture. A quick inspection let me know the furniture was not worth my time. Those chrome clothes racks were music to my ear. Have you ever wondered where wind chimes come from? Certainly, there are wind chime factories up and down both coasts of America and at many places in between; but have you had a set of wind chimes that were made from a department store clothes rack. I think not.
I loaded my van from floor to roof with dismantled clothes racks. (While I was busy taking them apart, the district manager for the store chain came out and in a very imperious voice wanted to know, "just what the hell I thought I was doing?" So, I told her. She liked the idea, invited me into the empty store and we wandered around for a while looking at more clothes racks and shelving that was stacked in great piles on the floor. She had been charged with the responsibility of ridding the store chain of these shelves which were no longer going to be used in the stores. Could I take them away? How much would I charge? How fast could I do it?
This old boy was a-countn' the profits and ready to make a deal faster than my (ex) wife coulda said; "you dumb ass." Her cell phone went off. It was her boss telling her he had arranged on his own to have the shelving picked up and moved to a warehouse for storage. Relieved, she didn't ask why-when she had already been told the shelves would never be used again. Oh well. The good news was that my (ex) wife never got the chance to give me hell over the shelving. She did a pretty good job on the chrome clothes racks though.
I filled my half of the double garage with dismantled chromed clothes racks. I even had to make a sort of structure to put them in so none would inadvertently scratch that high dollar car in the other half of the garage. (I really believe she went out there every night after I fell asleep to check on that high dollar car.)
My neighbors were intrigued with my project. Encouraged me, and once the proto-type was made, several asked for their own set. My wind chimes were longer than most. Depending on the number of tubes, different melodies played out. Our house had a huge plate glass window which looked out on the rear patio. I had enlarged our yard, built an arbor, had a large long bench out there and trees. At one time I had several sets of home made wind chimes hanging from branches, eaves, arbor and tall poles stuck in the ground. A veritable chorus of sound when the wind blew. I'd go out there and sit on the bench, praying for the wind to blow so I cold hear the chiming of my wind chimes.
I really do wish this story had a happy ending. It don't. The wind didn't blow much. The cut off ends of the tubing began to rust. Several limbs were giving way under the weight of the chimes. My neighbors knocked on my door and wondered when I might be starting another project that was a little less noisy. (I think it was the sound of the saw that bothered them.) It wasn't long before I abandoned my dreams of becoming the "wind chime" king of Central Florida. And it wasn't long before I loaded up "Nellie," my van, and carried the remnants to the dump. Since they weighed every vehicle going in and coming out, charging to dump the load; my (ex) wife had another opportunity to express herself about the crazy things I do um-DID)
and how any sane man would find a more constructive means to demonstrate creative tendencies. (I did say she is an ex-wife) didn't I?
It was during this period of my life (URGED ON BY MY EX-WIFE) that I really began to consider how people conversed, one with another. It was then I discovered the secret to my interpersonal conversational system.
Communication between couples can be reduced to five phrases. YUP!, NOPE!, BINGO!, OK!, AND THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME! In couple-dom, anything more is an open invitation to a verbal disaster. For instance. "Jack. Do you really think that somebody will be dumb enough to buy wind chimes made out of old clothes racks?" I could have gone into a lengthy discourse on the sound of wind chimes; expressed my amazement that she didn't share my enthusiasm for a garage (half) filled with old chrome clothes racks; etc. Just more (verbal) logs on the fire of sizzling antagonism. But, using YUP,NOPE, OK, BINGO, OR THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME. Not only sprang directly to the answer needed to the question, is shuts off the conversational flow. Besides, it's really hard to hear what some one is saying (ok-shouting) as they move rapidly away from where you're standing.
Being honest (remember what I said way back before the first blog word hit the screen? One of us would be totally forth coming, remembering things as best we could. Well this is an example.)
There were other incidents that gave rise to my new found verbal skills. But for some reason, my (ex) wife chose not to talk to me in these terms. So honing this verbalicity proved difficult. Enter Mary. No no no, I've never said; yup, nope, ok, bingo or that won't work for me to Mary.
I did though (a pre-emptory strike?) explain to her the rudiments of; YUP, NOPE, OK, BINGO, AND THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME. Funny thing; I've never felt an urge to say Y-N-OK-B-, and TWWFM to her. The acronym works just as well. jdc
For instance. I pulled in behind a department store one day that had just closed down. My God, there were several dumpsters there with every thing from chrome clothes racks to furniture. A quick inspection let me know the furniture was not worth my time. Those chrome clothes racks were music to my ear. Have you ever wondered where wind chimes come from? Certainly, there are wind chime factories up and down both coasts of America and at many places in between; but have you had a set of wind chimes that were made from a department store clothes rack. I think not.
I loaded my van from floor to roof with dismantled clothes racks. (While I was busy taking them apart, the district manager for the store chain came out and in a very imperious voice wanted to know, "just what the hell I thought I was doing?" So, I told her. She liked the idea, invited me into the empty store and we wandered around for a while looking at more clothes racks and shelving that was stacked in great piles on the floor. She had been charged with the responsibility of ridding the store chain of these shelves which were no longer going to be used in the stores. Could I take them away? How much would I charge? How fast could I do it?
This old boy was a-countn' the profits and ready to make a deal faster than my (ex) wife coulda said; "you dumb ass." Her cell phone went off. It was her boss telling her he had arranged on his own to have the shelving picked up and moved to a warehouse for storage. Relieved, she didn't ask why-when she had already been told the shelves would never be used again. Oh well. The good news was that my (ex) wife never got the chance to give me hell over the shelving. She did a pretty good job on the chrome clothes racks though.
I filled my half of the double garage with dismantled chromed clothes racks. I even had to make a sort of structure to put them in so none would inadvertently scratch that high dollar car in the other half of the garage. (I really believe she went out there every night after I fell asleep to check on that high dollar car.)
My neighbors were intrigued with my project. Encouraged me, and once the proto-type was made, several asked for their own set. My wind chimes were longer than most. Depending on the number of tubes, different melodies played out. Our house had a huge plate glass window which looked out on the rear patio. I had enlarged our yard, built an arbor, had a large long bench out there and trees. At one time I had several sets of home made wind chimes hanging from branches, eaves, arbor and tall poles stuck in the ground. A veritable chorus of sound when the wind blew. I'd go out there and sit on the bench, praying for the wind to blow so I cold hear the chiming of my wind chimes.
I really do wish this story had a happy ending. It don't. The wind didn't blow much. The cut off ends of the tubing began to rust. Several limbs were giving way under the weight of the chimes. My neighbors knocked on my door and wondered when I might be starting another project that was a little less noisy. (I think it was the sound of the saw that bothered them.) It wasn't long before I abandoned my dreams of becoming the "wind chime" king of Central Florida. And it wasn't long before I loaded up "Nellie," my van, and carried the remnants to the dump. Since they weighed every vehicle going in and coming out, charging to dump the load; my (ex) wife had another opportunity to express herself about the crazy things I do um-DID)
and how any sane man would find a more constructive means to demonstrate creative tendencies. (I did say she is an ex-wife) didn't I?
It was during this period of my life (URGED ON BY MY EX-WIFE) that I really began to consider how people conversed, one with another. It was then I discovered the secret to my interpersonal conversational system.
Communication between couples can be reduced to five phrases. YUP!, NOPE!, BINGO!, OK!, AND THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME! In couple-dom, anything more is an open invitation to a verbal disaster. For instance. "Jack. Do you really think that somebody will be dumb enough to buy wind chimes made out of old clothes racks?" I could have gone into a lengthy discourse on the sound of wind chimes; expressed my amazement that she didn't share my enthusiasm for a garage (half) filled with old chrome clothes racks; etc. Just more (verbal) logs on the fire of sizzling antagonism. But, using YUP,NOPE, OK, BINGO, OR THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME. Not only sprang directly to the answer needed to the question, is shuts off the conversational flow. Besides, it's really hard to hear what some one is saying (ok-shouting) as they move rapidly away from where you're standing.
Being honest (remember what I said way back before the first blog word hit the screen? One of us would be totally forth coming, remembering things as best we could. Well this is an example.)
There were other incidents that gave rise to my new found verbal skills. But for some reason, my (ex) wife chose not to talk to me in these terms. So honing this verbalicity proved difficult. Enter Mary. No no no, I've never said; yup, nope, ok, bingo or that won't work for me to Mary.
I did though (a pre-emptory strike?) explain to her the rudiments of; YUP, NOPE, OK, BINGO, AND THAT WON'T WORK FOR ME. Funny thing; I've never felt an urge to say Y-N-OK-B-, and TWWFM to her. The acronym works just as well. jdc
Saturday, June 9, 2007
What did I tell you ????
Communication skills are right up Jack's alley. He can talk/write a "Blue" streak. I feel a little bit at a disadvantage. I'm going to add just one more thought then let move on to another subject.
When Jack and I first met, after smell of Clorox stopped up our noses so that we could barely breathe (we were in a WalMart MacDonalds at floor cleaning time), and after I stopped staring into his beautiful blue eyes, I was acutely aware of his communication style. He quickly put me at ease by paying attention to what I had to say. In other words he listened with a capital "L"!
Since it was our first rendezvous maybe he was on his best behavior. Whatever the reason, I was impressed.
That said, I soon became aware of another of Jack's communication skills. In the course of the conversation, as I finished a thought, he would add a meaningful, but odd-sounding (to me) "Okay." It wasn't a questioning okay, like okay, what's next? It was more of a period okay - like it ended the thought for both of us. Over the course of that conversation and the ones that followed, I began to realize if Jack had a favorite word, it must be "okay." Any other time I might have thought it weird, but I'd fallen for his big eyes (the better to see me with), ears (the better to hear me with) and heart (the better to love me with). I'm a sucker for a guy with a big heart.
Eventually he explained his novel approach to communicating with anybody. He summed it up by saying that all conversation could be reduced to five words/phrases ... Yes. No. Okay. That won't work for me. Bingo! Clearly, we're all looking for the person with whom we most naturally and frequently say Bingo.
Sit back and wait. I have a feeling Jack is going to explain. The only question I have is what color will he choose?
ME
When Jack and I first met, after smell of Clorox stopped up our noses so that we could barely breathe (we were in a WalMart MacDonalds at floor cleaning time), and after I stopped staring into his beautiful blue eyes, I was acutely aware of his communication style. He quickly put me at ease by paying attention to what I had to say. In other words he listened with a capital "L"!
Since it was our first rendezvous maybe he was on his best behavior. Whatever the reason, I was impressed.
That said, I soon became aware of another of Jack's communication skills. In the course of the conversation, as I finished a thought, he would add a meaningful, but odd-sounding (to me) "Okay." It wasn't a questioning okay, like okay, what's next? It was more of a period okay - like it ended the thought for both of us. Over the course of that conversation and the ones that followed, I began to realize if Jack had a favorite word, it must be "okay." Any other time I might have thought it weird, but I'd fallen for his big eyes (the better to see me with), ears (the better to hear me with) and heart (the better to love me with). I'm a sucker for a guy with a big heart.
Eventually he explained his novel approach to communicating with anybody. He summed it up by saying that all conversation could be reduced to five words/phrases ... Yes. No. Okay. That won't work for me. Bingo! Clearly, we're all looking for the person with whom we most naturally and frequently say Bingo.
Sit back and wait. I have a feeling Jack is going to explain. The only question I have is what color will he choose?
ME
garages and kitchens
At the very least, we've all been brought in from outer space. Mary and I are seated about 20 feet apart. She's in the family room, sitting on the couch with lap top smokin'. I am in my office, ill (I'm comin elizabeth!) being seduced into responding to her post when I aught to be in bed asleep. (I'd stay awake if Mary joined me-now,now folks- she would scratch my back and caress my fevered brow. Helping me relax so I could indeed get to sleep. OK back to the garage thing. I could probably take an engine apart. No idea how to put it back together. Everybody knows that it's easier to screw a Phillip's than a slot-head screw. I don't like hollan-daize, and who knew a blender came apart like that? There is one point that MUST BE made here. I am pretty proficient in the kitchen. I don't eat ALL my food raw, and just looking at me you realize I have never met a meal I didn't like. I lived in and cooked in a motor home for years and never has a fire or blew anything up. (I did screw up the repair of the ice making unit which lead to a flood, which in turn ruined the carpet. Water crept up the fabric of some furniture and rotted a small section of floor. Possible story someday.) So, after all the self awareness work I've done, the classes I've taken, and the coaching I've done (mostly with women) it's not hard to understand that I am in touch with my fem-ni-ann side. I have a double major; I do both male and female speak. Oh boy, Mary's out of the shower, I'm gonna go lay down. More later,jdc
I've switched colors to let you know this is my second entry on this same posting. I don't want to rely on any subjective or subtle shifts to convey my return. Got a little snooze, got a little back scratchin, even one of the new cats came and snuggled up next to me. Life is good.
I want to set a precedent. I'm told that some people can't recognize when I stop kidding and get serious and visa versa. Hears the deal; any time you see this color (blue I think) I have moved into seriousness. Should work as long as I remember to change colors. I guess I can always go back over my entries before posting to check for color co-ordination. I'm good with colors-:).
One of the books I've been using as a study guide is entitled; "How to improve your marriage without talking about it." Written by Patricia Love and Steven Stosney. Therapist folks who are well known, somewhere. (OOPS, glad I caught this. For those of you who don't know, I am a Relationship Coach-not a therapist.) The book is a fun read and goes a long way in positing a theory as to why men and women have problems with conversation. Ladies you should know first that men really do want to talk with you. Not only that, but we will listen (pay attention) with open mind and heart. Men you should know first that women really do want to talk with you. Not only that, but they will listen (pay attention) with an open mind and heart. Here's the skivvy. When a women says, "dear, we need to talk" a man goes immediately (in his mind) to SHAME. When a woman hears, "dear we need to talk" she immediately goes to (in her mind) being ABANDONED. MALES-SHAME, WOMEN-ABANDONMENT. The basis of ALL F.E.A.R. (fantasy expectations appearing real.) Think about it, if we're cowering in the corners of our mind how can we relate, much less communicate and most important; connect. Interesting the immediate jump to something being wrong. Not always so, but based on history the phrase I used most often precedes an "issue' of some kind. So, you want to communicate on several levels, right? If you are the initiator; use I rather than we. I need to talk to you. (Delineates the source.) Is now a good time or would later be better? (Whoa- talk about throwing someone into neutral) Takes away the confrontational aspect of -WE TALK-RIGHT NOW. Whatever you agree to do, be in it full time. Not being heard is the biggest complaint from couples. So listen with full attention. Be aware that the issue is not yours, it's theirs, don't feel personally attacked. When the words subside, ask: IS THERE MORE? Shut-up and listen. Repeat what you heard, ask DID I HEAR YOU RIGHT? Yes, good; no, repeat it so I can understand. Next: What do you expect from me? Get clear on that. Now negotiate a settlement you both can live with. All of his pertains to serious shit. Common every day yakking is something else. However using the afore mentioned as a guide to developing your own communal style of conversing will go along way to getting out of the garage and kitchen and into the living room if that's where you want to be. Wink-Wink. The later part of this tirade comes from John Gottman, The Seven Principles Of Making Marriage Work. The guy is some kind of couples guru who has lead some well accepted studies on couples behavior. Both books are good for us, the lay men who are trying to make sense of our conversational/marriage snafu's. Good reading.
Well, I hope I've met the expectation Mary had of me. You know the one; where I could get into this relationship stuff and yak it up without a lot of thought (?) Oh well, I tried. Mary's abed, still. Papa-san is in the bedroom playing with his newest weapon of mass destruction. A 9mm that can hurl lead faster than I can blink. Speaking of eyes, why does a guy who can't see good out of either eye need a gun with a laser sight? Answer: "Just to have it." (I'm told.) My sick old pussy-cat is asleep on the desk, basking in the last of today's sunshine. The two new (officially un-named) cats are stalking around. I've seen them out of the corner of my eye going up and down the hall. I want to name the female D.W. (devil-woman) She's a predator. Already scarred my bird buddy- "Ewell"- into damaging a wing. Poor guy had to go to the bird E.R. They kept him over night so they could a-nest-ta-size him and bandage his wing. He and his bud "Hoppin-John) talk to each other, each being in their own cage for the time being. And Ernie, the what-ever-he-is bird has a respiratory problem and is taking drugs twice a day. He lolls around in the bottom of his cage cause he can't work up the wind/energy to fly up to a perch. Folk's we're living in a private zoo. Oh, almost forgot the dog. She is normal. Still attacks the mail as it is passed through the door mail slot. Wonder why she always manages to rip up the sale flyer's and not the phone bills? Bounds around the living room, up and down on the couches, barking at the mail man until he is out of sight. At the last. The pool is clear and clean. The grill has plenty of gas, and a very willing chef (as long as she isn't asleep) so come on down-up-or over. Just make the trip; you're all very welcome. jdc
I've switched colors to let you know this is my second entry on this same posting. I don't want to rely on any subjective or subtle shifts to convey my return. Got a little snooze, got a little back scratchin, even one of the new cats came and snuggled up next to me. Life is good.
I want to set a precedent. I'm told that some people can't recognize when I stop kidding and get serious and visa versa. Hears the deal; any time you see this color (blue I think) I have moved into seriousness. Should work as long as I remember to change colors. I guess I can always go back over my entries before posting to check for color co-ordination. I'm good with colors-:).
One of the books I've been using as a study guide is entitled; "How to improve your marriage without talking about it." Written by Patricia Love and Steven Stosney. Therapist folks who are well known, somewhere. (OOPS, glad I caught this. For those of you who don't know, I am a Relationship Coach-not a therapist.) The book is a fun read and goes a long way in positing a theory as to why men and women have problems with conversation. Ladies you should know first that men really do want to talk with you. Not only that, but we will listen (pay attention) with open mind and heart. Men you should know first that women really do want to talk with you. Not only that, but they will listen (pay attention) with an open mind and heart. Here's the skivvy. When a women says, "dear, we need to talk" a man goes immediately (in his mind) to SHAME. When a woman hears, "dear we need to talk" she immediately goes to (in her mind) being ABANDONED. MALES-SHAME, WOMEN-ABANDONMENT. The basis of ALL F.E.A.R. (fantasy expectations appearing real.) Think about it, if we're cowering in the corners of our mind how can we relate, much less communicate and most important; connect. Interesting the immediate jump to something being wrong. Not always so, but based on history the phrase I used most often precedes an "issue' of some kind. So, you want to communicate on several levels, right? If you are the initiator; use I rather than we. I need to talk to you. (Delineates the source.) Is now a good time or would later be better? (Whoa- talk about throwing someone into neutral) Takes away the confrontational aspect of -WE TALK-RIGHT NOW. Whatever you agree to do, be in it full time. Not being heard is the biggest complaint from couples. So listen with full attention. Be aware that the issue is not yours, it's theirs, don't feel personally attacked. When the words subside, ask: IS THERE MORE? Shut-up and listen. Repeat what you heard, ask DID I HEAR YOU RIGHT? Yes, good; no, repeat it so I can understand. Next: What do you expect from me? Get clear on that. Now negotiate a settlement you both can live with. All of his pertains to serious shit. Common every day yakking is something else. However using the afore mentioned as a guide to developing your own communal style of conversing will go along way to getting out of the garage and kitchen and into the living room if that's where you want to be. Wink-Wink. The later part of this tirade comes from John Gottman, The Seven Principles Of Making Marriage Work. The guy is some kind of couples guru who has lead some well accepted studies on couples behavior. Both books are good for us, the lay men who are trying to make sense of our conversational/marriage snafu's. Good reading.
Well, I hope I've met the expectation Mary had of me. You know the one; where I could get into this relationship stuff and yak it up without a lot of thought (?) Oh well, I tried. Mary's abed, still. Papa-san is in the bedroom playing with his newest weapon of mass destruction. A 9mm that can hurl lead faster than I can blink. Speaking of eyes, why does a guy who can't see good out of either eye need a gun with a laser sight? Answer: "Just to have it." (I'm told.) My sick old pussy-cat is asleep on the desk, basking in the last of today's sunshine. The two new (officially un-named) cats are stalking around. I've seen them out of the corner of my eye going up and down the hall. I want to name the female D.W. (devil-woman) She's a predator. Already scarred my bird buddy- "Ewell"- into damaging a wing. Poor guy had to go to the bird E.R. They kept him over night so they could a-nest-ta-size him and bandage his wing. He and his bud "Hoppin-John) talk to each other, each being in their own cage for the time being. And Ernie, the what-ever-he-is bird has a respiratory problem and is taking drugs twice a day. He lolls around in the bottom of his cage cause he can't work up the wind/energy to fly up to a perch. Folk's we're living in a private zoo. Oh, almost forgot the dog. She is normal. Still attacks the mail as it is passed through the door mail slot. Wonder why she always manages to rip up the sale flyer's and not the phone bills? Bounds around the living room, up and down on the couches, barking at the mail man until he is out of sight. At the last. The pool is clear and clean. The grill has plenty of gas, and a very willing chef (as long as she isn't asleep) so come on down-up-or over. Just make the trip; you're all very welcome. jdc
P.S.
After I published my last post I had a sudden flash of memory.
I need to correct what I said about men working in community. It has been my experience that sometimes, not often and certainly not for general broadcast, the men I have known have tackled a job in the garage that is just too big for them alone. It is not easy for a man to cry "uncle" or ask for help, so they can get into water way over their heads without realizing it.
Take for instance, the day my ex-husband was sure he could fix something to do with the engine of MY car - the station wagon, the family mobile, the grocery hauler, the kids' taxi - not his cute little sports car. I don't remember now what the exact problem was, but I do remember, as if it were yesterday, the distress call eminating from the driveway.
"Hey, Mary,"he called. "I need you to call Tom for some help." I couldn't imagine what he needed help with so I went to take a look. This is no lie. My I-don't-need-to-read-the-instructions Mr. Fix It was actually standing inside the car where the engine was supposed to be. The engine in question was in pieces on the ground in front of the car. This was neither a good, nor pretty site.
I don't recall how it happened, but I know Tom was at least able to get the car back together long enough to make it to the Shell station where it should have gone in the first place. I don't know how the conversation went between Tom and Jim, it could have been a few grunts, or a manly struggle over the socket wrench. All I cared about was progress was being made.
I could be wrong, but had the situation been reversed and taken place in the kitchen, I'm pretty sure I would have called in the calvary way before the refrigerator was unusable. Maybe not, I've been known to be a little bit stubborn too. Stubborness, now there's a personality trait that is gender-free.
me
I need to correct what I said about men working in community. It has been my experience that sometimes, not often and certainly not for general broadcast, the men I have known have tackled a job in the garage that is just too big for them alone. It is not easy for a man to cry "uncle" or ask for help, so they can get into water way over their heads without realizing it.
Take for instance, the day my ex-husband was sure he could fix something to do with the engine of MY car - the station wagon, the family mobile, the grocery hauler, the kids' taxi - not his cute little sports car. I don't remember now what the exact problem was, but I do remember, as if it were yesterday, the distress call eminating from the driveway.
"Hey, Mary,"he called. "I need you to call Tom for some help." I couldn't imagine what he needed help with so I went to take a look. This is no lie. My I-don't-need-to-read-the-instructions Mr. Fix It was actually standing inside the car where the engine was supposed to be. The engine in question was in pieces on the ground in front of the car. This was neither a good, nor pretty site.
I don't recall how it happened, but I know Tom was at least able to get the car back together long enough to make it to the Shell station where it should have gone in the first place. I don't know how the conversation went between Tom and Jim, it could have been a few grunts, or a manly struggle over the socket wrench. All I cared about was progress was being made.
I could be wrong, but had the situation been reversed and taken place in the kitchen, I'm pretty sure I would have called in the calvary way before the refrigerator was unusable. Maybe not, I've been known to be a little bit stubborn too. Stubborness, now there's a personality trait that is gender-free.
me
Men are from the Garage
After one simple email broadcast to my/our biggest fans, I got this response from my sister: Topic suggestion that is on my mind this week: How men and women communicate differently (more Men are from Mars and Women from Venus type stuff) and why are they different?
Wow! That is a pretty heavy subject for me, but something tells me that Jack could write a book on it without blinking an eye. On that note, I worry that I might not get in a word once he gets started so I’m going to go first. It is going to be interesting to see how we work together after all our bragging!
I can only generalize about the men/women communication gap or talk about my own experiences. I don’t think men and women are really all that different in what they have to say; it’s more in the way they say it. In my way of thinking men are not from Mars as much as they are from the garage. And Venusian women are really just from the land of pots and pans, i.e. the kitchen, not another far off planet.
For example, a man’s hands are made to function in a world of wrenches, drills and screwdrivers. I think this is a genetic thing, because of the simple fact that try as I might, I cannot get a flathead screwdriver to fit and stay in the slot of even a large screw (Let’s don’t even think about a Philip’s head screw). And don’t talk to me about electric screwdrivers because, to my way of thinking, they are useless. They just speed up the fumbling process and add a bit of a masculine buzz while doing it. I find it very frustrating that I can turn the tool over to Jack and biff, boom, bam, he has the dang thing screwed in. It's in the genes(jeans) I'm sure.
On the other hand, I can whip up a blender Hollandaise sauce in 3 minutes flat. I can dismantle the blender, remove the working parts, have it all cleaned and put back together, including putting the rubber gasket on the right side of the spinner so nothing leaks out the bottom, before Jack can say, “Darling, where’s the butter?” (which is naturally, right there in front of him on the refrigerator shelf, but oh, he’s looking in the cookie cupboard!)
I’m not saying men can’t do intricate work. They may not be able to make petit fours (pastry chefs of the world please forgive this gross generalization) but they can take apart and repair car engines. They can scale and gut a rainbow trout leaving nothing but pretty little boneless fillets. I think, the difference lies in the fact that men aren’t afraid of a little muck. The more grease, oil, guts, mud, or stinky stuff, the happier men seem to be. Women on the other hand like their work to be clean and orderly (except when making Christmas cookies when it is virtually impossible to keep the flour and sugar inside the confines of the mixing bowls.)
Another difference I have encountered between the garage and the kitchen is that men aren’t prone to work in groups; thus the lack of communication skills. They grab a beer and set to work with no noise other than the buzzing of the aforementioned tools – unless maybe it’s a ballgame on the radio. They go to their inner netherlands and get lost in the task at hand.
Women, however, love to work in community. All of us with double x chromosomes know it’s easier and more fun to put together a Thanksgiving dinner for 20 people, than it is to make your ordinary Thursday night spaghetti meal alone, if there are a lot of female relatives around to share the work. The more the merrier! The work is there regardless of how many you have to feed, but it’s the sisterhood that makes the working fun. Communication comes in the form of straining the lumpy gravy, baking the biscuits, sharing the wine and everyone remembering not to put the potato peels in the disposal. Not to mention the laughing, crying and remembering.
So, Linda Lou, have I answered your question? Let’s see what the man has to say about it. Take it away Jack.
me
Wow! That is a pretty heavy subject for me, but something tells me that Jack could write a book on it without blinking an eye. On that note, I worry that I might not get in a word once he gets started so I’m going to go first. It is going to be interesting to see how we work together after all our bragging!
I can only generalize about the men/women communication gap or talk about my own experiences. I don’t think men and women are really all that different in what they have to say; it’s more in the way they say it. In my way of thinking men are not from Mars as much as they are from the garage. And Venusian women are really just from the land of pots and pans, i.e. the kitchen, not another far off planet.
For example, a man’s hands are made to function in a world of wrenches, drills and screwdrivers. I think this is a genetic thing, because of the simple fact that try as I might, I cannot get a flathead screwdriver to fit and stay in the slot of even a large screw (Let’s don’t even think about a Philip’s head screw). And don’t talk to me about electric screwdrivers because, to my way of thinking, they are useless. They just speed up the fumbling process and add a bit of a masculine buzz while doing it. I find it very frustrating that I can turn the tool over to Jack and biff, boom, bam, he has the dang thing screwed in. It's in the genes(jeans) I'm sure.
On the other hand, I can whip up a blender Hollandaise sauce in 3 minutes flat. I can dismantle the blender, remove the working parts, have it all cleaned and put back together, including putting the rubber gasket on the right side of the spinner so nothing leaks out the bottom, before Jack can say, “Darling, where’s the butter?” (which is naturally, right there in front of him on the refrigerator shelf, but oh, he’s looking in the cookie cupboard!)
I’m not saying men can’t do intricate work. They may not be able to make petit fours (pastry chefs of the world please forgive this gross generalization) but they can take apart and repair car engines. They can scale and gut a rainbow trout leaving nothing but pretty little boneless fillets. I think, the difference lies in the fact that men aren’t afraid of a little muck. The more grease, oil, guts, mud, or stinky stuff, the happier men seem to be. Women on the other hand like their work to be clean and orderly (except when making Christmas cookies when it is virtually impossible to keep the flour and sugar inside the confines of the mixing bowls.)
Another difference I have encountered between the garage and the kitchen is that men aren’t prone to work in groups; thus the lack of communication skills. They grab a beer and set to work with no noise other than the buzzing of the aforementioned tools – unless maybe it’s a ballgame on the radio. They go to their inner netherlands and get lost in the task at hand.
Women, however, love to work in community. All of us with double x chromosomes know it’s easier and more fun to put together a Thanksgiving dinner for 20 people, than it is to make your ordinary Thursday night spaghetti meal alone, if there are a lot of female relatives around to share the work. The more the merrier! The work is there regardless of how many you have to feed, but it’s the sisterhood that makes the working fun. Communication comes in the form of straining the lumpy gravy, baking the biscuits, sharing the wine and everyone remembering not to put the potato peels in the disposal. Not to mention the laughing, crying and remembering.
So, Linda Lou, have I answered your question? Let’s see what the man has to say about it. Take it away Jack.
me
On joint writing
I know how we got started. A Sunday or so ago was the 66th anniversery of Mary's parents wedding. In honor, Mary decided to create a list of 66 couples she admires for marital longevity or marriage related items. She e-mailed the list to me to add to. Which, I did. I believe the completed list is posted at both of our individual blogs. jdc
Friday, June 8, 2007
My Turn
Well, if Jack can use the color of royalty, I guess I can use the color of fire and spice ... Red!
I'm not sure how we came up with the idea of writing together, but once we tried it, we liked it. The proverbial stone started rolling and we couldn't contain ourselves til we set up yet another blog. And here you have it. We have only one rule (so far) and that is we are not allowed to change the other's posting. I kind of like having a backup speller checker, but it's not a "deal breaker" so I've agreed to the rule. I wonder if this is how Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning got started? Or maybe it was Lucy and Ricky! me
I'm not sure how we came up with the idea of writing together, but once we tried it, we liked it. The proverbial stone started rolling and we couldn't contain ourselves til we set up yet another blog. And here you have it. We have only one rule (so far) and that is we are not allowed to change the other's posting. I kind of like having a backup speller checker, but it's not a "deal breaker" so I've agreed to the rule. I wonder if this is how Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning got started? Or maybe it was Lucy and Ricky! me
And so, it's begun
I'm using purple because it is a sacred color, and this is a sacred space where ME and I can come to post the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; as we remember it. I've added the cav-e-ot because I don't always recall things the way they happened. I don't lie, but (due to age and caffeine) I do get con-fussit. So dear reader; welcome. Know that returning here time and again may be confusing, may be slightly irreverent, may be timely, and probably may not. The one thing you can count on (from one of us) is MONITORED HONESTY-INTEGRITY TO A CERTAIN DEGREE-APPLE PIE SLICE TRUTH AND THE AMERICAN STANDARD OF DOUBLE INTEN-DREYS AND SLANTED REPORTING! gOD bLESS aND remember: Wet Birds Don't Fly At Night.
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