Favorite Philosopher's Blog

I hate it.  Pure and simple.  I’ve heard that it just depends on what you grew up with.  I suppose, but most people I know who are into cooking are gas people and detest electric stoves.  My adjective for electric stoves is not fit for print in this genteel blog.

I haven’t written in awhile, I know, but was prompted to sit down and rant because I’m home today and thought I’d get a bunch of oatmeal and brown rice cooked up for the week.  The oatmeal went fine, one burner, 15 minutes, it was done.

It’s the brown rice I’m wondering about.  I put it on the “speed heat” burner to get it going, and then switched it to a back burner to let it simmer and do its thing.  45 minutes past and it was still pretty soupy.  So I changed the setting just a bit (there is no simmer setting – and this is a brand new stove in this rental) so you have to guess what simmer is.  Set the timer for another 15 minutes.  When I went back it was still not much cooked.

Why could this possibly be, you ask?  Maybe because I have hay for brains, but it’s really because there was another pot on the front burner, where I had put it after washing it.  Thank God it was Ag Sondag’s nice cast iron pot because it is now well seasoned.  I had turned the front burner on.  How would I know? You can’t see any flames popping out!  From front burner OR back burner.  And the stove is still hot all over from cooking the oatmeal and getting the rice started.  It’s a miracle I didn’t burn the house down.

What I don’t understand is that I don’t have this issue with an electric pan.  An electric pan, you turn it down, it turns down, your dish immediately stops bubbling like a geyser ready to blow.  Not an electric stove.  Guess which burner is on? Oh…there is comes…I thought I turned it off but no…why is that little light still on…oh, the cooktop is still hot, well thank you very much for letting me know because you’re right, an electric stove looks like you could sit on it seconds after you’ve turned it off what with its smooth surface and all.  At least a gas stove has those grill things that warn you and you might only burn a fingertip if you touch it, instead of the whole palm of your hand.

At our house in Lafayette, I demanded a new gas stove when the ancient electric one did not even allow me to make my specialty, which my grown sons still ask for when they get home.  I burned grilled cheeses over and over again, because they either a) didn’t cook or b) burned to a black crisp.

We’re looking for a home to buy now.  Electric stoves in “updated” kitchens are something I will never understand.  It’s a deal breaker for me.  If it’s an old one and it needs to be replaced anyway well, ok.  But update a kitchen and put in an electric stove? I guess they just weren’t raised right.

Gotta run.  The rice is done.

Yesterday I was hand sewing the binding of the quilt I started last summer for a bride. She is now pregnant, I figured I’d better get it done before the baby shower this weekend.   I was sitting in front of the TV watching trash, court shows, etc.  Hey, don’t judge, hand sewing a binding is the boring part of quilting.  Anyway, it was interrupted by something so very L.A.

It was a car chase.  It had apparently started in Claremont (you’re going to have to get out your own maps, I’m not sure where anything it outside of my own little world).  It was rather OJ-ish – the news helicopter was following along as the driver made his way down the freeway with cops following along.  The news commentators were hilarious – “he has gotten up to high speeds at times, up to 80 mph.”  Wait a second.  That’s high speed around here?  Are you sure it was a car chase and not just somebody on his way to work?

I digress.  He weaved in and out of traffic, going through the carpool lane – you’re only supposed to enter and exit at certain points.  Other than that there were three people in the car so he was okay on that count at least.   We know all this because the commentators were questioning the helicopter dude and the poor schmuck CHP cop who got stuck with the ‘talking-to-the-news-reporters’ gig.  Must have lost at rock-paper-scissors.  “We know we’ve asked you this, officer, and perhaps you don’t have any more information, but do we know why they originally tried to stop this vehicle?”  Honestly, that’s how they put it, not fifteen minutes after they asked it the first time.  The poor cop.  Professional as he could be, “Uh, no, but as I say we’re watching this situation very closely, and do not have any information at this time, and as I said we just want this to end safely.”

I was glued to the TV.  I wish I could say I was not, but it was like watching a movie except for the lousy dialogue.  The guy got off the freeway.  We heard that a woman who had been in the van had gotten out somewhere along the way.  (“Officer do we know anything about the woman who got out of the van?”   “No we don’t have any information at this time but we are watching this situation closely and just want it to end, as I say, safely.)

He circled the same neighborhood for half an hour, cops in slow pursuit.  Barely missing cars that were backing out, going through stop signs, changing lanes, then suddenly (and at this the news reporters started to become noticeably aroused) he stops and another passenger gets out, casually walks away and he takes off again.  Let’s watch that again.  And again.  In case you missed it the second and third time, here it is again.  Here he is stopping, and the passenger gets out and casually walks off.  To the helicopter guy:  “Do we know if the CHP followed him?”  No information.  Settle back down, girls.

By now we know that the car is registered to someone in the neighborhood where he’s running around.  So the news reporters speculate: “Is he calling someone in the neighborhood making contact?  Does it appear he knows where he is going?”

Then, it heats up, the guy gets on a busy street and fights his way through a busy intersection and the cops slow down so they don’t kill any pedestrians or crash any cars.  At this point the guy races down the open side street – what I don’t understand here is that the guy is being followed by a HELICOPTER – where does he think he’s going to go?  Anyway, he finally goes down a dead end, flies out of the car and starts jumping over fences in the neighborhood.  “Again, this car is registered to someone in the neighborhood, has he been contacting someone while he’s driving around?”  Might as well ask if he had eggs for breakfast, really.  NOBODY KNOWS ANYTHING!!!!!

How he managed to avoid the yard with five big ol’ dogs in it I’ll never know.  Suddenly he ducks under a tree and we no longer see him.   CHP cops arrive, LA cops arrive, police dogs arrive, helicopter is hovering over the tree. (The cops had an airplane in the air – how is that useful?) The yard with the dogs now includes a guy walking around with a baseball bat.  I am not making this up.

I wish I could say I wasn’t laughing and shaking my head.  Not at the clearly dangerous situation, but the breathlessness with which the news reporters were commentating.  And there was nothing to comment on.  We were just watching cops follow a guy in a car, with an occasional and predictable near miss, oh except for that exciting moment when the guy got out of the car and ambled away.

What happened?  Well, I guess it wasn’t exciting anymore, because they cut off coverage and told us we’d get an update at 8 p.m.  WHAT!!!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?  To be continued?  Why can’t I watch the dogs go through the neighborhood?  Why can’t I watch the cops going door to door.  Why can’t I watch the person whose house he took hostage wink wink to the officers when she says “oh no, he’s not here?”  What kind of total news coverage is this?

See how quickly one can become acclimated to their new environs?  I’m so very LA now.

Oh, you want to know the outcome? I was wrong.  They never found the guy.  They called off the search at 10 p.m.  Your tax dollars at work.  The reports on the internet about this include comments from more seasoned Los Angelinos: “I don’t even watch these anymore, they never catch the guy.”  I’ll make a note of that and just put on a good movie next time I have some hand sewing to do.

Every Olympics season it’s the same thing.  I am up until midnight for two weeks straight, glued to  prime time coverage, suddenly an expert judge,  critiquing gymnastics and diving;  nonchalantly assuming the USA will dominate in swimming;  watching beach volleyball as if I have been following it religiously for four years and was just waiting for the Olympics to roll around again to see my favorites compete.   By day six I am so  bleary eyed I just can’t take it anymore, I go to bed at maybe 11 p.m.  Then it’s back to the grueling schedule, like some kind of Olympian Olympics Watcher trying to get on the podium, hoping that my bobble of going to bed at 11 p.m. instead of midnight does not ruin my chances at a medal, coming in fourth behind some Russian woman across the globe who has greater couch sitting stamina than I.

At work yesterday I was lamenting about this to a co-worker and he shook his head in commiseration, and said that last night before he turned the TV off he noticed there was a movie on that he liked and, unable to peel himself from the couch he found himself still awake at 1:15 a.m.   You kind of get numb.  Like the end of a movie or a baseball game, the hard part is getting up out of your chair.   Which is pretty pathetic when you consider we are watching the world’s greatest athletes.  On the other hand, half of them are in their teens, which is a separate mind boggle of its own.

I think part of it is that I know it won’t be coming around again for another four years, and I don’t want to miss a single minute.  This is only the prime time stuff we’re talking about.  There is so much more going on during the day, I am sad to not be able to see it.  I have a life, after all.  But when the obligatory fillers are aired, showing us flashback videos of Nadia Comaneci flying around perfectly and gracefully in 1976,  Kerri Strug landing her gold medal vault on an injured ankle, the dark haired patriarch of women’s gymnastics, Bela Karolyi, carrying her to the podium to receive her medal, and then interviews with them all older (please don’t go, Bela!), mature women, freckles gone and eyes of an adult,  I remember that this is all fleeting.  That the 15 year olds of today will be the middle aged commentators in the blink of an eye.  I just want to be there as history is made, over and over and over again.

Again at work I was talking to a man in his eighties about Nadia – his eyes lit up as he remembered her astounding us, as if it was yesterday.  Suddenly he was young again, too.  It’s magic, this Olympics stuff.

The other thing I notice about the Olympic effect is that I somehow walk a little taller, a little straighter, as if the young people in the prime of their physical lives have given me a shot of youth by proxy.  It sounds trite, but it truly does inspire me.  To park a little farther from the store entrance.  To be more aware of my posture.  To be a bit more confident, a little more grateful for my good health, a little more aware of the gift my soul has been given with this human body.   To take good care of it.

I guess no matter how old a person gets, it is always part of human nature to dream.  It is much too late for Olympic dreams now, but I can live the dreams vicariously every four years.  I guess that’s ultimately why I forego my sleep for the two weeks.  And why I am always sad when the Olympic torch is snuffed at the end.  The 15 year olds go back to school, they will never be 15 again.  By the time four years rolls around again, they may be out of their prime, but they’ve achieved their dreams, if not winning a medal, at least being able to say “I am an Olympian.”

“Oh say can you see…”  Nope.  I can’t keep my eyes open one more minute.

So I added another app along with the Lickety Split – it’s one of many time keeping type apps out there.  It have learned a lot over the past 24 hours about my difficulties staying focused.  So I set a timer to get dressed.  Extra time left over to make the bed.  Ten minutes to take care of my morning toiletries and meds.

This is where I noticed my problem.  Taking meds, remember I have to contact doctor about something, start to leave the bathroom to go find my phone to put a reminder in.  No, stay and finish your makeup.  It was very difficult not to leave that room to go take care of things that were popping into my mind.

This happened every time I put the timer on to finish a task.  It was torture to have to stick with it and know that I would be able to take care of the mental gnats that were buzzing around my ears as soon as I was finished with what I was doing NOW.

I started to notice how all day, timer or not, I flit from one task to another – some trigger will remind me of something else I had to do and, dropping what I’m doing, I start to take off to do  that instead of finishing the little task (which would only take another five minutes perhaps) that is in front of me.

I think I’m on to something here.

The last nine months have not been easy.  Packing to move, losing Terri, getting settled in a new place.  I have responded to these stresses not in the best way – eating comfort food, being lazy, watching TV, playing games on my phone.  With the results of my blood test causing clouds of doom to roll in, I’ve completely turned my diet around and of course that makes one feel better right away.  Still lazy but – at the risk of having my midwestern and eastern kin send me rotten cheese in the mail – it’s way too hot here for me.  I have deleted most of the games from my iPhone and slowly the TV habit that I got into keeping Terri company will be replaced by schoolwork and work work.

Then this past year will become a memory.  Life will go on.  It will go on a little more smoothly, however, if I kick the worst habit of all – procrastination.

My sister who, with her husband, is in the interesting position of caring for  six year old and  four year old grandchildren turned me on to the most amazing app ever.  It’s called Lickety Split and it is advertised for children.  The  idea is that you put the timer on, and great classical music plays (and starts gentle and sweet, progresses to the likes of a Souza march near the end) and you have, say, 5 minutes to clean your toys up.  Gives kids a sense of time.  Supposedly decreases nagging.

For kids? Are you kidding?  This app is my new defense against procrastination.v This is my new best friend!  There are adult procrastination timers out there I now discovered, but for now I kind of like the duck quacking when I either miss my mark or hit it.  Anyway, I’m at about a pre-school level regarding my understanding of time it takes to do stuff or how much time I waste.

Man, don’t all we grandmother-aged types wish we had this when our kids were little? “Carpool will be here in five minutes…” – maybe Andy wouldn’t have flown out of the house every day when Lisa was driving up the driveway with his backpack open and homework flying out, his shoes dangling from his left hand while he put his jacket on with his right.

I’d write more but I’m going to see how long it takes me to fold the laundry…

The first time I met Dave was at a school auction.  He practically knocked me over on the dance floor.  For ever after I considered him an asshole.  Years later and through a series of this n that, Al ended up joining Dave and another couple of guys at a restaurant on Friday nights to tipple and talk.  When the good place closed and it got too expensive to go elsewhere, they ended up at Dave’s house.  Next thing you know, they were inviting me, and since I so very much prefer guys’ night out to girls’ night out, I went over.

Turns out Dave is not an asshole.  He is intelligent and funny and quirky and an absolute delight.  Turns out that dance floor incident was a result of alcohol and depression meds.  He would create wonderful meals and was totally interested in what other people had to say, he and Al would bicker over economic theory until we begged them to stop.  Then other subjects would take over.  I finally told him I always thought he was an asshole but now that I had gotten to know him – insert kitchen full of people laughing – he and I simultaneously teased that I KNEW he was an asshole.

Suddenly Dave met Renata.  From Canada.  For several years (five now?) she would come down from her Canadian home from October through March.  They were both smitten.  A couple of grandparents made to feel young again.  They snuggled like teenagers.  They travelled.  She and Dave watched his parents pass away. Together they remodeled the kitchen of his parents home which was also his childhood home.  He expanded the day room and in a sentimental nod of respect that some would think unlike him (but I had learned better) he replaced their green and black and white linoleum squares in the day room with green and black and white tiles.  The master bathroom was remodeled and I commended him on thinking ahead for when he would need to push a wheelchair into that shower.  He was still working on it when we left.  His oldest son moved into his old home.

He and Renata helped us move down here to SoCal.  As a man who had owned a trucking business he helped direct the guys who packed the truck, and loaded up his own truck so that we had two.  He and Renata could not stay, they had a few more hours to drive to a friends home who was expecting them.  They hoped to stop in on their way back but probably found another more scenic route home.

This summer he went back to sell the family homestead in Pennsylvania.  I forget the details, but it was an old home made out of unique material – handmade bricks? – and had been in the family since the early 1800s.  He always talked about it with love and admiration and we promised we would come see it, but now he was selling it.

July 4.  The phone rings.  Dead of a massive heart attack.  Age 65-ish.  Just like that.

Is this the way it will be now?  Is this what old age brings? One moment you are laughing and feeling young again, then next you get a phone call.  One moment you have finally stopped crying daily over a friend lost to cancer, the next you get a phone call.

My Jeff described Dave this way: “Can’t you just see him up there arguing with St. Peter? ‘No! No! I would use the blue pen too, but WHAT IF you used the black pen?'”  Last night I dreamt about Dave, again one of those we’re talking and making eye contact and I know that it is not real, that he has died, and so does he but he’s not rattled at all.   I was not expecting such an angel visit so quickly, if ever at all.  Dave was a skeptic about everything.  Didn’t necessarily NOT believe in God, but didn’t necessarily believe in God.  Didn’t necessarily NOT believe in the afterlife, but didn’t necessarily believe in the afterlife.

I like to think it was his way of telling me that this time, I won the argument.