I finally got to go to downtown Milwaukee last night! Yippee! We went out to dinner and to see the play, “Well” at the Broadway Theatre with friends of ours.
Driving into downtown is a bit exciting these days. The new downtown interchange, that $800 million dollar, four-year project has been completed and is open for traffic. It’s kind of attractive, in an it-will-have-to-do-because-we-don’t-have-decent-public-transportation sort of way. I’d recommend that you all take an evening and just ride around that interchange, testing in which lane you want to be to go where you want to go.
Not wanting to end up in Bay View or Fox Point, we dumped off at the former Railroad Station, now the Multi-modal Station (la-tee-dah), to go to the Third Ward. That worked, though we were on city streets for a ways. It seems that the Plankinton Road exit only goes north now. Maybe. I’m not sure.
My job for the evening was to find a place for dinner, preferably not too far from the Broadway Theatre. I did my research on line and found there are 17 restaurants in the Third Ward in which I might consider eating dinner. They all looked soooo sophisticated and soooo not suburban chains, I wanted to try them all. So.. While in the presence of our friends, I made a proposal that we go to one of them every other week – and I’ll review them in my blog. I’ll bet you’d really like to know what I think of the restaurants in the Third Ward. I am an expert at this, you know. I reviewed all the restaurants on Bluemound Road last fall, while my Most Beautiful Kitchen in Brookfield was being created.
So it was decided. Even The Man With the Tight Wallet didn’t object to going out with these good friends every other week. He loves to talk sports with the wife of this couple and projects with the husband. That’s worth a couple of bucks.
Today I will review Swig, where we almost didn’t get to eat last night. Yep. Our visit was a bit of a disaster for the restaurant, and I’m sure if they knew I was reviewing our dinner last night for my masses of dinner-going blog-readers, they’d be quaking in their aprons.
I chose Swig because it is only a block from the Broadway Theatre. We parked in the Third Ward parking structure and arrived at Swig at 6:15, with plenty of time for dinner before the play at 7:30. Our wine order was placed fairly quickly. We did wait longer than you’d think was necessary for our wine to be served. Meanwhile we perused the delicious-looking items on the menu. Swig specializes in “small plates,” which are smaller servings of what would otherwise be main dishes. Our waiter, Steve, told us that often four diners order six small plates and share them.
It did take us a bit of time to decide which of the items to order. But though Steve knew about our theater schedule, he didn’t arrive to take our food orders until about 6:35. It was obvious he had too many tables to serve.
We ordered 7 small plates. I’ll list them so you can read how tempting they all sound. There was the Classic Bruschetta, Tempura Snap Peas with tarragon sour cream, Lobster Stuffed Roasted Poblano Pepper, Crab Cakes, Three Cheese Ravioli, Sesame Beef Tenderloin Skewers, and Chicken Skewers. Now wouldn’t you just LOVE to taste all those? Just to give you an idea of prices, the total of all 7 of those items would have been $72.25. Notice the “would have been...”
Time passed. No food. More time. We queried Steve as he rushed past our table. He was polite, friendly even, but... No food. Finally three of the plates, the Lobster, the Beef and the Chicken, arrived at about 7:05. YIKES! They were delicious - I think. We wolfed that food down, keeping our eyes peeled for the remainder of our order.
The other four items never arrived. Steve showed up with our bill at 7:15, apologizing that the kitchen had gotten so backed up with last minute people trying to make it to the theater, they just couldn’t get the rest of our order done in time.
There were only three other tables occupied when we arrived. When Steve accepted our order, the kitchen should have completed it and, if necessary, told the later arrivals that they couldn’t be served in time for the theater.
I’d like to go back to try the items we missed and others on the menu that sounded tempting. But NEVER will we eat at Swig again when we’re on a schedule.
At least The Man Who Can Sleep Anywhere (and often does) was not too stuffed to stay awake through an entire theater performance. I thought the play was interesting, with an excellent cast. The mother/adult daughter relationship was very familiar, from both sides of the generational divide.
Then it was time to leave downtown. Drat. Wouldn’t it be fun to own a condo down there? In addition to my house and gardens, of course. Anyway, we hopped back on the Freeway at Jackson Street, which was a lucky choice. It appears that the 6th St on-ramp may be gone, and I’m not sure about getting on at Marquette Univ. I’m telling The Man that we need to drive downtown more often for a while, just to practice these new roads.
You don’t think that’s TOO transparent, do you?
Stirring the Pot
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I'm Grounded
Here I am at home for a week. My car is in the body shop. They said it will be done next Tuesday. Our insurance didn’t cover renting a car, so ... I’m grounded.
My desk is so clean. I’ve returned phone calls. I’ve written newsletter articles. I actually read the entire NY Times this morning, trying to figure out what Russia is up to in Georgia. Oh, I have to tell you, my daughter, the one who travels a lot for business, had to fly to Atlanta this week. One of her co-workers actually said, “Are you sure its safe to go to Atlanta this week? Didn’t you hear that the Russians have invaded Georgia?”
The sad part is: she wasn’t kidding.
Anyway, I read all about that conflict. And about Afganistan. And Algeria. It was way too depressing. I put down the newspaper and moved into the Most Beautiful Kitchen in Brookfield. In preparation for being housebound, I bought enough groceries on Monday to cook for an entire Senior Citizen’s Center for the rest of the summer. So yesterday I made: barbequed baby-back ribs in the slow cooker, using some apple barbeque sauce that a houseguest had brought as a gift, homemade potato salad - some of the best I’ve ever eaten – if you like mayonnaise potato salad, it’s definitely worth the bother, let me tell you – and apricot jam and blueberry jam. Not that we eat so much jam; I give it as Christmas gifts. At least I do in the years I have time to make it. I was planning to also make peach jam and peach blueberry jam too, when I discovered I had no more Certo. Dang!
I went back to reading depressing news until The Man Who Is Still Employed came home with his car. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “Just have to run to Pick ‘N Save for one thing.” The Man was curling up on the sofa for his after-work nap as I tooled off.
It only took a few minutes to find the Certo at Pick ‘N Save, but then... I couldn’t find the car. I searched up and down the aisles. It was getting dark. The Man With The Appetite would be waiting. I knew where I parked. I thought. But my car was not there. I tried other aisles. No car. I remembered the time we lost our car at the airport, and was just thinking that maybe it got stolen – when I remembered... I was looking for the wrong car! I didn't drive my Prius there. Duh! I was standing right next to The Man’s Camry. I snuck a peak around to see if anyone was watching me and slunk into the Camry and zipped home.
“I was getting hungry,” commented The Man when I walked in, carrying one small bag with Certo. Just so he wouldn’t feel too smug, I said, “Do you remember that time at the airport where I waited and waited for you to pick me up after you’d gone to get the car? Well, that’s what took me so long. I couldn’t find the Prius.”
A few years ago we flew back to Mitchell Airport from a trip somewhere. I remember that it was night and it was winter. We’d probably gone to Costa Rica or some other tropical place. The Man said, ‘You get the luggage. I’ll circle the airport until you get outside.”
I waited. Our luggage came. I dragged it outside. It was 40 degrees and raining, as I recall. I watched for The Man’s car. Other cars were driving in circles, watching for their people to pick up. No Man Of Mine. I waited. I was dressed for a far better climate than Wisconsin in January. After 20 minutes or so, I dragged the luggage back into the terminal and waited inside. After 45 minutes, I was just about to call the airport police to see if The Man had been mugged in the parking garage, when he pulled up.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. (As you can see, I’m not as sweet as The Man is under such circumstances.)
“Looking for the car,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly. The Man With The Family’s Remaining Functioning Brain Cells always knows in exactly which aisle and on which level of the parking garage we have parked our car. Doesn’t matter if we’re gone 5 days or 5 weeks. He knows. So he went to where he knew the car was. But it wasn’t. He hiked all over that level of the parking garage. And then another level. Finally a security guy picked him up. He told him he couldn’t find our car. They drove around the structure, while the cop eyed him with suspicion. Though My Man doesn’t look like a guy who would be breaking into cars, you never know... Well, after covering the whole building, the security guy says, “ Are you sure you parked inside the parking garage?”
We travel a lot these days. Our kids are out of town. We fly to their houses. We fly for vacations. We always park inside the parking structure. It’s a few dollars more, but so much more convenient when you come home dragging your butt that’s been stuffed in an airplane seat for hours - or days. So The Man knew the car was inside, about where we always park it.
But it wasn’t. Who knows why we parked it outside this time. But we did.
Thank goodness it wasn’t me that lost the car – that time. Of course I never admitted that I would have been looking inside the parking structure too.
Stirring the Pot
My desk is so clean. I’ve returned phone calls. I’ve written newsletter articles. I actually read the entire NY Times this morning, trying to figure out what Russia is up to in Georgia. Oh, I have to tell you, my daughter, the one who travels a lot for business, had to fly to Atlanta this week. One of her co-workers actually said, “Are you sure its safe to go to Atlanta this week? Didn’t you hear that the Russians have invaded Georgia?”
The sad part is: she wasn’t kidding.
Anyway, I read all about that conflict. And about Afganistan. And Algeria. It was way too depressing. I put down the newspaper and moved into the Most Beautiful Kitchen in Brookfield. In preparation for being housebound, I bought enough groceries on Monday to cook for an entire Senior Citizen’s Center for the rest of the summer. So yesterday I made: barbequed baby-back ribs in the slow cooker, using some apple barbeque sauce that a houseguest had brought as a gift, homemade potato salad - some of the best I’ve ever eaten – if you like mayonnaise potato salad, it’s definitely worth the bother, let me tell you – and apricot jam and blueberry jam. Not that we eat so much jam; I give it as Christmas gifts. At least I do in the years I have time to make it. I was planning to also make peach jam and peach blueberry jam too, when I discovered I had no more Certo. Dang!
I went back to reading depressing news until The Man Who Is Still Employed came home with his car. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “Just have to run to Pick ‘N Save for one thing.” The Man was curling up on the sofa for his after-work nap as I tooled off.
It only took a few minutes to find the Certo at Pick ‘N Save, but then... I couldn’t find the car. I searched up and down the aisles. It was getting dark. The Man With The Appetite would be waiting. I knew where I parked. I thought. But my car was not there. I tried other aisles. No car. I remembered the time we lost our car at the airport, and was just thinking that maybe it got stolen – when I remembered... I was looking for the wrong car! I didn't drive my Prius there. Duh! I was standing right next to The Man’s Camry. I snuck a peak around to see if anyone was watching me and slunk into the Camry and zipped home.
“I was getting hungry,” commented The Man when I walked in, carrying one small bag with Certo. Just so he wouldn’t feel too smug, I said, “Do you remember that time at the airport where I waited and waited for you to pick me up after you’d gone to get the car? Well, that’s what took me so long. I couldn’t find the Prius.”
A few years ago we flew back to Mitchell Airport from a trip somewhere. I remember that it was night and it was winter. We’d probably gone to Costa Rica or some other tropical place. The Man said, ‘You get the luggage. I’ll circle the airport until you get outside.”
I waited. Our luggage came. I dragged it outside. It was 40 degrees and raining, as I recall. I watched for The Man’s car. Other cars were driving in circles, watching for their people to pick up. No Man Of Mine. I waited. I was dressed for a far better climate than Wisconsin in January. After 20 minutes or so, I dragged the luggage back into the terminal and waited inside. After 45 minutes, I was just about to call the airport police to see if The Man had been mugged in the parking garage, when he pulled up.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. (As you can see, I’m not as sweet as The Man is under such circumstances.)
“Looking for the car,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly. The Man With The Family’s Remaining Functioning Brain Cells always knows in exactly which aisle and on which level of the parking garage we have parked our car. Doesn’t matter if we’re gone 5 days or 5 weeks. He knows. So he went to where he knew the car was. But it wasn’t. He hiked all over that level of the parking garage. And then another level. Finally a security guy picked him up. He told him he couldn’t find our car. They drove around the structure, while the cop eyed him with suspicion. Though My Man doesn’t look like a guy who would be breaking into cars, you never know... Well, after covering the whole building, the security guy says, “ Are you sure you parked inside the parking garage?”
We travel a lot these days. Our kids are out of town. We fly to their houses. We fly for vacations. We always park inside the parking structure. It’s a few dollars more, but so much more convenient when you come home dragging your butt that’s been stuffed in an airplane seat for hours - or days. So The Man knew the car was inside, about where we always park it.
But it wasn’t. Who knows why we parked it outside this time. But we did.
Thank goodness it wasn’t me that lost the car – that time. Of course I never admitted that I would have been looking inside the parking structure too.
Stirring the Pot
Sunday, August 17, 2008
It's a Mystery
Do you read mysteries? I don’t, as a rule. Oh, I’ve read some of Clancy’s books and “The DaVinci Code,” but normally I read more works by female authors like Barbara Kingsolver and Amy Tan and Christina Schwarz. I’d just finished reading Schwarz’s “So Long at the Fair” when a friend who reads and reads and reads constantly (when he’s not on the golf course or singing in a chorus somewhere) gave me a Vince Flynn book. It’s called “Term Limits” and turns out that it's Flynn's first novel. Well... I whisked through that mystery/ spy fiction/whatever you call that genre in a couple of days last weekend, up at our cottage. I knew that The Man Who Reads Mostly Sports Pages And Computer Journals would find it interesting, so I picked up two more of Flynn’s books at the library. The Man is now into his second of Flynn’s books, while I am rereading Schwarz’s book. But I am now much better informed about weapons’ systems and assassins and political intrigue. So I’d suggest you stay out of my way; I know many ways to “take you out.”
It seems to be a bit risky to print such stuff on-line. I had no idea that everyone can get into anyone’s website and read and comment on anything. Did you happen to notice the comment that was left on my blog about the Bed Whose Name I Shall No Longer Put In Writing? How did that customer representative guy find me? One of my cousins wrote to me that she always wondered how all these computer nerds make a living. Now we know about one of them. He works for the company that makes That Bed.
I am hoping that simply using the word “bed” will not be adequate to peak his interest, or anyone else's, but how about the word, “assassins?” Scarey thought, isn’t it?
I asked The Engineer I Live With if he could explain to me how this hacker got into my blog. He said, “Watch me,” as he turned on Google. The Man typed in “Sleep Number Blog” and 498,000 entries came up. Really. That was the number. “That would take some time to search,” he said. So My Live-in Computer Whiz added a few other words to narrow down his search. He didn’t succeed – at least not in the amount of time for which I had the patience to watch his computer screen. (Is there anything more boring than watching someone else working on a computer? Well... Maybe golf on television, but not many things.)
I wonder if such computer hacking is used by The Bad Guys - or the CIA (who may, or may not be, bad guys, depending upon whose novel you read)? Is it used in any of the recent spy fiction? I’ll have to ask my big-reader guy who introduced me to Flynn’s work.
Meanwhile, if I totally disappear from this earth, you might start your search for me at the CIA or the FBI. They just might be interested in anyone who uses the word “assassin” in their blog.
Stirring the Pot
(Gee, they might even be interested in someone who uses the word “Pot”.)
It seems to be a bit risky to print such stuff on-line. I had no idea that everyone can get into anyone’s website and read and comment on anything. Did you happen to notice the comment that was left on my blog about the Bed Whose Name I Shall No Longer Put In Writing? How did that customer representative guy find me? One of my cousins wrote to me that she always wondered how all these computer nerds make a living. Now we know about one of them. He works for the company that makes That Bed.
I am hoping that simply using the word “bed” will not be adequate to peak his interest, or anyone else's, but how about the word, “assassins?” Scarey thought, isn’t it?
I asked The Engineer I Live With if he could explain to me how this hacker got into my blog. He said, “Watch me,” as he turned on Google. The Man typed in “Sleep Number Blog” and 498,000 entries came up. Really. That was the number. “That would take some time to search,” he said. So My Live-in Computer Whiz added a few other words to narrow down his search. He didn’t succeed – at least not in the amount of time for which I had the patience to watch his computer screen. (Is there anything more boring than watching someone else working on a computer? Well... Maybe golf on television, but not many things.)
I wonder if such computer hacking is used by The Bad Guys - or the CIA (who may, or may not be, bad guys, depending upon whose novel you read)? Is it used in any of the recent spy fiction? I’ll have to ask my big-reader guy who introduced me to Flynn’s work.
Meanwhile, if I totally disappear from this earth, you might start your search for me at the CIA or the FBI. They just might be interested in anyone who uses the word “assassin” in their blog.
Stirring the Pot
(Gee, they might even be interested in someone who uses the word “Pot”.)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Organic or Not
I ask The Man Who Is Picky About Food if there is anything he’d particularly like for dinner this week. I do get a bit tired of coming up with menu ideas that include nothing that has ever been swimming, no unusual spices or herbs (like, god forbid, cilantro or tarragon – too “funky”, and those quotation marks are intentional), no broccoli or cauliflower or (god forbid) asparagus, but do include meat and, as often as possible, The Best Vegetable There Is: peas.
When I ask for menu ideas, the only thing The Man Who Does Nothing With Food But Eat It comes up with is macaroni and cheese. Basically, if I cook as if I’m cooking for my five-year-old grandson, The Man is happy. Actually, the taste buds probably get inherited in the other direction: the grandson is happy to eat what The Grandpa eats. Mac ‘n cheese, fish sticks, chicken fingers, french fries.
I may call him The Man, but his idea of macaroni and cheese is not adult. When The Man suggests macaroni and cheese, he is thinking “box”. As in: Kraft dinner, which is his epitome of fine cuisine, perhaps tied with Tuna Chip Casserole.
I discover in my cupboard a leftover box of Annie’s Organic Bunny-shaped Macaroni and Cheese that was purchased to feed the grandson, should he visit.
So this evening I spend an exhausting 3.5 minutes in the kitchen, cooking up that box of organic fake food. I add a few ounces of actual grated Wisconsin cheddar, hoping The Man won't notice this bastardization of his cuisine. And then I taste it. Oh, YUK! The “sauce” has a bitter, artificial taste, and the bunny macaroni is just plain inedible, organic or not.
I push a spoonful into the mouth of The Resident Food Critic. “Try this,” I say. “Do you think this is how it’s supposed to taste?” I ask The Master.
“Kinda bland,” he replies.
Bland would be an improvement, I’m thinking. This is beyond disgusting. So I shove another larger spoonful into his mouth. “It’s okay, I guess,” he says. “Not much taste.”
So I ask, “Would you like me to throw it out and make some real macaroni and cheese?” And here comes the Way Cool part...
He replies, “Would you like to go out to eat tonight?”
WOW! I never even suggested it.
Those Annie’s bunnies hit the garbage disposal on the fly, as we head off to the Venice Club for Real Spaghetti.
I’m kind of thinking I might cook up a box of macaroni and cheese, oh, maybe once a week from now on.
Stirring the Pot
When I ask for menu ideas, the only thing The Man Who Does Nothing With Food But Eat It comes up with is macaroni and cheese. Basically, if I cook as if I’m cooking for my five-year-old grandson, The Man is happy. Actually, the taste buds probably get inherited in the other direction: the grandson is happy to eat what The Grandpa eats. Mac ‘n cheese, fish sticks, chicken fingers, french fries.
I may call him The Man, but his idea of macaroni and cheese is not adult. When The Man suggests macaroni and cheese, he is thinking “box”. As in: Kraft dinner, which is his epitome of fine cuisine, perhaps tied with Tuna Chip Casserole.
I discover in my cupboard a leftover box of Annie’s Organic Bunny-shaped Macaroni and Cheese that was purchased to feed the grandson, should he visit.
So this evening I spend an exhausting 3.5 minutes in the kitchen, cooking up that box of organic fake food. I add a few ounces of actual grated Wisconsin cheddar, hoping The Man won't notice this bastardization of his cuisine. And then I taste it. Oh, YUK! The “sauce” has a bitter, artificial taste, and the bunny macaroni is just plain inedible, organic or not.
I push a spoonful into the mouth of The Resident Food Critic. “Try this,” I say. “Do you think this is how it’s supposed to taste?” I ask The Master.
“Kinda bland,” he replies.
Bland would be an improvement, I’m thinking. This is beyond disgusting. So I shove another larger spoonful into his mouth. “It’s okay, I guess,” he says. “Not much taste.”
So I ask, “Would you like me to throw it out and make some real macaroni and cheese?” And here comes the Way Cool part...
He replies, “Would you like to go out to eat tonight?”
WOW! I never even suggested it.
Those Annie’s bunnies hit the garbage disposal on the fly, as we head off to the Venice Club for Real Spaghetti.
I’m kind of thinking I might cook up a box of macaroni and cheese, oh, maybe once a week from now on.
Stirring the Pot
Friday, August 8, 2008
My Sleep Number
Speaking of the influence of The Guys At Work, I am struggling to find my Sleep Number because of one of The Guys At Work.
A couple of months ago I suggested - repeatedly- to The Man Who Doesn’t Like Change In His Life that perhaps we had gotten mature enough to live without a waterbed. We’ve had our waterbed since 1975, or thereabouts, and what with my aging knees, it was not getting any easier to get in and out of. I’d about come to the conclusion that I would be placed directly from my waterbed into my coffin, when one evening The Man announced that we were going out to buy a new mattress. I leaped in the car, panting like an excited puppy.
“Where are we going to shop?” I asked.
“Brookfield Square” The Man replied.
“There’s no mattress store there,” I assured him. “Boston Store has a separate furniture store out further on Bluemound.” I assumed that was where we were headed until The Man pulled into Brookfield Square’s parking lot.
I reaffirmed that there is no furniture department at Boston Store, to which The Man Who Is Right replied, “But there is a mattress store in Brookfield Square. It sells Sleep Number mattresses.”
Well, I have walked 4 miles-a-day for 3-5 days a week for over 35 years. As last winter was tough walking through the perpetual snowdrifts, my walking-friend and I walked in the mall at Brookfield Square. All winter. Three to five times a week. As I told The Man Who Is Usually Right, I’d have seen a mattress store if there was one.
Well... You can already guess the rest of this story. He was right, of course. I kept insisting, as he parked the car. I asked where this store was in the mall. The Man assured me that it was right next to Boston Store. I said, “It’s not there.”
But it was. Dang!
“Why did you decide to try a Sleep Number mattress,” I asked. “A Guy At Work has one and recommends them. So we tried them on. We laid on this one and that one. They seemed really comfortable. The Sleep Number store clerk has a machine that tests what your best Sleep Number is. She said mine was 35. I was impressed that she could tell that. I guess I impress easily. Much easier than I sleep, actually.
We tried no other mattresses. Our ridiculously expensive Sleep Number bed was delivered and installed the next day. We’ve had it a couple of months. Some nights I sleep okay. For instance, last night I probably slept fairly continuously from 1 AM till 7 AM, which is incredibly long for me. Most nights I have trouble getting comfortable enough to go to sleep. I think this bed is way to warm, for some reason. I’ve changed the pillow. I’ve changed the sleep number. I’m up to 50 now. I’ve added air. I’ve subtracted air. Oh, yes. I forgot to mention that a Sleep Number mattress is just a very expensive air mattress with some kind of divider down the middle.
I would have returned the sucker within a few nights of delivery. The Man Who Could Sleep Propped Up In A Corner thinks the mattress is just fine. I’ll probably be laid out on it (at a Permanent Sleep Number of 82) when I die.
My deepest thanks, again, to The Guys At Work.
A couple of months ago I suggested - repeatedly- to The Man Who Doesn’t Like Change In His Life that perhaps we had gotten mature enough to live without a waterbed. We’ve had our waterbed since 1975, or thereabouts, and what with my aging knees, it was not getting any easier to get in and out of. I’d about come to the conclusion that I would be placed directly from my waterbed into my coffin, when one evening The Man announced that we were going out to buy a new mattress. I leaped in the car, panting like an excited puppy.
“Where are we going to shop?” I asked.
“Brookfield Square” The Man replied.
“There’s no mattress store there,” I assured him. “Boston Store has a separate furniture store out further on Bluemound.” I assumed that was where we were headed until The Man pulled into Brookfield Square’s parking lot.
I reaffirmed that there is no furniture department at Boston Store, to which The Man Who Is Right replied, “But there is a mattress store in Brookfield Square. It sells Sleep Number mattresses.”
Well, I have walked 4 miles-a-day for 3-5 days a week for over 35 years. As last winter was tough walking through the perpetual snowdrifts, my walking-friend and I walked in the mall at Brookfield Square. All winter. Three to five times a week. As I told The Man Who Is Usually Right, I’d have seen a mattress store if there was one.
Well... You can already guess the rest of this story. He was right, of course. I kept insisting, as he parked the car. I asked where this store was in the mall. The Man assured me that it was right next to Boston Store. I said, “It’s not there.”
But it was. Dang!
“Why did you decide to try a Sleep Number mattress,” I asked. “A Guy At Work has one and recommends them. So we tried them on. We laid on this one and that one. They seemed really comfortable. The Sleep Number store clerk has a machine that tests what your best Sleep Number is. She said mine was 35. I was impressed that she could tell that. I guess I impress easily. Much easier than I sleep, actually.
We tried no other mattresses. Our ridiculously expensive Sleep Number bed was delivered and installed the next day. We’ve had it a couple of months. Some nights I sleep okay. For instance, last night I probably slept fairly continuously from 1 AM till 7 AM, which is incredibly long for me. Most nights I have trouble getting comfortable enough to go to sleep. I think this bed is way to warm, for some reason. I’ve changed the pillow. I’ve changed the sleep number. I’m up to 50 now. I’ve added air. I’ve subtracted air. Oh, yes. I forgot to mention that a Sleep Number mattress is just a very expensive air mattress with some kind of divider down the middle.
I would have returned the sucker within a few nights of delivery. The Man Who Could Sleep Propped Up In A Corner thinks the mattress is just fine. I’ll probably be laid out on it (at a Permanent Sleep Number of 82) when I die.
My deepest thanks, again, to The Guys At Work.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Body Shops
Where do I go to get estimates for fixing the damage to my precious Prius? Where are the good body shops in this area? I have no idea. But The Man does. He says that The Guys At Work say to go to the body shop on Barker Rd, just south of where Gebhardt Road ends.
The Guys At Work know everything that is important to know. On all issues. Will Brett actually play for the Jets, or will they trade him? Ask The Guys At Work. Is a Jeep more reliable than a Chevy? The Guys At Work will know. Where is a good body shop around here? The Guys say I should go to Abra Auto Body on Barker Road and Gebhardt Roads.
“Body Shop?” I say. “There’s no body shop on Barker Road.” “Sure there is.” says The Man. Well, I know better than to bet on this kind of thing with the Man Who IS One Of The Guys At Work, but golly, I drive that way all the time.
“There’s a nursing home on Barker Road at the end of Gebhardt,” I say. “It’s got about a mile-long row of ugly red begonias planted right in the sun in front of the place. Can you believe it?" I say. "Begonias! In the sun!”
“I don’t know about any begonias on Barker,” The Man admits, “but there IS a body shop there.”
So, just to prove my point, I drive there. And of course he’s right. Again. It is called Abra Auto Body, and it is just one or two buildings to the south of the nursing home with the red begonias burning up in the sun.
So I get an estimate from Abra's Body Shop and one from a body shop called Marshall’s that is just east of that cool antique shop and restaurant on Hwy J, beyond Goerke’s Corners. Marshall’s is recommended by my walking companion and friend, Hilde. It turns out she is somewhat of an expert on auto body work. “If you’d raised sons instead of daughters, you’d be familiar with body shops, too,” she tells me. So I get two estimates.
Wouldn’t you think that car repair would be similar to having your oil changed -- there might be a slight difference in price from the car dealer to the BP station, but not so much as to cause you to drive an extra five miles to have it done? Well! It ain’t so. The estimate from Abra was $1771.99 and from Marshall’s it was $2729.77! And they are doing the identical work. I think. If I understood what they said. Anyway, there is a substantial difference.
The Man calls our auto insurance company, Farmer’s Insurance. They tell him they work with Marshall’s, and I should take the car there for repairs. Now I think we have an ethical dilemma. Do we pay for the repair ourselves at a cost of $1771.99? Or do we pay our $250 deductible and let the insurance company get ripped off? It wasn’t a dilemma for The Man With The Wallet. He says, “This is what we have paid insurance premiums for all these years.”
I guess I can live with the guilt. And the $1521.99. Maybe I’ll buy some more plants for my big, sunny garden.
But certainly not begonias.
Signed,
Stirring the Pot
The Guys At Work know everything that is important to know. On all issues. Will Brett actually play for the Jets, or will they trade him? Ask The Guys At Work. Is a Jeep more reliable than a Chevy? The Guys At Work will know. Where is a good body shop around here? The Guys say I should go to Abra Auto Body on Barker Road and Gebhardt Roads.
“Body Shop?” I say. “There’s no body shop on Barker Road.” “Sure there is.” says The Man. Well, I know better than to bet on this kind of thing with the Man Who IS One Of The Guys At Work, but golly, I drive that way all the time.
“There’s a nursing home on Barker Road at the end of Gebhardt,” I say. “It’s got about a mile-long row of ugly red begonias planted right in the sun in front of the place. Can you believe it?" I say. "Begonias! In the sun!”
“I don’t know about any begonias on Barker,” The Man admits, “but there IS a body shop there.”
So, just to prove my point, I drive there. And of course he’s right. Again. It is called Abra Auto Body, and it is just one or two buildings to the south of the nursing home with the red begonias burning up in the sun.
So I get an estimate from Abra's Body Shop and one from a body shop called Marshall’s that is just east of that cool antique shop and restaurant on Hwy J, beyond Goerke’s Corners. Marshall’s is recommended by my walking companion and friend, Hilde. It turns out she is somewhat of an expert on auto body work. “If you’d raised sons instead of daughters, you’d be familiar with body shops, too,” she tells me. So I get two estimates.
Wouldn’t you think that car repair would be similar to having your oil changed -- there might be a slight difference in price from the car dealer to the BP station, but not so much as to cause you to drive an extra five miles to have it done? Well! It ain’t so. The estimate from Abra was $1771.99 and from Marshall’s it was $2729.77! And they are doing the identical work. I think. If I understood what they said. Anyway, there is a substantial difference.
The Man calls our auto insurance company, Farmer’s Insurance. They tell him they work with Marshall’s, and I should take the car there for repairs. Now I think we have an ethical dilemma. Do we pay for the repair ourselves at a cost of $1771.99? Or do we pay our $250 deductible and let the insurance company get ripped off? It wasn’t a dilemma for The Man With The Wallet. He says, “This is what we have paid insurance premiums for all these years.”
I guess I can live with the guilt. And the $1521.99. Maybe I’ll buy some more plants for my big, sunny garden.
But certainly not begonias.
Signed,
Stirring the Pot
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
PRIDE GOES BEFORE THE FALL
There may be some truth to that proverb. But don’t panic, good friends. It wasn’t exactly a “fall.” More of a crash, or a scrape...
First the news about the canteloupes. ALL of my vast readership is asking: how was the canteloupe? Well, My Man, The Canteloupe Expert, has this to say: Neither of those we bought on Saturday were as good as the one we had two weeks ago. The half- melon from Brennan’s was tasty, but too firm for his taste. I suspect it would have met his expectations if we had bought a whole one of Brennan’s that we could let it sit out for a couple of days to soften up. The whole melon, the one we bought at Sendik’s, was less firm, but obviously had been picked pretty darned green and had less flavor. That one did sit on our counter for three days, but you can only do so much. So the canteloupe saga will continue.
The good news -- before we get to the part about the crash, or scrape, or whatever it was -- is of all the great, fresh produce I bought at the Farmers' Market on Saturday and the fun I’ve been having trying to decide what to do with it. I hadn’t really gotten back into cooking since our kitchen was demolished last fall, when we were forced to eat out every day for a couple of months. We’ve been eating at home since re-occupying The Now-Most Beautiful Kitchen In Brookfield, but I haven’t really been cooking, if you know what I mean. Tacos, BLT’s, chicken from the deli – no recipes have been in use here in almost a year. It’s like I forgot how.
Then August came, and Brookfield’s weather got miserably muggy and forced me in from my flower gardens and into my cookbooks. I dragged out about 10 of them this week and spent a fabulous afternoon browsing for good corn chowder recipes and chicken salad recipes and fresh tomato recipes to use my market bounty. My idea of a perfect day is spent with a cookbook – and maybe some cheese on the side. I’ve even been known to take a cookbook into the bathtub with me for a long soak. (Not the book – me.) And then there’s www.epicurious.com It’s the coolest web site for people who want to make things with cointreau and cumin and cauliflower and... One just types into the search box “corn chowder” and 72 or 348 recipes show up, plus ratings and reviews by us amateur cooks who have tried them.
So today I made Corn Chowder with Bacon from an Epicurious.com recipe. Wow! Is it delicious, if I do say so myself. And I did say so. The soup is so good, I got to showin’ off and delivering buckets of it to a couple of friends. Now we come to the “Pride goes before the fall” part of the day. At one friend’s house, after telling them how spectacular this soup is and, like a pathetic old sheepdog, lapping up their praise for being such a great and generous cook, I left their house and backed my Prius into a tree. YIKES! Actually I scrapped the danged tree all the way down the side of my car. DOUBLE RATS!
My Prius is the only car I have ever loved. Actually loved. How could I be so consumed with myself as to cause it injury? And, almost immediately my brain said... What will The Man, The Engineer Who Is The Very Manifestation of Caution, what will he think of my carelessness?
Unwilling to face his disappointment, I called The Man’s office during his lunch hour, when I knew he’d be out playing sheepshead. Figured it’s easiest to leave a humble, contrite message with the news. To his great credit - and my great relief-- he wasn’t even concerned enough to call me back! I called him later to see if he had gotten my message. He had. He asked how bad it was. I said it was bad. All he said was, “We’ll have to find a good body shop to repair it.”
Hallelujah!
I married him when I was only 20 years old, and I sure got lucky.
First the news about the canteloupes. ALL of my vast readership is asking: how was the canteloupe? Well, My Man, The Canteloupe Expert, has this to say: Neither of those we bought on Saturday were as good as the one we had two weeks ago. The half- melon from Brennan’s was tasty, but too firm for his taste. I suspect it would have met his expectations if we had bought a whole one of Brennan’s that we could let it sit out for a couple of days to soften up. The whole melon, the one we bought at Sendik’s, was less firm, but obviously had been picked pretty darned green and had less flavor. That one did sit on our counter for three days, but you can only do so much. So the canteloupe saga will continue.
The good news -- before we get to the part about the crash, or scrape, or whatever it was -- is of all the great, fresh produce I bought at the Farmers' Market on Saturday and the fun I’ve been having trying to decide what to do with it. I hadn’t really gotten back into cooking since our kitchen was demolished last fall, when we were forced to eat out every day for a couple of months. We’ve been eating at home since re-occupying The Now-Most Beautiful Kitchen In Brookfield, but I haven’t really been cooking, if you know what I mean. Tacos, BLT’s, chicken from the deli – no recipes have been in use here in almost a year. It’s like I forgot how.
Then August came, and Brookfield’s weather got miserably muggy and forced me in from my flower gardens and into my cookbooks. I dragged out about 10 of them this week and spent a fabulous afternoon browsing for good corn chowder recipes and chicken salad recipes and fresh tomato recipes to use my market bounty. My idea of a perfect day is spent with a cookbook – and maybe some cheese on the side. I’ve even been known to take a cookbook into the bathtub with me for a long soak. (Not the book – me.) And then there’s www.epicurious.com It’s the coolest web site for people who want to make things with cointreau and cumin and cauliflower and... One just types into the search box “corn chowder” and 72 or 348 recipes show up, plus ratings and reviews by us amateur cooks who have tried them.
So today I made Corn Chowder with Bacon from an Epicurious.com recipe. Wow! Is it delicious, if I do say so myself. And I did say so. The soup is so good, I got to showin’ off and delivering buckets of it to a couple of friends. Now we come to the “Pride goes before the fall” part of the day. At one friend’s house, after telling them how spectacular this soup is and, like a pathetic old sheepdog, lapping up their praise for being such a great and generous cook, I left their house and backed my Prius into a tree. YIKES! Actually I scrapped the danged tree all the way down the side of my car. DOUBLE RATS!
My Prius is the only car I have ever loved. Actually loved. How could I be so consumed with myself as to cause it injury? And, almost immediately my brain said... What will The Man, The Engineer Who Is The Very Manifestation of Caution, what will he think of my carelessness?
Unwilling to face his disappointment, I called The Man’s office during his lunch hour, when I knew he’d be out playing sheepshead. Figured it’s easiest to leave a humble, contrite message with the news. To his great credit - and my great relief-- he wasn’t even concerned enough to call me back! I called him later to see if he had gotten my message. He had. He asked how bad it was. I said it was bad. All he said was, “We’ll have to find a good body shop to repair it.”
Hallelujah!
I married him when I was only 20 years old, and I sure got lucky.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Not Much Cooking on Donmar Lane
It’s hot this week in Brookfield. My new kitchen's been done for eight months. I’ve cooked in it (sort of). I’ve also weeded my gardens. I’ve deadheaded my flower beds. I’m getting really crabby. It’s time to get out of Brookfield. In my opinion.
So on Friday when The Man comes home from work I say, "Let’s go downtown to a movie and then go out for a drink or a cup of coffee somewhere near the Lake, where it’s cooler and there are some different people to look at."
The Man has his projects and priorities. He has his favorite Ace Hardware store nearby. His computer is just waiting on his desk to tell him the latest Brewers' scores and the prices of gasoline in every gas station in the Milwaukee area. What could possibly be more exciting than that?
"What movie do you want to see?" The Man asks. I tell him what’s playing at the Oriental. He checks the web. "We can see any of those movies at the Majestic right here in Brookfield." I tell him (again) that I REALLY want to go downtown, into the city. "So where did you have in mind to go for a drink afterward?" he asks, and, of course, I have no idea, because how would I know? We never do this. Mr Practical thinks that driving along Lake Michigan looking for a cool place where we can sit outside for a drink is really dumb, when we have two patios and plenty of booze right in the cabinet in our sunroom. Cheaper. After I talk at him for a half hour or so, he says, "It’s supposed to be really humid again tomorrow. I have to mow the lawn this weekend, so I think I’d better mow it tonight, while it’s a little cooler." Now what the hell am I supposed to say to that? We stay home. He mows the lawn.
Saturday I start in over breakfast with ideas of where we might go. Eventually he picks up his keys. "So are you off to Ace Hardware?" I ask. "No," he says. "I thought I’d go to the farmer’s market with you." I am faint with excitement. The Man has never been to the farmer’s market – or to any other purveyor of food, for that matter. Our only pre-marital agreement was his statement: "I just want you to know. The only thing I do with food is eat it." He has remained faithful to his vow.
On the way, The Man informs me that he wants me to buy a canteloupe like the one I had at home a couple of weeks ago. I doubt there are melons available yet from farmers in Wisconsin and tell him so, but, as soon as he discovers there are bakers at the market selling sweet rolls, he agreeably walks the whole market to check for canteloupe -- as well as a bit of dessert for the breakfast he just ate – at home of course. We get to the last booth as he is finishing off a gooey, frosted cinnamon roll. There are no melons. He’s ready to go home. I have bought nothing. As we walk briskly past booths on the way back to the car, I manage to purchase some local corn, tomatoes, beets. raspberries, a cucumber and a dozen eggs.
We drive away from the market. The Man is going the wrong way to go home. "Where are you going?" I ask. "To find a canteloupe like that one you had at home. You said it was from Sendik’s." "There is no way to tell if a canteloupe is going to be any good," I tell him. "They may not have the same ones as they had 2 weeks ago." But he drives to Sendik’s on Capitol Dr.
"Have you ever been here?" I ask, knowing the answer. He has not. So I attempt to show him how cool this store is. "Here’s their wine department. Pretty good selection," I tell him. But he is on a mission. "So where’s the produce?" "At least you MUST see the walk-in cheese cooler," I insist. I try to drag him inside. "It’s cold in there," he says. I am still exclaiming about the incredible selection of goat cheeses as he heads down an aisle to the produce. He buys a canteloupe, not knowing, of course, whether it is any good or not.
Back in the car, I tell The Man Who Apparently Loves Canteloupe about Brennan’s, the only place where you can sample everything – all the fruits, the cheeses. It’s the only way to REALLY be sure you are going to like the melon you are buying. He is indifferent. So I put my foot down. "We are GOING to Brennan’s. It will take you five minutes. Have you ever been to Brennan’s?" Of course I know that answer too. We’ve been married for 48 years; he’s not set foot in any grocery store in all that time that I know of. But I’ll give him this: he goes to Brennan’s without a comment. As we walk in, I say, "See? You can try the peaches and the plums and ..." as I sample them all. He tries none of it. "Where’s the melon section," he persists. He tries two kinds of canteloupe. He buys one. He is uninterested in trying the cheeses. We go home. He immediately heads off to Home Depot, rents a truck, buys 1200 lbs (I am not making that number up) of paving bricks and proceeds to spend the entire weekend building a path in a part of our yard where the grass won’t grow.
At least I’ve got some local corn to cook.
Signed,
Stirring the Pot
So on Friday when The Man comes home from work I say, "Let’s go downtown to a movie and then go out for a drink or a cup of coffee somewhere near the Lake, where it’s cooler and there are some different people to look at."
The Man has his projects and priorities. He has his favorite Ace Hardware store nearby. His computer is just waiting on his desk to tell him the latest Brewers' scores and the prices of gasoline in every gas station in the Milwaukee area. What could possibly be more exciting than that?
"What movie do you want to see?" The Man asks. I tell him what’s playing at the Oriental. He checks the web. "We can see any of those movies at the Majestic right here in Brookfield." I tell him (again) that I REALLY want to go downtown, into the city. "So where did you have in mind to go for a drink afterward?" he asks, and, of course, I have no idea, because how would I know? We never do this. Mr Practical thinks that driving along Lake Michigan looking for a cool place where we can sit outside for a drink is really dumb, when we have two patios and plenty of booze right in the cabinet in our sunroom. Cheaper. After I talk at him for a half hour or so, he says, "It’s supposed to be really humid again tomorrow. I have to mow the lawn this weekend, so I think I’d better mow it tonight, while it’s a little cooler." Now what the hell am I supposed to say to that? We stay home. He mows the lawn.
Saturday I start in over breakfast with ideas of where we might go. Eventually he picks up his keys. "So are you off to Ace Hardware?" I ask. "No," he says. "I thought I’d go to the farmer’s market with you." I am faint with excitement. The Man has never been to the farmer’s market – or to any other purveyor of food, for that matter. Our only pre-marital agreement was his statement: "I just want you to know. The only thing I do with food is eat it." He has remained faithful to his vow.
On the way, The Man informs me that he wants me to buy a canteloupe like the one I had at home a couple of weeks ago. I doubt there are melons available yet from farmers in Wisconsin and tell him so, but, as soon as he discovers there are bakers at the market selling sweet rolls, he agreeably walks the whole market to check for canteloupe -- as well as a bit of dessert for the breakfast he just ate – at home of course. We get to the last booth as he is finishing off a gooey, frosted cinnamon roll. There are no melons. He’s ready to go home. I have bought nothing. As we walk briskly past booths on the way back to the car, I manage to purchase some local corn, tomatoes, beets. raspberries, a cucumber and a dozen eggs.
We drive away from the market. The Man is going the wrong way to go home. "Where are you going?" I ask. "To find a canteloupe like that one you had at home. You said it was from Sendik’s." "There is no way to tell if a canteloupe is going to be any good," I tell him. "They may not have the same ones as they had 2 weeks ago." But he drives to Sendik’s on Capitol Dr.
"Have you ever been here?" I ask, knowing the answer. He has not. So I attempt to show him how cool this store is. "Here’s their wine department. Pretty good selection," I tell him. But he is on a mission. "So where’s the produce?" "At least you MUST see the walk-in cheese cooler," I insist. I try to drag him inside. "It’s cold in there," he says. I am still exclaiming about the incredible selection of goat cheeses as he heads down an aisle to the produce. He buys a canteloupe, not knowing, of course, whether it is any good or not.
Back in the car, I tell The Man Who Apparently Loves Canteloupe about Brennan’s, the only place where you can sample everything – all the fruits, the cheeses. It’s the only way to REALLY be sure you are going to like the melon you are buying. He is indifferent. So I put my foot down. "We are GOING to Brennan’s. It will take you five minutes. Have you ever been to Brennan’s?" Of course I know that answer too. We’ve been married for 48 years; he’s not set foot in any grocery store in all that time that I know of. But I’ll give him this: he goes to Brennan’s without a comment. As we walk in, I say, "See? You can try the peaches and the plums and ..." as I sample them all. He tries none of it. "Where’s the melon section," he persists. He tries two kinds of canteloupe. He buys one. He is uninterested in trying the cheeses. We go home. He immediately heads off to Home Depot, rents a truck, buys 1200 lbs (I am not making that number up) of paving bricks and proceeds to spend the entire weekend building a path in a part of our yard where the grass won’t grow.
At least I’ve got some local corn to cook.
Signed,
Stirring the Pot
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