Real Women Use Power Tools

My father, the Builder-of-Planes and All Around Handyman, taught me how to do just about everything. I can unclog my own drain (without Drain-O, thank you), build my own shelves, replace my own brakes (with his help and his jacks), hang my own pictures, drive my own moving truck, hang my own wallpaper (well, my mother's wallpaper), paint my own rooms, and in general fix most anything that breaks around the house. When Expat needed the nifty magnetic strip we bought for his kitchen knives hung, centered and level, over the sink, I did it for him. When we bought him a tie rack, he waited three weeks until I got around to mounting it to try it out. It's not that Expat can't do these things for himself, but why should he? He has a wife with a good eye, a steady hand, and not one but two levels, who is fearless with her electric drill.

So a month or so go when I decided that what I needed most in the world was a set of hooks for my hallway, I did what any DIY buff would do: I made them.

Making them was not, of course, my first choice. I did look into purchasing a set of said hooks at the local Targét, but a small set alone was going to cost $20, plus it weighed, like, 50 pounds all by itself and I'm sorry, my walls wouldn't be able to support that in this flimsy, drafty, 1970's vintage apartment. They'd be so busy holding the hooks up that I wouldn't be able to hang anything on the hooks for fear of sending the whole thing crashing to the ground, walls and all. No, I needed something lighter and longer, because I had a lot of stuff lying around the apartment—bags and coats and vests and scarves—and I knew from watching Clean Sweep on TLC that all of these things could be stored in some clever way somewhere useful to make my space more functional. And since I could really knock down the hall wall, gut the adjoining spare room closet, and insert 16 x 16 wall cubbies painted in bright turquoise for all of my things without seriously jeopardizing out security deposit, I decided to settle for a four foot 1 x 3 and eight hooks from the "See. Spot. Save" bins at said local Targét (four hooks per pack, $2.50 a pack—I bought two).

Just one problem: I didn't have a board.

Enter the trusty Church Choir.

For those who don’t know, one of my many jobs is that of a Church Music Director. I won’t go into the details now, but suffice to say that my music degree has finally come in handy for something other than weddings, funerals, and the occasional rendition of “Happy Birthday” in Italian. My Church Choir Members (CCMs) are all Parents with Houses and Garages, which got me thinking about My Parents and their respective Garages. And what do My Parents have in their respective Garages? Random piles of Scrap Wood.

I don’t understand the Scrap Wood/Parent Garage phenomenon in its entirety, and that’s okay. I’m perfectly willing to accept it on its terms. Like God and the Tooth Fairy. I don’t really know how it works, I just know that wherever there is a Parent Garage, there is most likely a Scrap Wood heap lying off to one side next to the mini van. Perhaps on Saturday mornings when the Garage is open and the Parents are distracted by Yard Work, the Scrap Wood slinks into the unattended Garage and settles along the right-hand wall for a little nap. Garages are cool and dry with Nice Firm Floors, just perfect for Scrap Wood naps. And, you know, maybe the Scrap Wood simply decides not to leave. At first, the Parents don’t notice and when they do notice, they don’t think anything of it because the Scrap Wood is just Always There. A fixture. A familiar sight. A part of the Garage.

So, I asked my Church Choir if, you know, any of them had a random Scrap of 1 x 3 that I could just have. For free. Because I am Poor and they are Good Christians and Parents with Garages. And of course one of the baritones (children ages 5 and 8) brought one to our next rehearsal. He’d had it in his Garage. He wasn’t sure where it came from—maybe the Last Owner left it.

And presto! Just like that, I had my wall hooks. I took a little time getting them ready—a little sanding for the splinters, a little paint around the edges, a few coats of gloss stain. But thanks to my fairly extensive, preexisting supply of Home Improvement Tools acquired through the years during other Home Improvement Projects, in just two short evenings and one hour on a Saturday afternoon, I had my hooks. I stained the board using long even stokes with a natural bristled brush and left it to dry overnight on the kitchen counter, resting easily on a Cookie Cooling Rack—who needs saw horses? I measured and evenly spaced the hooks along my board, drilling holes and screwing things together and using my Pier 1 coffee table in the middle of my living room as a workbench—who needs a garage? I found the studs with my trusty stud finder. I predrilled the holes and used the level when fastening the board-with-hooks to the wall. And before the cats even had time to get annoyed with all the ruckus, my hooks were up and mounted and holding all of the clutter that had been running rampant in the Fairly Small Apartment.

And Sparky stepped back and surveyed her Work and saw that It Was Good.

Now, if I can just get around to staining the bed we bought from Ikea four years ago . . . I just need a few more Cookie Cooling Racks.

Coldhearted Snake

"Not Too Cold: 19 Degrees"

This was on the screen tonight during the weather portion of the 10:00 news. I offer it now in support of my previous claim that meteorologists should not make Small Talk—written, spoken, or otherwise.

Since when is any temperature ending in "teen" Not Too Cold?

Need I remind everyone that water freezes at 32 degrees? We're talking about a liquid becoming a solid here, people. And what are people made of (mostly)? Exactly. Last time I checked, one could still contract frostbite in 19 degree weather. Hypothermia surely is a bit of a threat in 19 degree weather. Many gardeners would wrap their flowering shrubs if they knew a 19 degree night was coming on. Most of us would bring our pets indoors. And I'll bet that tomorrow morning, my car doors will be frozen shut. Again. For the third day in a row.

As for that Small-Talk-Making Snake who likes to post such bold, unsubstantiated claims in print at the start of the nightly news, well, I suppose he could be right: 19 might not be so cold . . . for a penguin.

Somebody get me a tuxedo. And some flippers.

I Think I Miss You Most On Wednesdays and Saturdays

Tonight I ate a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner for the fourth night in a week. It wasn't your standard American-on-white grilled cheese, it was a classy grilled cheese on multi-grain with Colby (made in Wisconsin) cheese. I call it my Green Card Grilled Cheese—no Americans here, thanks.

The funny thing is, I used to hate grilled cheese sandwiches. I think there was a point in childhood where grilled cheeses just went the way of hot dogs and apple juice: I hit my limit on them and simply couldn't face them anymore. I still can't drink apple juice. Apple cider, sure, but only the real, unpasteurized, sweet sticky brown stuff. I grew back into hot dogs once I figured out that you could buy all beef kosher one and cook them on the grill until they were almost charred. I like my hot dogs with very pronounced grill marks. Grilled cheese, though. That's one I never saw coming.

I was never very good at cooking grilled cheeses. They never really browned or crisped the way they did when other people made them. I just figured it was the pan or the stove or, well, me. I supposed it was possible that I wasn't meant to make grilled cheeses, which was okay. I didn't really like them, I just occasionally liked the thought of them.

And then, we went to Ella's.

I can't quite remember what Expat and I were doing the day we decided to go to Ella's Deli for lunch. Something over on the east side of town. Maybe something green card related. Anyway, we'd never been and Ella's is a Madison tradition—a Midwestern Jewish delicatessen worthy of another post. And pictures. Lots of pictures. To document the, um, interior. Anyway, I really wanted to try the matzah ball soup, but I also wanted a sandwich and there, on the menu, was the soup and grilled cheese combo. The matzah ball soup was so-so (hard matzah balls—no where near as good as the ones in the soup my college boyfriend's mother makes) but the grilled cheese . . . odes are written about such things. Cheddar on pumpernickel, cut on a diagonal and served on a diner plate. And it was crispy. And . . . buttery.

Butter.

Of course. My previous grilled cheese attempts all occurred about 5 years PB (Pre-Butter). Until I met Expat, I didn't really cook with butter. Not really. I used it for baking, but otherwise I used olive oil or Pam for things that required it. Most of the time, I just relied on my trusty non-stick skillet. Butter was bad. It had saturated fats and calories. If I needed something to slide easily out of a pan, I could just spray it. If I needed a spread on my muffin, I used Fleischmann's Olive Oil spread.

And then Expat and I moved in together. And then we got cable. And with cable, came the Food Network. And with the Food Network came more Thinking About Food. And after not such a long while I began thinking that maybe Fleischmann's wasn't the way to go. Maybe I'd be better off using something with only two ingredients that I could actually spell.

And all of this was leading up to that moment in fall 2006. Sitting there in Ella's, I had an Epiphany: my grilled cheeses needed butter.

The trick, it turns out, is to butter one entire side of each piece of bread, top to bottom, side to side, even the edge of the crust. Not a lot of butter, just enough to cover. And you don't want too much cheese—just one even layer between the two slices. To make this work with the Colby (which is cut in round slices), I have to use a slice and a third of another slice. I like to leave it on one side for a few minutes on medium-high heat, until the bread is almost burned, and then I flip it. The second side never takes as long as the first. And when its done, I just slice it straight down the middle—it fits better on the square plates Expat picked out for us when we got married.

Tonight I slid my Green Card Grilled Cheese onto one of the small plates (not the dinner ones) and sliced up an apple to go with it. I made one of my “spritzers” with orange juice and lime seltzer water. I sat down on my couch and ate at the coffee table in front of the TV. They were showing Seabiscuit. I munched on my sandwich—the crisp bread was perfect.

I only make grilled cheeses when I'm alone.

Who knows. Maybe tomorrow, I'll actually feel like cooking something.

Reckless Winter Made Its Way

You know, Wisconsin is cold.

Case in point: our high for today is supposedly going to be in the low-twenties. At the moment, we're hanging out around 17 Fahrenheit (-8.3 Celsius), but regardless, I don't think they should be allowed to call anything in the low-twenties a "high." I mean, it's below freezing; how "high" can it possibly be? I think that once the temperature drops below freezing and stays there, they should have to call it the "low" and that the low should really be called the "We're fucked screwed" temperature. "And the low for today will top out at around 26. Tonight, we're screwed at negative 4."

My sister, the Meteorology Major, might disagree with me here. I mean, yes, technically 22 is higher than, say, 4 (check out that Friday forecast. Woohoo), but it's all below the point at which water becomes a solid and do we really need to keep counting beyond that anyway?

And answer me this: do the meteorologists who tell me the local weather every evening all have to make horribly un-funny jokes about the number of blankets we should have on our beds or the amount of time it will take me to shovel my car out in the morning? What is funny about these things, really? I don't need to be reminded that my morning commute will take longer than the usual fifteen minutes. I don't want to hear quips about breaking out the long underwear and the goosedown comforter. And why do the other broadcast journalists sitting at the news desk have to egg them on? Why can't they just say "Thanks, Joe" after the weather report and leave it at that? We really don't need them to state the obvious. We really could probably figure out simply from the numbers and the little icons of clouds dropping snowflakes that "it looks like another cold one out there" without having perky Little Miss Anchorwoman saying it, all the while smiling into the camera with her Perfectly Even, White Teeth.

To be fair, the cold has kept the snow that fell two days ago looking a lovely powdery white. I was dragging the trash out (a fabulously glamorous image, of course) on Monday night and really had to shake off the cold weather "bah-humbug" to appreciate the glittery beauty of it all. Of course, it was 11PM and the whole neighborhood was quiet, which helped—quiet like that doesn't happen often when you live on the edge of the edge of the hood, one block from the Beltline. Even the trash can was quiet as I dragged it down the unplowed driveway and balanced it precariously on the easement in front of the sidewalk. In quiet like that, you can actually hear the snow falling—soft and dry, like very far away rice krispies crackling in a bowl.

Snow deserves this sort of quiet. Standing out there in my boots and my vest next to my trash can, I decided that perhaps it's not so much that I dislike the snow. Perhaps it's that I dislike A) living in the city in the snow and B) having to get out and do things in the snow. When I was a kid and my family lived in Massachusetts out in the country, it was different. There wasn't much to do anyway and it was already quiet. Snow made more sense there. Maybe that's why I thought I liked winter. Maybe I do like winter. Certainly it makes me much more appreciative of spring when it finally arrives. Maybe what I really don't like is the news room banter about wearing a scarf or being a good time to move to Florida.

For the sake of all the grumpy Cold Weather Wimps like me, I sincerely hope that once she graduates and unleashes her predicting prowess on a news station somewhere in the USA, the Meteorology Major steers clear of such cheeseball (however well-intentioned) philosophical musings on how long it will take me to shovel out my driveway. I have hope that, perhaps, she'll skip pointing out the obvious need for a hat in favor of something more original, like statistics for how long it takes hypothermia to set in, perhaps, or maybe a list of smart things to keep in your car incase you get stranded in the snow. She could include personal anecdotes, like the sleeping bag that's good to 20 below that our Dramatic Mother makes her keep in the trunk of her car "just in case." She could say things like "And it's nights like these that made Mother buy me that sleeping bag, folks." Or maybe the Meteorology Major will include a Cold Weather Wimp Grumpiness Scale just for me—something to measure the level of grump that the coldness will be likely to cause. I would even give her permission to use a picture of my face in a scowl for a graphic. Well, a scowl and a hat.

Because even I can predict that it’s going to be another cold on out there tonight, folks. If you’re headed out, don’t forget your hats—our Cold Weather Wimp Grumpiness Scale is in the Hypothermia Blue zone and it doesn't look like it will be creeping back to the Friendly Frostbite area any time soon.

Seasonal Anti-Depressant Beverage

So around 5PM this evening I was sitting in my hooded sweatshirt that's three sizes too big for me on our old couch with the ripped slipcover in my small two-bedroom on the edge of the edge of the hood feeling extremely frumpy and pathetically sorry for myself for no good reason. It was dark and cold and last night, it snowed, much to the delight of all of the native Wisconsinites who, in Expat's words, have been quite convinced that Global Warming is happening right here, right now, to them—as if greenhouse gases have some inexplicable vendetta against cheese and beer and bratwursts. I, on the other hand, had hitherto been quite convinced that I had done something Extremely, Cosmically Right and that the universe was rewarding me with only Mildly Annoying Rain and lows in the 40s. But no more. Here I was, cold, lonely, a little bored, and thoroughly uninspired to do any of the chores I had laid out for myself. Somehow, three loads of laundry, a Very Necessary trip to the grocery store, and cat boxes that don't change themselves aren't terribly inspiring at 5PM on a dark, cold, lonely, boring, snowy winter evening.

“What's wrong with me?” I wailed to Wilbur, who sat at my feet complaining about the weather.

He didn't know. He told me I should get up and turn the bathroom sink on for him to drink out of (but not too much, just a trickle, thank you), and that I should then do the laundry and take him with me to the basement.

“Well, I'll give you the water, but the laundry is a one woman job this week, buddy.” I sighed. I got up off my frumpy rump, and on my way to cater to the whims of my spoiled cat, I had an Epiphany: I. Needed. Coffee.

It had been at least four days since I'd had any caffeine. You'd think that the weird headaches and strong urges to nap constantly would have been a clue, but to a self-professed non-coffee drinker, they were simply annoying, unexplainable anomalies. I missed Expat, I told myself. And it was dark. That was all. I was just in a Funk.

Still, even I couldn't deny the small tremble of excitement at the bottom of my stomach the instant that I remembered coffee. It was like the week before Christmas or your birthday—the joyous anticipation of a Much-Loved Event. I was going to Have Coffee. I was not only going to Have Coffee, but I was going to arrange my chores around the Having of Coffee. There was just one problem: I didn't actually want coffee.

See, I don't like regular, make-it-in-your-coffee-pot-at-home, drip filtered coffee. I like Foofy Coffee. Foofy, flavored, sugary, coffee shop coffee. I like mochas and lattes and frozen frappuccinos. I like drinks that cost as much if not more than your average beer. With whipped cream on top. In a little cup with a cardboard sleeve and a sippy top so I won't spill it.

Clearly, I wasn't going to find this in my kitchen. Clearly, I was going out.

Lucky for me the local Midwestern chain coffee shop was on the way to the grocery store, so I could Have Coffee and complete the Very Necessary grocery shop.

Before Wilbur could bat an eye, I had ditched the oversized hoodie in favor of a far more slimming hoodless model, donned my ski-bunny earwarmer band and my best pair of pigtail holders, and stepped out into the cold, snowy night. I was cute. I was warm. I was going to Have Coffee.

The coffee shop had a big sign advertising its new sugar-free flavors. Now, I'm not normally one to go for anything artificially sweetened, but it was already 6PM and I figured that I didn't need to get jacked up on caffeine and sugar, so I decided to give it a go. One sugar-free chocolate-raspberry latte (2%, no whip) later, and I was a happy camper. Actually, I was a happy shopper. I was warm, I had a latte, and I even got one of the shopping carts with a cup holder so I could shop and sip. I was so happy, in fact, that the super market seemed to be just a little brighter, just a little shinier. As if to corroborate this, as I rounded aisle three I came face to car-shaped kid-cart with a five-year-old singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at the top of his lungs. My Very Necessary shop flew by. I bought Pink Lady apples. I bought spinach. I bought a Rotisserie Chicken.

The writers at Real Simple magazine have been telling me to buy a Rotisserie Chicken for years. “It's already cooked for you,” they say. “It's rotisserie, so it's not too fatty,” they say. “You can do a lot with it.” And there in the deli section of my local supermarket, I decided: maybe they're right. I mean, at $5 for a 3lb, already seasoned, already Rotisseried Chicken, how wrong could they really possibly be? Sure, I could go buy my own fresh whole three pound chicken and roast it myself at home and have the satisfaction of knowing that I had seasoned it and tended it and roasted it myself . . . or I could just buy one for the same price and not have to season it, tend it, or roast it myself. As I checked out, I thought “That's my Rotisserie Chicken passing over the scanner.”

I sipped my sugar-free chocolate-raspberry latte and swiped my bonus card. I was pleased. I was happy. I was a new woman.

And maybe that's it. Maybe that's just what I need this winter. Maybe what I need to get past the dark and the cold and the boring and the Missing of Expat is really just a Foofy Coffee and a Rotisserie Chicken. There are certainly more expensive ways to self-medicate. Maybe I'll write a book about it and make millions: Coffee and Chicken: A Lonely Girl's Guide to Getting through A Midwestern Winter.

Remember, folks, you heard it first at the Nation.

The Bed's Too Big, The Frying Pan's Too Wide

We here at Scooter Nation have known for quite some time that this day was coming. We have been planning it, anticipating it, dreading it. We have been packing and making phone calls and sending emails. We have been fast, thorough, and sharp as a tack. We have been touring the facility and picking up slack.

And last weekend, we moved Expat back to lovely, exotic Small Town, Pennsylvania.

We did not want to do this. We are not separating or doing a trial separation or getting a divorce. We are, instead, getting a PhD. Well, Expat's getting a PhD. So I suppose in a round about way, I'm getting a PhD, too—for a husband.

We moved out to Madison 18 months ago for Expat to do research in the Wisconsin State Historical Society's archives. He is not nor has he ever been a student at the UW. He is, instead, a student at the Big State University in Pennsylvania. He had one paid year between a fellowship and banked teaching releases, but that was it. Last summer when he signed his contract renewal, he agreed to a research assistantship for the fall that would allow him to stay in Wisconsin six months longer. The catch? He owed Big State University two sections of teaching, payable this spring semester. Oh, and he couldn't graduate until he completed them.

This was fair, we figured. Big State U essentially payed Expat to sit in Madison, drink beer, eat cheese, and work on his dissertation for a year and a half. The least he could do was go teach a few classes. And at the time, Spring 2007 was as remote as the UP, eh.

Remote, that is, until last weekend.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, the drive to Small Town, PA, from Madison, WI, is 12 to 15 hours, depending on how the traffic is moving when you hit Chicago and depending on how many times you stop at the travel plazas with the Gloria Jean's inside for 16 oz. black and white mochas. You need to have about $20 in change and small bills for all of the tolls—Ohio is the most expensive stretch at $9.25 (they just raised the rates)—and be prepared to use at least three tanks of gas one way, which we definitely did. For a man who thought he “wouldn't need to take much,” the Subaru was packed solid front to back (the seats folded down, of course), side to side, and floor to about 8 inches from the ceiling. (Admittedly, two of the bags and one of the pillows were mine and I had insisted that we bring the air mattress for fear that, once we got to Expat's newly rented house, we would have no place to sleep, but nonetheless, the car was full of mostly-not-my stuff.)

The house Expat is renting for the semester is actually the house he was renting when we first started dating over four years ago. At that time, he had a roommate. At this time, he doesn't. In fact, this time will be the very first time that either of us had ever lived alone in all our almost-28 years. Ever. We both went from living at home to having roommates in college to having roommates in grad school to living together to being married. And now that we're married, we're single again for the first time. Well, of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?

At this point you may be wondering, “Why didn't Sparky go with him?” Ah, grasshopper, lest we forget, Sparky has a Real Job working for The Man. The Man doesn't let Sparky scoot off to distant college towns for five months on a whim. Nor does the Lease we're in with the Nicest Landlady Ever. Well, the Nicest Landlady Ever probably wouldn't care as long as we continued to pay her rent, but who wants to pay rent on an apartment they're not using?

No, I was definitely coming back to Madison once The Move was complete. The Move was going to be a quick thing—one day down, stay the weekend, one day back, lots of errands in between. Expat wouldn't have a car once I left, and his new/old house was in an Even Smaller Suburb of Small Town, which meant no grocery store or drug store or anything, really, except the Breakfast Diner and the Pizza Place, which were now in the same building, so you could get stromboli for breakfast or waffles for dinner. You know. If you wanted.

By the time we finished unloading, cleaning, loading trashbags, unloading trashbags, loading the stuff from our storage unit, unloading the stuff from our storage unit, cleaning again, buying and loading and then unloading all of the stuff necessary to reasonably outfit a house, and then cleaning some more, we were exhausted. I decided to stay an extra day. We went out and drank flavored martinis—well, I drank flavored martinis. Expat drank beer. We came Home and went to bed. Got up, went grocery shopping at the Fancy Grocery Store, came Home, unloaded, went to the Cheap Grocery Store, came Home, unloaded, realized we hadn't cleaned the refrigerator. Spent 2 hours and half a bottle of 409 cleaning the refrigerator (a feat worthy of another post). Did I mention that we're friends with the guys who rented the house before Expat? Maybe they thought that leaving us their food from May 2006 was a nice gesture. Anyway. Put the perishables away. Decided to toss the expired stuff in the pantry. Tossed everything in the pantry (canned pineapple from 1998—mmmm, Botulism). Reloaded the car with my stuff. Went to bed. Got up, got dressed, got moving. I dropped Expat on campus—kissed goodbye in the library loading zone—drove Home.

Home.

I used to think that Home was where my bed was. My bed is definitely in Madison.

Right now, Madison is definitely not Home.