Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Geocaching

A few months ago, I came across a You Tube video about geocaching. Geocaching is like going on a scavenger hunt, using a GPS unit to guide you to hidden caches around the world. People hide all kinds of things, and then post the GPS coordinates online. Usually a concealed cache will include a log for you to sign when you find it, and, occasionally, little prizes or trinkets as well. I thought this all sounded like an exciting type of hide-and-seek game, so I became an official geocaching.com member, and was thrilled to discover that there was a cache less than a half mile from my house. I studied the clues that were supposed to lead me to a little film canister, assuming that I certainly knew my own neighborhood well enough to decipher the rather obvious hints. Jacob and I rode our bikes to the precise hiding spot and enthusiastically rummaged around for the secret treasure. Several times. We never found it. I also learned of two geocaches near the farm, so I brought that information along when we went up north last weekend. Jim, Jacob, Wayne, Carol, Nick, and I searched all over for those hidden containers, but never found them, either. I am slowly beginning to feel like a geocache failure and am becoming a bit frustrated. Of course, I do not own a GPS unit, so that may have something to do with my geocache defeats. Or, quite possibly, that may have everything to do with my lack of success. Then, Jim impolitely pointed out to me that joining a GPS-users group without owning a GPS unit is comparable to, and about as stupid as, joining a bike club without owning a bike.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Springtime at the Farm

We have returned from the farm and, boy oh boy, was it ever cold and windy up there! Luckily, quite a few relatives showed up to help plant the trees on Saturday, and we completed the job in less than two hours. One cousin from Traverse City brought sloppy joes for lunch, and did not inform us until afterwards that they were made with venison. I wanted to say eeeewww, but they, in fact, tasted delicious. It was my first time sampling deer meat - if you don’t count the time I choked down reindeer stew in Finland. (Now, there is a game-y flavor.) Late Saturday afternoon, we ventured out to Lake Michigan to watch the waves, then dropped a little cash in the casino at night. All in all, we had a fun time, and Jacob was able to get some driving time in at the farm as well.


One of the pines planted last spring.




The boys planting some new seedlings.




Jacob taking Adam for a spin.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Down on the Farm

We are heading to the farm this weekend to plant trees. Five hundred trees! My cousin acquired them at an incredibly cheap price from some tree conservation group. We’re driving up Friday evening and will place each sapling lovingly into the ground on Saturday. I imagine that my back will be aching on Sunday. The weather there has been beautiful this week, but, of course, it is expected to turn cool and wet for the weekend. Jacob is extremely eager to go because I told him he could drive around the “back forty” of the farm. In past years he would sit on my lap and steer the car on our old cow paths. Last summer, however, he was finally tall enough to reach the gas and brake pedals, so I allowed him to sit alone in the driver’s seat and go for it. He did a fine job – better, in fact, than some adults I know. And, yes, of course I am always with him and we all buckle up. I am glad that he likes to drive since it was like pulling teeth (Yikes, that is one of my mother’s sayings!) to get Adam behind the wheel. I will try to take a video of Jacob driving and post it here. Or maybe not, because then anyone who disapproves of an 11-year-old maneuvering a two-ton vehicle on his own would have tangible proof of my child endangerment practices.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Confessions of a Secret Shopper

Over the years, I have joined several internet groups that reward me for answering surveys online. I have earned some Worldperks miles, “Border’s Bucks,” and a few free magazine subscriptions. There is nothing lucrative about doing it, but the surveys are usually short, and are almost always interesting. While reading a message board a few weeks ago, I came across an opportunity for a secret shopper-type job that would reimburse me for dining at a particular restaurant in return for my honest opinion about the food and service. They were fairly strict in their requirements, including asking me to jot down the time whenever the server came and went from our table, and the conditions of the bathrooms and parking lot. Among other things. Jim, Adam, Jacob, and I, plus Nancy and Richie, went to the restaurant on Thursday. Unfortunately, our waitress was not having a good night. She seldom checked back with us, and left piles of appetizer plates on the table the whole time we were there. (Evidently, dirty dishes on the table are a big no-no in the restaurant world.) The prices were also expensive compared to the types of places we are used to eating at - and we all know how Jim feels about things like that. On a happy note, however, the food was absolutely delicious. In addition, Jacob was quite delighted with the whole concept, feeling both sneaky and important. He claimed that he felt just like “Gene Scallop,” the famous Bikini Bottom food critic who inspected the Krusty Krab on an episode of Spongebob. He even tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt like Gene Scallop. Jacob took his role in the outing very seriously, and, once again, I witnessed what too much television can do to a kid. Anyway, later that night I answered all of the queries on the lengthy online questionnaire, and someone from the company phoned me on Friday for a follow-up interview. I have mixed emotions about the experience. I was sorry that I could not give the server a very decent rating, but I did point out that she seemed somewhat distracted by another group of diners that evening. Well, I think I'd rather just stick to racking up frequent flyer miles instead of this secret diner stuff. Now I'll sit back and wait to see if a check really arrives in the mail to refund my yummy - albeit overpriced - chicken.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Incentive to Clean My Bedroom

Recently, we decided to dump our AT&T home phone and add WOW phone service to our current cable & internet package. We arranged for the WOW person – they referred to him as “the technician” – to come out last Friday. I panicked a bit because the house was fairly messy. Jim and I have had the bad habit lately of just throwing things into our bedroom and closing the door whenever we needed to straighten up the rest of the house. I assumed, however, that most of this phone installation work would be completed outside. You know, simply unhook our old AT&T wire from the outdoor box, then hook up the new WOW line. Simple stuff. No need to linger in my unkempt house. The technician arrived promptly at 9 o’clock on Friday, and immediately informed me that he would need to access all of our phone jacks in order to set up the new service. Great. One jack is in our pigsty bedroom. While the guy went outside, I scrambled into my room and threw everything from the floor into my closet. The closet ended up about waist deep with clothes, papers, magazines, mail, toys, etc. The WOW guy came back inside and then told me that, by the way, he would also have to go into our attic in order to drop some wires between the walls. Ha ha ha, very funny. The entrance to the attic is through my closet! The same closet that now boasted a towering mound of crap. Maybe he could just scale the mountain of junk in there to reach the attic opening while he was at it. I chuckled nervously, not quite believing that invading my closet was the only way to complete the job. Mark – we were now on a first name basis – assured me that he did indeed have to get into my closet, and he would need space to set up his ladder in there as well. At this point, I just wanted to send him away, as that would have been easier and less embarrassing than letting him actually see my massive pile of debris. I did the only thing I could think of at that moment. I excused myself and pitched everything from my closet over into Jim’s closet. To make a long story short, Mark toiled away in the rafters, around the phone jacks, with the cable lines, and amid the internet wires (which, incidentally, were covered in vast layers of dust) for over 4 hours. He was polite enough never to mention my untidiness. When Jim got home from work, he was pleased and delighted that we finally had better, cheaper phone service, in addition to new cable connections. He raved about how nicely I had organized the bedroom, too. Until he opened his closet door. Guess I should have tossed the stuff back into my closet.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

They Keep Going, and Going, and Going

Our pesky neighborhood rabbits are out in full force again, and have already begun to eat my foliage. Actually, the only things growing in the yard so far are tulips, but the bunnies have found, and enjoyed, them. (I also planted a dozen or so new hyacinth bulbs last fall, but only two of them are visible. What’s up with that?) I actually used to like rabbits. I thought they were cute and cuddly. Our area is so overrun with them, however, that they are truly a nuisance now. A few years ago I bought, and planted, five flats of begonias. It took me an entire day to prepare the beds (read: shuffle the dirt around until it appeared level) and plant the flowers. The next morning, every single blossom - over 250 - had been eaten. When I bought new flowers to replace them, the nursery worker told me to put cayenne pepper on the petals to deter the hungry bunnies. They ate that bunch of flowers, too, cayenne pepper and all. My sister rationalized that they probably savored the extra seasoning. The following year, everyone recommended that I plant marigolds “because rabbits despise marigolds.” Well, not our floppy-eared friends. Loved them. Someone suggested sprinkling baby powder on and around our flowerbeds. That only managed to make the yard look like a cotton field until the bunnies gobbled up the flowers anyway. And don’t even get me started on my hostas. I have five beautiful hostas that, when not chewed up by the evil critters, each grow to about three feet high and four feet wide. Last year, the rabbits completely obliterated three of them. I tried placing a beer trench around some new azaleas last summer. Party time in bunny land. This spring, Jacob and I have planted 100 impatiens seeds in a tiny greenhouse indoors to transfer outside when the weather gets warm. I have no idea how I am going to protect these seedlings from the rabbits. Some people get angry when I voice my dislike of these animals. But they have commandeered my yard, and, in my case, I was here first! They have cost me hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars, and countless hours of my time. I am desperately seeking any advice that might make my anti-rabbit campaign successful. Short of rabbit poison, that is, because I don't want those PETA enthusiasts on my back.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

WWND?

My WWND diet has spiraled out of control lately – and not in a good way. Those 8 pounds that I lost in January have almost all found their way back to me. I have walked and biked the past four days, so hopefully I can get back on track now. I have yet to achieve that awesome rejuvenated feeling after any type of exertion, though. Many people I know still brag about how exercise is sooo enjoyable and sooo exhilarating. I asked Norm if he is invigorated after his walks, and even he responded yes. I feel like such a freak. What in the world is the secret to obtaining that post-exercise euphoria?

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Flea Market Fiasco

Many years ago, my mom decided to sell her old treasures at a flea market held semi-annually at the Finnish Cultural Center. Nancy and I always helped her out – sorting, setting up, and playing cashier at her table. Mom made a tidy profit at the first few sales. As time went by, however, she began to run out of things to hawk. Nancy and I started supplementing her stuff with our own. We would bring a few unwanted articles of clothing or used baby toys to each sale, and would be semi-successful at unloading some of our loot. Eventually, Mom completely ran out of things to sell, yet she still wanted to reserve our table at the flea market. The most recent sale was this past weekend. Dutifully, Nancy and I began getting our own crap together weeks ago. We organized, priced, then hauled our stuff – box by box – to the Finnish Center. We carefully arranged our table. We sat at the sale for over six hours. Jacob sold about 40 of his old Hot Wheels cars, so he made about 10 bucks. Other than that, though, Nancy and I sold about 10 things. Total. Now, it wasn’t an unpleasant day. We chatted with friends and family who wandered by. We ate donuts. We shared some laughs. But we departed the Finnish Center with almost all of the stuff we had come with, plus some additional toys that Jacob just had to buy from other people. Figuring that the table cost $30.00 to “rent” for the day, Nancy and I netted about . . . um, well, I think we came out about $10.00 in the hole. And even though I am no economics wizard, I realize that neither our time nor our money was well spent. Yet we keep coming back to the flea market again and again. Will we ever learn? Next sale: September.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

My Guitar Hero

Jacob always wanted a guitar. He and some friends even discussed starting a band last year, and asked my permission to use our basement for their practices. Jacob received his coveted guitar for Christmas, and for months he proceeded to drive us (particularly Adam) crazy with his untrained, off-key strumming of the instrument. His favorite tune to “play” was a grating – and loud – version of something that resembled 1977’s “Black Betty.” Over and over and over again. In March, I signed him up for three guitar lessons at our local community center, hoping that he would at least learn to pluck some basic notes. On the night of Jacob’s first lesson it was snowing, so he wrapped his guitar in a giant beach towel to keep it dry. Everyone else in the class showed up with fancy guitar cases to protect their instruments. Awkward. Jake also brought along his new guitar pick. (Yes, the same pick that was responsible for my knuckle stitches!) Evidently, it was quite unlike the picks belonging to the other students. Who knew there were different types of guitar picks? Strike two. The teacher attempted to show Jacob some simple chords and finger placement. He didn’t enjoy any of it, and, in fact, when he returned home he proclaimed that he hated playing the guitar and did not want to take any more lessons. Much to Jacob’s delight, the class the following week was cancelled due to the instructor’s absence. The third class came and went with everyone at our house completely forgetting that Tuesday evening was guitar lesson night. So, learning to play the guitar ended up being a bit of a washout for Jacob. I guess we will just have to put up with his “bam-a-lamming” until he gets bored with his guitar and stashes it away somewhere. Or until it mysteriously vanishes. Whatever comes first.