Just call me Daisy MacGyver

It could have been worse. Much worse, I’ll grant you that. My coworkers shared their own related stories, and all were humorous – well after the fact. While I was in the midst of the situation, I was thinking, “Later, I’ll laugh. Later.”

I got locked in the bathroom this morning. Locked in. Chuck was in Minneapolis, Amigo was sound asleep at the other end of the house, and I had no phone or other means of communication. The doorknob had somehow disconnected from the latch, and no matter how much or how hard I turned, it wouldn’t open.

I solved this in the manner of many female problem-solvers over many years, decades, and even centuries: I broke apart a hair clip and picked the lock. I am woman, hear me roar!

Then I “fixed” it with duct tape and sent Amigo a text message so he would not close the door and get stuck himself.

And then I went to work. Early, as usual. I treated myself to an extra cup of Monday morning coffee, too.

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Barbie Goes to University – or does she?

She turned up on Facebook. Where else would a Barbie bounce into view? And bounce she did, because “University Barbie” isn’t a studious type. Here she is.

Rah! Rah!

Rah! Rah!

I admit it; sports and cheerleaders are an important part of many universities. This Barbie wears the colors and shakes the pom pons and even wears cheerleader shoes instead of heels. Nope, it’s not all bad.

But why, I ask, why? Couldn’t Mattel call her what she is: Cheerleader Barbie? She could be one in a set of Universities Barbs. There could be sorority Barbie: Greek letters on her sweater, a pledge pin on her, er, chest. Senior Barbie could wear a cap and gown and have as a prop a diploma = and student loan papers. But maybe that’s a different Barbie: Long Term Debt Barbie. She could wear…well, let’s not go that route. Yet.

Science Major Barbie could wear glasses and have pale skin from too much time spent indoors between studying in the library and hovering over microscopes in lengthy lab sessions. English Major would have an old fashioned notebook around all the time in case she gets inspired with ideas for her Great American Novel. Conservatory of Music Barbie would have several changes of clothing, all of it in concert black, of course.

How about Class President Barbie? She could wear classy clothing, all suitable for making speeches and doing interviews on the campus television station. She might compete with Debate Barbie, a pre-law major who is always itching for a cause she can argue. Drama Barbie’s wardrobe would include almost anything, since she’s always playing a role.

Artist Barbie could sport paintbrushes sticking out of her back pocket and paint smudges on her clothes, with her big hair pulled back in a scarf or bandanna. And then there’s…never mind.

I could go on and on, but my point is this: Call a spade a spade. Call Cheerleader Barbie by her true specialty. Make sure she doesn’t say, “Math class is hard.” Then make a University Barbie that looks like a student. Wait…maybe a professor? Yes, Prof Barbara (no “ie” for this one) it is! I’ll start working on the design right away. In the meantime, jump around with Barbie Badger..

When you say Wisconsin, you've said it all!

When you say Wisconsin, you’ve said it all!

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Dear World; election day?

Dear candidates: remember what you learned in grammar school? A double negative isn’t effective in American English. Well, politicians, when I hear negative from both sides of a race, I tend to discount both reports.

Special interest groups ans PACs, this means you, too. The negative ads ain’t got no purpose or meaning to them, ya know what I mean?

Dear clerks and poll folks; we appreciate you. I don’t think you hear that enough. I know that many, many voters are stopping by at the city clerk’s office to vote early. You are crazy busy, and that’s a good sign. This is what democracy looks like.

Dear bake sale donors; I might arrive later in the day this time. Please save some goodies for me! I hear cookies calling my name.

Dear voters: A woman voting for Scott Walker is like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders. Or maybe it’s a frog voting for Doc Hopper. Remember Kermit the frog feeling devastated at the thought of all those little frogs on crutches? Never mind.

Dear 24/7 news outlets (you know who you are); doing a special all about Ebola Panic increases the panic. Got that? Stick to the facts, people, just the facts.

Dear farmers; do you really support the governor enough to put up several huge signs? It’s rather misleading. Drivers going down the rural highways may think the gov has a lot of supporters, when it’s really just one farmer with one vote.

Dear lawmakers; the concealed carry law actually made it harder for police officers to wear their weapons in a school, even if they are liaison officers there. Local school districts had to renegotiate with law enforcement to allow their police school liaisons to do their job.

Dear candidates; stay classy. I mean, get up and take the high road. This negativity hurts everyone. Let’s get Wisconsin out of the mud and make it a great state again.

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Classic Mug Shot

When we travel, my favorite souvenir is a coffee mug. I drink from my Amtrak mug and remember the trip on the Empire Builder. I sip from my lobster mug and remember Nova Scotia. Whenever I finish a major project, I like to pull out my “ducks in a row” mug to show that I do, indeed, have all my ducks in a row.
Here’s another mug, a historic mug, that I must have.
Remember when President Obama said, “I can’t go around with my birth certificate plastered on my forehead!”? When he released the long version because his short version wasn’t good enough for the conspiracy theorists, he told reporters that he didn’t have time for this “silliness”. He had more important things to do. A few days later, he announced that Osama bin Laden had been found and killed. Ahem.
To thumb my nose at those who still don’t understand that Hawaii is one of the United States, the Democrats have come up with the perfect mug.
We’re headed toward the midterm set of elections, and I still use this mug. I noticed a few around the campaign office in 2012, and I’m absolutely sure other progressive voters are still using theirs. It reminds me to assume nothing when it comes to other people’s knowledge – or lack thereof.
Disclaimer: I am active in progressive politics, including Organizing for America, but I was not paid or sponsored in any way for this post. This mug was too good to pass up.

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A New Team Name for Washington, D.C.?

I might just like La Petite’s suggestion the best. Keep the name, change the mascot to a potato.

But if the owner won’t put his money into spuds, he could try these suggestions, also from La Petite.

  •  Washington Lincolns — mascot, a stove pipe hat similar to the cheesehead
  • Washington Congress — Instead of practicing, they just stand and argue.
  • Washington Georges — white wig, false teeth, I can see it now!
  • Washington Minutemen — slogan, You musket to the end zone!

How about:

  • Washington Gridlock – along the same line as Congress, see above
  • Washington Eagles — oops, the Eagles are already taken. How about the turkeys?
  • George Washington Bridge – ooh, that’s closer to New Jersey gridlock than Washington
  • Washington Patriots — oh, wait, they’re already in Boston and call themselves New England.
  •  Washington Weebles — they wobble, but they don’t fall down!

Meanwhile, whatever will we eat when the Packers formerly known as Acme play the renamed football club?

Well, readers, what do you think?

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Fun With Unique Pots

The mainstream shops are getting the idea that people want to garden on their decks and porches and in small spaces. I bought a pair of strangely shaped pots designed to sit on a deck railing. At the moment, one holds a basil plant that was getting overpowered by the other three in the bigger pot. The other holds lemon basil seeds.

I came outside after a rainstorm to find standing water in the pot with the transplanted basil. The other one was wet, but not soggy. Chuck and his power drill came to the rescue.

Pot needs holes? No problem.

Pot needs holes? No problem.

We watched the excess water drain from the bottom. The basil looks much happier.

Unfortunately...

Unfortunately…

The railing showed its age and snapped. I moved the pots to another part of the deck; now we’ll just wait for Chuck to have time to replace the wood.

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The Kindness of Family

In the style of an old-fashioned neighborhood barn raising, my family dug holes and spread dirt and got sweaty and otherwise put themselves out so that I can play in the dirt again.

digging dandelions for bunny

digging dandelions for bunny food

Spreading soil and compost

Spreading soil and compost

In fact, it’s looking pretty darn good now. I filled one section with tomatoes already. Step by step, I’ll have a garden again.

And I’ll thank my family the best way I know how — with jars of the garden bounty, later on.

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Cooking the Old Fashioned, Newfangled Way

I subscribe to the feed for a cooking blog called How to Cook Like Your Grandmother. The trend in kitchens has been swinging in this direction for a while, away from mixes and pre-made frozen foods, back into cooking from scratch. Once in a while, when I’m just not capable of cooking (for whatever reason) we’ll go back to the old frozen pizza. Most of the time, though, we make the effort to put something good on the table and into our bodies.

Chuck was exhausted from a weekend of travel. Amigo was happy and tired from a weekend of travel. I was a little better off, but not much, just ten days out from a very scary and exhausting hospital experience. I’m still scrubbing off the bandage marks.

To put supper on the table, Chuck went out to do a whirlwind grocery shopping trip. Bunny food, a few other necessities, and a fully cooked rotisserie chicken were on his list. Meanwhile, back at the O.K. Chorale, I grabbed some frozen corn (frozen last summer when it was fresh), a small container of frozen red and green peppers, and tossed all of this into the steamer to cook. Somehow, even as wrecked as we felt, we put a decent meal on for supper.

Afterwards, I took a few minutes to be inspired by How to Cook Like Your Grandmother, a post still sitting in my inbox. . Tired, but not willing to quit quite yet, I took the bones from the chicken, the veggie water from the steamer, and a couple pieces of onion and I made a chicken broth. I had to be in the kitchen making lunch for tomorrow, so I rationalized I might as well get a broth simmering while I worked.

It was worth it. The broth looked thick and tasty, I got my lunch packed and a couple of options onto Amigo’s shelf in the refrigerator, and then diced up a little lettuce and tomato for the next night’s tacos.

When I’m tired and running almost on empty, sometimes I make the best use of my time. When everything is said and done, I can relax and go to bed knowing I’ve put in a good effort to feed the family and we didn’t even need to resort to frozen pizza – yet.

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Resilience

The term resilience came up in one of Erica Diamond’s posts on her blog, Women on the Fence. A guest blogger talked about her cancers – two bouts with two different cancers – and the strengths she discovered while fighting for her life.

The CEO of the company that oversees my teaching job is showing her resilience against cancer – also for the second time.

The first time I heard about resilience was in a training for teachers. We were learning about families with drug and alcohol problems, how to recognize the problems, and how to help the children get the help they needed. Our training showed that resilience comes in many forms and it can be developed and strengthened.

Resilience is a strength, the strength to hold on and survive. It’s more than recovering from influenza, although influenza can knock even the strongest person off her feet for a while. It’s more than getting through that last class for the advanced degree, although that certainly takes strength and endurance.

People who are resilient are not the ones who win all the time. Those folks on the top have strengths, too, but they haven’t been tested. Those who show resilience get tested and come up and out of the test stronger than before. And somehow, resilient people keep a sense of humor.

What doesn’t kill me may make me stronger, but even more than that, every time I find humor in a difficult situation, I win a small battle.

Readers, how do you show resilience? Where do you find strength when the going gets tough?

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And More Awareness

Today’s political climate is scary in that so many seem to have forgotten the fights that have already been fought. Seeing so many attempts to return women to a marginalized group (I can’t bring myself to say “minority”) reminds me of a story from not-really-so-long ago. The original title was “Being a Woman”. Here it is, courtesy of Grandma Daisy. 

I almost posted a quiz – a list of feminist slogans and quotes along with a list of years, with an opportunity for readers to match the two. Instead, I offer you an chance to reminisce about creativity in the feminist movement. Remember the Barbie Liberation League? In the 1990s….Grandma Daisy does this sort of storytelling best, so here she is.

Oh, children, your world is different, thank goodness. I lived through a fascinating and yet difficult time we called the Women’s Movement, or Women’s Liberation, Women’s Lib for short. We reminded lawmakers and voters that we are people, endowed with basic human rights along with our, ahem, voluptuous figures. To put it bluntly, we didn’t need balls to make good decisions about …. oh, your mother is listening. I can’t say that in front of you young ones., so back to the history behind the story. We had rallies, we held demonstrations. We ran for office ourselves instead of waiting for men to take care of our needs. We worked to pass laws that protected our right to make health care decisions.We built awareness of the importance of birth control and how much that birth control meant for our freedom, our liberation. We fought for equal pay for equal work. Laws passed, medications improved, but attitudes were harder to change. 

Sometimes women got creative to make a point. The Barbie Liberation League was one such example. We females were determined to be good students and make it “cool” to be smart. Math and science were supposedly men’s territory, so girls had some catching up to do. Adult role models like teachers and nurses pushed us young ones to go farther, higher, faster into the world of advanced math and sciences. 

Barbie dolls. You know the doll, right? Of course. They’re at the bottom of your sister’s closet with the rubber ducky and the worn out blankie she won’t throw away. Barbie, the doll with the unrealistic figure (39-21-33 at 6 feet tall were the proportional measurements, if you’re into trivia) was a favorite of many young girls. Girls knew she wasn’t realistic, but some tried too hard to look like her and became anorexic. A doll for a role model? Well, it happens.

When the Talking Teen Barbie came out, she had a limited vocabulary. Unfortunately, the people who programmed and recorded Barbie’s phrases had been in a fog throughout the entire women’s movement. Take a look at these examples.

Will we ever have enough clothes?

I love shopping!

Math class is tough.

Wanna have a pizza party?

In the old toy store aisles, G.I. Joe was a parallel type of doll, er, action figure, on the little boy side. His vocabulary was macho and tough – what they called “all male” back then. 

This is going to be rough. Can you handle it?

I’ve got a tough assignment for you!

Mission accomplished. Good work, men!

The Barbie Liberation League took action. They bought Talking Barbie and Talking G.I. Joe from toy stores, swapped out the voice boxes, and then repackaged the dolls and returned them to the stores. Little boys and little girls got Barbies that said, “Vengeance is mine!” and G.I. Joes that suggested, “Let’s plan our dream wedding.” When Joe proclaimed “Math class is tough”, it sounded ludicrous.

Well, darlings, that was the point. If a man couldn’t say it without sounding idiotic, why should a woman repeat that phrase and internalize that philosophy? Talking Barbie wasn’t pulled off the market, but the feminists and the Barbie Liberation League had made their point. Being female didn’t mean being less intelligent. It still doesn’t. 

Anyway , my grand-precious ones, some day I’ll tell you what we did when the guys at our college claimed that women couldn’t play jazz. Hah! We showed them, all right. Now go practice your trombone, and I’ll tell you that story later. 

 

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