Puddles!

March 1, 2017 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

We have puddles! *does happy dance*

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’re undoubtedly studying that first sentence and trying to figure out where to find the double entendre. That’s a valid and downright laudable reaction. If you find one, I hope you’ll share it – I do love a good double entendre! But that wasn’t actually my intention (for a change).

No; this post is in celebration of spring. It’s my favourite time of year – crocuses and tulips and daffodils peek out, the grass turns green, the birds come home, it snows two feet… you know; the usual stuff.

Back in arid Calgary, spring puddles are fleeting – the snow seems to evaporate instead of melting. But here on the coast we have good old-fashioned puddles that bring back delightful childhood memories.

I grew up on a prairie farm where the terrain was dead-flat for miles. That and our heavy clay/gumbo soil made it prime puddle territory. Venice had nothing on us. I remember riding the school bus along our country road and looking out at water as far as the eye could see, neatly divided into a one-mile grid by the raised road allowances that were the highest point on the prairies (and only a foot or two higher than the water level).

Every kid had a pair of rubber boots: the taller the boots, the better. Puddle-wading was both art and science. We learned about refraction early – the place you thought you were stepping wasn’t always where your foot ended up. The penalty for that was a boot full of icy water, which didn’t dampen our enthusiasm at all. It was a sport to see how far we could wade into a puddle before we filled our boots.

We also had a small inflatable dinghy that we could row across our puddles (we had serious puddles on the farm). And there were always ditches full of water that required all sorts of digging in the mud to produce complex drainage trenches and dams.

Sometimes it turned cold enough to freeze the puddles hard. That was prime ice-skating: glassy-smooth, with grass and fallen leaves locked below the surface as if cast in crystal. But it was always tricky to determine whether the ice was strong enough to bear our weight… which brings to mind another favourite sound: a slow ominous creak followed by the buzzing crack of ice failing, usually accompanied by squeals and splashing.

I still love going out in the early morning when temperatures are below freezing. Overnight some of the puddle-water seeps into the ground, leaving a white fragile ice shell floating over empty air. There’s nothing like the sharp hollow sound it makes when stepped on – it’s almost as addictive as popping bubble wrap!

At 52 years old, you’d think I’d have developed enough dignity to leave the puddles alone; but nope. Not even close. I’m still incapable of walking by a shell of ice without breaking it, and last week I went out and bought myself a pair of tall rubber boots that’ll make me the envy of every kid in town.

I’m going out to play in the puddles now… how about you?

P.S. Here on the coast I’ve discovered a ‘new-to-me’ type of spring ice: long silky filaments that form as water is pushed up out of sodden soil into freezing temperatures. How cool is that? (Literally.) 😉

Soaring Like An Ego

February 15, 2017 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

When I grow up I want to be a bald eagle.

First, they’re the biggest meanest birds in the sky. Nobody messes with bald eagles. The babies occasionally get eaten, but the adults have no natural enemies. (Except humans, but we’re a menace to everything so we don’t really count.)

When the evolutionary goodies were handed out, eagles got flashy plumage, a massive wingspan, a formidable armament of beak and talons, and the ability to soar ‘way up in the sky to look down on all us pathetic earthbound types. Who, incidentally, all look like dinner to them because they can and will eat just about anything.

You’d think that would be enough perks for one creature; but no. Humans treat them like nobility, too. Here on the west coast, landowners have to be aware of Eagle Trees: any large tree where an eagle might nest.

If you have an Eagle Tree on your property, you aren’t allowed to cut down the tree, and you can’t even disturb the natural vegetation within 60 metres (200 feet) in all directions around it. That restriction stays in place until no trace of a nest or any possible nesting activity has been seen in the tree for 5 years.

How’s that for a sweet deal? Imagine flying over any place you’d like to live; choosing the best location for a house, and building there regardless of who currently owns the property. And then the government makes everyone keep back a respectful distance from your house, even if you haven’t lived there for five years. I want some of that.

But wait, there’s more.

If you’re an eagle, it’s illegal (see what I did there…? Okay, sorry…) for people to “possess, take, injure, molest, or destroy” you, your eggs, and/or your nest. So that crappy nest you built 25 years ago in that tree you haven’t visited in a decade? It’s still there, just in case you ever want to move back in. Nobody can knock it down – they can’t even go near the tree.

Better still, even your castoff feathers are venerated. In the U.S. people can be fined up to $100,000 for possessing eagle feathers they don’t lawfully own. (In Canada it’s $25,000.) Since eagles molt and replace their feathers once a year, it sucks to be the person who gets caught with feathers they innocently picked up from the ground; but from the eagle’s perspective, it’s all good.

I’m imagining what it would be like to have people following behind me, carefully preserving my crummy discarded feathers and creating complex laws around them. After a while my ego would soar like… well, an eagle.

It wasn’t always sunshine and raptors, though: There’s the small issue of their near-extinction about 40 years ago. But after battling their way off the Endangered Species List, eagles deserve a bit of adulation.

At least, that’s how I’ll rationalize it when I become an eagle and allow my eagle ego eager egress. (Okay, you can smack me now; but I just couldn’t resist.)

Bald eagle not amused by my feeble human joke. (Public Domain photo from United States Fish And Wildlife Service.)

Diagnosis: Writer

February 8, 2017February 8, 2017 / Diane Henders / 54 Comments

So many of my readers are also writers!

Nelson is serializing his book on his blog,

Jono just posted a sneaky two-part story,

Carrie Rubin has two medical thrillers published and is working on a third,

Nancy Roman blogs, writes for Huffington Post, and has written a novel,

Andrew will soon be releasing a collection of poems,

…And I know @SomeRandomGuy is over 600,000 words into the draft of his epic sci-fi fantasy, and others have mentioned works in progress or in planning.

So I thought now might be a good time for a diagnosis. Are you or someone you know struggling with writer-itis? Use this handy checklist to find out:

Symptoms: Uttering random words at inappropriate times; unexplained giggling, crying, and/or scowling.

Differential Diagnosis: Writer, Tourette Syndrome, or psychosis.

Tests: Observe the subject’s behaviour after the outburst.

Diagnosis:

If the subject scurries off to write immediately after the outburst, they’re a writer.

If the subject acts as though nothing untoward has happened, they might have Tourette’s… or they’re a writer in the throes of plotting.

If the subject carries on an animated conversation with invisible companions, it might be psychosis… or they’re a writer planning dialogue.

Symptoms: Unhealthy attachment to word processing programs

Differential Diagnosis: Writer or computer geek

Tests: Observe the content of the document.

Diagnosis:

If you’re still reading and completely riveted after ten pages, they’re a writer.

If your eyes glaze over after the first line and your brain explodes after the first page, they might be a computer geek… or a writer.

Symptoms: Separation anxiety when leaving a computer; obsession with backups; paralyzing fear of data loss

Diagnosis: Writer, computer geek, or conspiracy theorist

Tests: Confiscate the subject’s data and destroy it before the subject’s eyes.

Diagnosis:

If the subject bursts into uncontrollable weeping and/or guzzles alcohol until they throw up and/or pass out, they’re a writer. Or they were; before you destroyed the only copy of their life’s work and with it, their will to live.

If the subject curses you in Klingon and produces three redundant backups, they’re a computer geek… or a sci-fi writer.

If the subject sidles away with a furtive expression and disappears only to resurface several weeks later with a new name, identical data, and a blog decrying the censorship of the establishment and the oppression of free thinkers, they’re a conspiracy theorist… or a writer.

Symptoms: Forgetfulness; changes in behaviour; social withdrawal

Differential Diagnosis: Writer, dementia, or drug addiction

Tests: Restrict the subject to a controlled environment for 24 hours, then provide a laptop loaded with a word-processing program. Retest at two-month intervals.

Diagnosis: If the subject breaks into a cold sweat and suffers tremors, nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, and/or seizures, it might be a drug addiction… or they’re a writer.

If the symptoms resolve instantly when a laptop is provided, they’re a writer.

There’s really no way to differentiate writers from dementia patients in a single test. Writers will forget to eat, sleep, and bathe; will walk away from stoves leaving the elements on high; will drop the keys in the sugar bowl; will wander away from home and get lost even in familiar neighbourhoods; and may even fail to recognize close friends and family. Retesting is the only way to know for sure: At some point, writers will likely resume more or less normal behaviour (at least until they start their next manuscript).

Symptoms: Immobility and non-responsiveness when addressed

Differential Diagnosis: Writer, deafness, or death

Tests: Obtain a lightweight object at least six inches longer than the subject’s reach. Gently prod the subject.

Differential Diagnosis:

If the subject startles, yells, and/or flails, they’re either a writer in deep concentration or deaf.

If the subject now responds when addressed (and particularly if they respond with creative expletives), they’re a writer.

If the subject still doesn’t respond when addressed, they might be deaf. Or a deaf writer. Or a writer in extra-deep concentration.

If the subject falls over and lies motionless, call the coroner… but the subject might still be a writer in extra-extra deep concentration. Make sure the medical examiner checks for a pulse before starting the autopsy.

If you were reading this hoping you’d find a cure, well… sorry about that. There isn’t one; there are only short remissions between manuscripts. But the disease itself is so much fun, who’d want a cure anyway?

Do you have writer-itis?

* * *

P.S. I’m poking fun at myself and my fellow writers, but I don’t mean to trivialize the social and emotional consequences of dementia, Tourette Syndrome, mental illness, hearing impairment, or addiction. To gain awareness and understanding of these conditions:

Tourette Syndrome

Alzheimer’s and dementia

Mental health

Hearing impairment

Addiction

Submariners And Sea Monsters, Oh My!

February 1, 2017 / Diane Henders / 50 Comments

Moving to a new place always comes with a learning curve, so this week I thought I’d share some of the discoveries I’ve made since we arrived here on Vancouver Island.

For example, I’ve recently learned the correct Navy pronunciation for ‘submariner’. I always thought it was ‘sub-ma-REEN-er’, but a true Navy man pronounces it ‘sub-MARE-in-er’. (Coincidentally, I also learned some Navy slang for a gay man: ‘diesel-driven turnip’. Don’t look at me like that; I don’t have a clue how that expression came to be. But it made me laugh.)

Speaking of the Navy, I haven’t met a ringer for Aydan’s Uncle Roger yet (in the Never Say Spy series, he was the favourite uncle who taught Aydan her best cusswords); but the other day a Hellhound lookalike roared past me on his Harley with his guitar strapped to his back; and I actually got to meet a real-life Dave Shore:

Paul was one of the truckers who delivered our shipping containers, and watching him finesse an 80’ tractor-trailer into our tiny driveway off our narrow road was education and entertainment combined. I just stood there with my jaw dangling while he eased those big tires perilously close to the ditch, sometimes hovering a couple of trailer wheels over empty space. Then he used a brilliant technique to squeeze into the driveway: he locked up the trailer brakes while he continued to reverse the tractor, pivoting the 53’ trailer neatly around the 90-degree corner and into our yard. Wow!

Talking to him was like gabbing with my fictional Dave: He’s got 700,000 kilometres on his current rig, which is the third his current employer has issued him. As he explained, “I keep miling them out.” (Translation: Driving so many miles that the truck has to be replaced, usually at 1,000,000 km.) He’d rather sleep in his truck than in a hotel, and when asked about his retirement plans in a few years, he admitted, “I’m going to get an RV and drive around visiting my kids. I just like to drive.” It’s very cool to know there are real-life ‘Daves’ out there!

Marine life has been another novelty for me; some of it beautiful and fascinating…

Starfish come in an amazing variety of shapes and colours from white to orange/red to blue/purple, and they have the ability to go from soft to rigid in mere seconds if you touch them. (Guys, did you get that?)

…and some of it quite horrifying:

I have no idea what creature wore this head before I found it bobbing gently in the surf. It was nearly ten inches across and it looked like some hideous sea monster, although it’s probably a mundane fish to a true West-Coaster. But I’m going with ‘sea monster’.

I’ve seen misty sunrises:

Serene moonrises:

Dramatic nighttime cloudscapes:

Rainbows after a storm:

And harbour seals playing. (I was too far away so they only look like black blobs splashing around, but you get the idea):

…And we’ve only been here a month. I can hardly wait to see the strange and wonderful things the Island has left to show us!

But here’s the best photo yet: They broke ground for our house on Monday! Hooray! (Speaking of finesse and expertise, Sam the excavator operator is an artist. His touch with that bucket is so delicate and precise you forget that he’s moving literally tons of earth at mind-boggling speed. Apparently he began operating a small excavator when he was 8 years old.)

It might not be as scenic as the rest of the photos, but this one makes me very happy!

What’s new in your world this week? And… does anybody know what that sea-monster-critter actually is? (Or, more accurately, ‘was’?)

Who’s On First?

January 25, 2017October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 37 Comments

Sometimes I wonder if Hubby and I are being secretly videotaped for someone’s sick amusement while they punk us over and over. Fortunately nothing catastrophic has happened yet, but we feel like poster children for Murphy’s Law.

Here’s the latest:

When Hubby researched the process for bringing electricity to our building site, it seemed fairly simple: Get a homeowner’s permit, put in a power pole with a breaker box and meter, and get an electrical inspection.

Instead, it’s been an exchange worthy of Abbott & Costello’s “Who’s On First” (although not quite as amusing to us):

Hubby: *double-checking with the electrical inspector* “So, I can put in a pole and breaker box…”

Inspector: “No.”

Hubby: “But that’s what the National Electrical Code says.”

Inspector: “This is BC. That’s not acceptable here.”

Hubby: “Ooookay.” *spends a week researching alternatives, then calls back with questions and ends up talking to a different inspector*

Inspector #2: “…well, yeah, you could do those alternatives, but why don’t you just put in a pole? It’s cheaper.”

Hubby: “Because Inspector #1 told me I couldn’t.”

Inspector #2: “Oh, no, he’s wrong. All you need is a Class 6 pole with a guy wire. You can get that at Windsor Plywood.”

Hubby: *calling Windsor Plywood in foolish hope* “Do you sell Class 6 poles?”

WP: “No, we only have Class 5 poles.”

Hubby: “The inspector said I needed a Class 6 pole. Any idea where I can get one?”

WP: “No.”

Hubby: “Do you sell the guy-wire kit?”

WP: “No.”

Hubby: *spends days calling around before giving up and phoning an electrical contractor* “How much would you charge to supply and install a Class 6 pole and guy wires?”

Contractor: “We only install Class 5 poles, and they don’t need guy wires.”

Hubby: *calling Inspector #2* “Can I use a Class 5 pole without guy wires?”

Inspector #2: “Sure, that’s better than a Class 6.”

Hubby: *facepalm*

Hubby: *calling electrical supply store* “Hi, do you sell retail to the public?”

Store: “Sure.”

Hubby: *walks into store* “Hi, I’d like to buy a breaker box…”

Store owner: “We don’t sell to the public.”

Hubby: “But I called your head office and they said…”

Owner: “I don’t care what they said, I won’t sell to you. I have to protect my contractors.”

Hubby: *walks out muttering and calls the head office* “You said you’d sell to the public, but the guy in the Parksville store refuses to sell to me.”

Store: “Oh. Hold on…” *returns to the line* “Yes, sorry; each store makes their own policy decisions.”

Hubby, speaking slowly and evenly: “Do… you… have… a… store… that… will… sell… to… me?”

Store: “I think the Courtenay store (an hour and a half in the opposite direction) will. Here’s their number…

Hubby: *calling the Courtenay store* “Do you sell retail to the public?”

Courtenay: “Sure.”

Hubby hasn’t gone up there yet, but he’s braced to walk into the store and discover that:

the guy he was talking to just got fired; and/or
they changed their policy two days ago and now they don’t sell to the public; and/or
the store sells to everybody except ex-Albertans who look like him; and/or
they gave him the wrong number and he was in fact talking to the store in Victoria (3.5 hours in the opposite direction to Courtenay).

I’m waiting for the next chapter in the saga, but meanwhile… Who’s on first?

Whew! …I Think…

January 18, 2017 / Diane Henders / 53 Comments

Flying Food

January 11, 2017October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Last week’s post reminded me that I’m no stranger to flying food. In fact, it may have contributed to my lifelong antipathy toward dressing up and attending formal functions.

First, a bit of background: I grew up on a farm ‘way out in the sticks. We dressed up for church, weddings, and funerals, and the rest of the time I ran wild outside. So dress-up occasions came with considerable tension and discomfort: “Don’t do anything to get your good clothes dirty” meant ignoring my most fundamental personality traits.

When I was a teenager, my cousin’s wedding reception was held in the Fort Garry Hotel, the grandest historic hotel in Winnipeg. There was a buffet, and I was on my best behaviour in my best dress. We were working our way through the buffet line and my dad was ahead of me, chatting to whoever was ahead of him.

Remember the restaurant scene in Pretty Woman where the snail shoots off her plate only to be fielded by a deadpan waiter?

Yep, you guessed it. Not versed in buffet etiquette, I had just taken a piece of pineapple with my fingers. As I moved the slippery morsel toward my plate, my dad gestured animatedly. (Apparently it runs in the family.) His hand smacked mine, and the pineapple sailed across the fancy ballroom to disappear under one of the white-skirted tables.

I envied it at that moment. I felt like vanishing under one of the tables, too.

Fast-forward to my first year of living in residence at the University of Manitoba.

Thanks to Chris K., a mature student who took this wide-eyed country bumpkin under his (platonic) wing, I finally learned some basic table manners such as holding my fork between my fingers instead of clenched in my fist like a weapon. My image makeover continued while I observed and copied the fashion choices of my oh-so-sophisticated interior design classmates.

By the time I went on my first date (!) to a fancy restaurant (The Keg – hey, it was a whole lot fancier than anywhere I’d ever been), I was prepared. I wore fashionable clothes; I knew how to hold my fork; I even successfully identified the bread-and-butter plate. It was winter, so I was wearing my best (okay, my only) full-length coat.

Dinner went without a hitch and the bill was uneventfully paid. When we finally rose from the table I turned to leave, swinging my coat dramatically over my shoulders… and it caught a full pitcher of ice water on a nearby ledge.

I didn’t look back to see whether it had landed on the floor or the neighbouring diners. Head high, I swept out of the restaurant in my dramatic coat, the clattering of ice cubes and cries of dismay fading behind me.

It was a long time before I felt even remotely comfortable in a nice restaurant. And I’m still VERY careful when donning my outerwear near other diners.

Anybody else have food-flinging tendencies? (Remember the snail scene from Pretty Woman? It runs from 1:50 to 2:35 in the video).

Training Cookies

January 4, 2017 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

I was chatting with my step-mom last week when she reminded me of a memory that made me smile: the year I got my training cookies.

If you’re scratching your head right now, I don’t blame you. Most people would agree that a bit of training is helpful before tackling some of the more complex foods, but everyone knows how to eat cookies.

Unless they’re me.

I can dismantle and gobble down a steamed lobster in record time. Sushi? No problem; I can handle chopsticks, and I’m such a food-geek that I actually know obscure sushi etiquette like never mixing the wasabi into the soya sauce and always eating nigiri so the fish contacts your tongue first.

But cookies? Well… apparently they’re trickier.

It all started years ago when my dad and step-mom came to visit me in Calgary, bringing my step-mom’s famous ginger-molasses cookies.

We had been driving around enjoying the sights on a nice spring day, and we stopped at a convenience store to get some cold drinks. Parked comfortably in the shade, we were sitting in the car with the windows open while enjoying our refreshments and some of the fateful cookies. As usual, I was talking volubly with my hands. I was also holding a cookie at the time.

I made one particularly emphatic gesture and the cookie flew out of my hand, out the open window to land with a plop on the asphalt beside the car.

Mouth gaping, eyes wide, I sat there in shocked silence.

I had wasted a cookie! For a food-worshipper like me, it was sacrilege! Worse, I had wasted a delicious cookie that had travelled 800 miles just to tickle my tastebuds!

The silence lasted only a second or two before my companions burst into uproarious laughter. And sure enough, when next Christmas rolled around, guess what I found under the tree?

Remember the children’s mittens that were joined together with a cord that went up one sleeve, around the neck and down the other sleeve so the mittens never parted company with the jacket? (And theoretically, with the child?)

Yep, I’d gotten training cookies: Two tender and tasty ginger-molasses cookies, each with a neat hole in the middle. A festive ribbon joined the two cookies at exactly the length required to fit around my neck while holding a cookie in each hand.

Ever since then, that recipe has been known as “Training Cookies” in our household. The cookies themselves are yummy, but the memory is sweeter than any baked goods could ever be.

I’m probably the only person in the world who needs training cookies, but if you’re in the market for a chewy and delicious ginger-molasses cookie recipe, here it is:

Training Cookies

¾ cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
4 tablespoons dark molasses
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ginger
1 teaspoon cloves
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Beat the butter and sugar together until fluffy, then add the egg and molasses and beat. Mix in dry ingredients. Roll into balls, dip in sugar, and flatten with a fork. Bake at 350 degrees approximately 10 – 12 minutes until just beginning to brown at the edges. Happy memories can be baked in, or added later!

Anybody else have a family recipe with special memories?

Island Happy

December 28, 2016December 27, 2016 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

This is just a short post since I’m having computer and internet problems, but I just wanted to check in and say… We made it to Vancouver Island, and we’re thrilled to finally be here!

There were some tense moments (okay, some tense hours), but after weeks of “everything that can go wrong will go wrong”, we finally got here despite Murphy’s best efforts.

One thing: Driving the Coquihalla (Highway Thru Hell) in winter is off our Bucket List – we don’t need to do that EVER AGAIN!

Despite the fact that it “never snows” out here, we had four inches of the white stuff on Boxing Day, but at least it’s warm(ish) and the snow is mostly gone where we are. The Island is putting on quite a show for us – we’ve seen everything from a peaceful happy Island:

…to a cranky Island the very next day (yes, those are snowflakes fluttering down in the foreground):

But it’s all beautiful – I have to keep reminding myself that we don’t actually have to leave!

If the computer gods smile on me, I’ll be back to my regular programming next week, but in the meantime I’ll wish everyone a very happy New Year. “Talk” to you again soon!

P.S. I’m on Pacific Standard Time now, so my posts will be showing up in your feeds an hour later. It’s “Island Time”! 🙂

Squared Lasagna And Numeric Tea

December 14, 2016 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

It’s getting a little crazy around here…

Okay, fine; I’ll admit it: We’ve zoomed past ‘a little crazy’ and are rapidly approaching chaos and madness.

The packers and movers arrive tomorrow, and we’re scrambling to get the last of our pre-packing done. The house looks as if it’s occupied by hyperactive children with Attention Deficit Disorder: There are little heaps everywhere because we rarely get a block of time uninterrupted by some crisis or another.

Here are just a few of the highlights:

Our ancient water heater wasn’t supplying enough hot water so we hired a plumber to replace it, only to find that all that was needed was a $2.00 part… but we had to pay $800 to replace the tank anyway because the old tank was already pulled out.

Time lost: 2.5 hours.
Equanimity lost: 98%

The furnace blower motor seized. Hubby fixed it.

Time lost: 2 hours.
Knuckle skin lost: 50%

The dishwasher died. (It’s the newest appliance in the house.) Hubby fixed it.

Time lost: 2 hours.
Appreciation for irony lost: 92%

The builder needed an HVAC design for our new house, and we only had a half-assed sketch from the heating contractor. I figured out the heating and return air drops, modified the plan to accommodate them, and provided an annotated drawing.

Time lost: 5 hours.
Brainpower lost: 95%

We still can’t find insurance for our shipping container once it arrives on the Island.

Time lost: Several days and counting.
Peace of mind lost: 89%

My brand-new Ford Escape refused to start… and then, just to make diagnosis virtually impossible, it started up and ran as though nothing had ever been wrong. It goes into the shop on Friday, and we want to hit the road in a week.

Time lost: God only knows.
Sanity lost: 100%

At least we’ve still got a sense of humour. (Yes, that’s one sense of humour between the two of us.)

To wit: One evening I’d made a giant pan of lasagna. We’d finished eating, but the pan was on the table and the cheese was still warm and melty. Hubby and I each idly picked up a spatula and nudged the cut edges of the lasagna into a perfect square from opposite sides… and then burst out laughing at our anal-retentiveness. At least our quirks are compatible.

And speaking of anal-retentive quirks, my sister and I had a good giggle, too. She had sent me a yummy Christmas gift: 24 Days Of Tea, with the little samples randomly numbered. So I did what any self-respecting geek would do: I rearranged them in numeric order.

“They’re supposed to be like that,” she informed me through her laughter. “If you turn the boxes around they make a picture.”

Seriously, why would you waste time hunting for the next number?

(I also didn’t realize I was supposed to wait until December 1 to start sampling the tea. Who knew tea could be so complicated? It should have come with instructions.)

Anyhow, I’m taking deep breaths and reminding myself that one way or another this move will happen. It won’t be smooth or stress-free; but, hey, at least our lasagna is squared off and our tea is correctly numbered.

At this point, I’ll take any illusion of control I can get!