Dying Dishwasher Spurs Appliance Crisis

 When I remodeled my kitchen, the green dishwasher which melted all of my plastics was replaced with a white one that had heat control; the green stove featuring uneven metal coil burners was discarded in favor of a white model with a smooth glass top; the green fridge sporting metal shelves was replaced by an energy efficient white unit containing glass shelving. All the cheap dark corkboard cupboards and drawers were replaced with European style (or so I was told) glossy beige and blue ones.

My modern kitchen!

As a relatively new homeowner, I felt like I had taken a big step towards transforming the dumpy fixer-upper where I lived into a showpiece home.

That was 12 years ago. Since then, every three or four years, I've done a major remodel on a different part of the condo, the most expensive of which was the bathroom, itself worthy of a separate writing.

Thing is, though, I'm wondering if it's time to start all over and again invest in the kitchen.

I'm asking because the "new" dishwasher I got in 2000 is making a loud noise - like a death rattle. Recent Thanksgiving guests could barely converse without shouting over the rhythmic clang-chunk, clang-chunk, clang-chunk sound.

Do all appliances age at the same rate? Will I have to replace everything at the same time?

My worst fear is not the cost, but whether I have the nerve to empty the freezer. See, I love to freeze stuff. I really like the idea of being prepared for that blizzard which strands me in the house for several days with lots of frozen soup on which to survive. So every time I cook, I set something aside and stick it in the freezer. It feels very secure, like money in the bank.

The problem, however, is that I don't take stuff out as much as I put stuff in. It gets to the point where I'm cramming and shoving just to make room for a sandwich baggie of leftovers.

I recently found a jar of unidentified frozen substance that I was pretty sure predated the last couple of blizzards. I thought about thawing it to save the jar, but decided it was too gross to contemplate. I threw it away to make room for a baggie.

There are also a couple pounds of meat someone gave me in 2010. I don't know how long they had it before that. I've heard of people eating 10,000 year old mastodon found frozen in a glacier. The meat in my freezer isn't that old, but I'm still not sure how long I should keep it.

Way in the back of the freezer, I fear, could be items dating back to the Clinton administration.

As I foraged for a snack one afternoon, I found an old ice cream sandwich. It looked ok. But when I bit into it, my teeth encountered something completely dry, spongy, and flavorless. All ice cream had been defrosted away, leaving nothing but a scummy white shell between ancient husks of wafer. I gagged on what was basically a mummified frozen snack. I only finished it because I was hungry.

 Epilogue: The good news is I have cleaned out the freezer and now it's nearly empty. The bad news: they are predicting snow this weekend.

Is it OK to Listen to Christmas Music Before December?

Every year, starting in late August, shoppers complain that while browsing patio furniture clearance sales at the local department store, Christmas music can be heard. We shake our heads and agree that this seems to happen earlier every year. We are shocked - shocked! - at the crass commercialization of the holiday.

Everyone knows that the yuletide season shouldn't start until Thanksgiving midnight when the stores open.

Some, Christians mostly, insist that they won't acknowledge Christmas one moment before the first Sunday in Advent, the church’s official four weeks leading up to the celebration of Christ's birth.

In theory I've agreed, and yet, as I fight to hold off ho-ho-hoing until the church says it's ok, I've started to reconsider my position on the subject. Must we limit holiday happiness to a set of rigid dates?

December 25, after all, is not really Jesus' birthday, but a date selected by the early church to coincide with the return of the sun after the winter solstice (and to usurp more ancient heathen celebrations occurring at the same time).

So why do we have to wait until some date on the calendar before we start whistling Jingle Bells? What about that old Dickensian adage that we should keep Christmas in our hearts all year around? What Dickens meant, in part, was that it's ok to enjoy Christmas TV reruns when they are shown in July.

Most of December is just one rush rush rush after another - from obligatory work parties to attending your friends' kids' concerts. It's exhausting. But amidst all the craziness, music can provide a nice break. Sometimes a particular tune takes us back to another time, a happy holiday in the past. Oh sure, there is seasonal music we don't care for. I know a woman who practically goes homicidal when "Santa Baby" comes on. I personally chafe at heavy-metal versions of Little Drummer Boy. But overall, I'm always happy to start hearing the familiar tunes in the stores.

This year, I set up my Pandora holiday channels in early November. I may even get some decorations out before Thanksgiving. Mind you, at noon on January 1, I'll shut off the music and take down the lights. I know that according to the church, Christmas lasts until January 6, but come on, a person can only stand so much.

Winter, Like Laundry, Just Keeps Coming Back

No matter how much laundry you do, there's always going to be more. We don't stop wearing clothes just because clean laundry is folded on the closet shelves (or in my case, just tossed into the closet somewhere).

The trash can in the kitchen also continues to fill no matter how empty we try to keep it.

And dishes: any given evening after cleaning up, we admire the gleaming kitchen, counters free of all used plates and pots, the dishwasher rhythmically cleansing the residue of dinner away. It is never long before the first dirty glass appears. You just got everything washed up and now it's messy again!

Life never stops, even when we want it to.

We don't stop consuming beverages just because the dishes are done. The laundry basket doesn't stay empty - you toss a little into it every day, eventually stuffing it beyond overflowing, and finally you have no choice but to wash a load.

I suppose you could think of it as the circle of life: like birth and death, over and over again. Autumn is a good time to contemplate life's cycles, like the rotation of the seasons, one right after the other, repeatedly over time.

Winter is kind of like laundry. You think it's behind you but it always comes back with its dark nights and cold weather. What happened to summer? Wasn't it just a few days ago that every window was open? And even though we've barely recovered from the last round, it's time to prepare for the holidays again.

The years roll by faster and faster, like the washer's final spin cycle. Which reminds me, I need to do a load.

Falling Palms: Autumn in Southern California

There were more people than seats in the tiny little boarding area. I was torn between sitting on the floor or walking around with my heavy carry-on bag. It would surely be more comfortable to sit, but I'd be on a plane for two hours and I thought I should keep off my butt as much as possible.

When the usual boarding rituals finally commenced, I waited anxiously to be allowed on the plane. But first the disabled could board. Then families with small children. Then special club members and people assigned to the seats with extra leg room. I wasn’t in any of these groups. Then the back five rows could board. Then the back 10, and so on.

As people shuffled forward, the gate agent got on the PA system and announced that the flight was overbooked. They needed a volunteer to be bumped to a later flight. In exchange, the volunteer would receive a voucher for a free flight in the future.

 I was so tired, all I wanted to do was get home. Traveling is such a hassle and the less time spent at the airport, the better.

The agent made another announcement: still looking for a volunteer to get bumped. Won't someone please come forward?

I couldn't believe no one wanted that free flight. I suppose everyone was just as tired as I was. On the third request for a volunteer, I heaved myself and my carry-on off the floor and made my way through the gathered passengers. I told the agent that, yes, I would volunteer to get bumped.

Cut to several months later. It occurs to me that I still have the voucher and it will expire after one year if I don't use it. I feel like I have to use it on something special -- not the places I usually fly, which would be San Diego and - well, just San Diego. Frontier's international destinations don't interest me. No other destinations excite me. I suppose I could get worked up about going to Florida to visit Disney World and the retro-futuristic Epcot Center. Key West might be fun, but everyone in the advertising is so thin and hairless, I wouldn't fit in. New Orleans is fun, although I don't have many sober memories of it. Forget New York - I'm still not over having to live there in the 80s.

I've been lucky to be able to travel through the years. I've watched a wall of fog envelope San Francisco. I've stood on a sandbar in the Gulf of Mexico with a school of little fish encircling my ankles. I've leaned over the edge of a pier, Pacific storm waves soaking my legs high above the normal waterline as dolphins and pelicans just yards away feasted on the stuff stirred up by the surf. I've been totally confused by driving on the left side while coming to a roundabout in the UK. I smelled the breath of a humpback whale off the coast of Cape Cod. Last year I went to a retreat in West Virginia - Appalachia in the autumn.

I've been around. I once even took a cruise off the coast of Nebraska - a steamboat on the Missouri River. We went from Brownville down to the nuclear power plant and turned around.

Is there any place that I would like to see but haven't? Not really. My favorite vacations are the ones where I do a lot of beach walking and sitting and relaxing. Guess I'll go to San Diego again - this will be twice in one year.

Southern California in the autumn. Doesn't conjure images of falling leaves and crisp chilly mornings. But to be fair, those big palms do fall off the trees. You could get killed if you happened to be under one as it lands. I will take my chances.  Meanwhile, the voucher was generous and I am, this time, able to upgrade to the special seating with extra leg room. Looks like I’ll be among the first to board this time.

Lure of the Cult

 Inside a chilly stone building, the assembled gather over the symbolic remains of a revered leader. Chanting punctuates the ancient rituals which draw followers from all over the city. Indoctrination ("education") for newcomers is provided.

I held off the sect's advances as long as I could. But after several years of watching from the sidelines, I've finally given in. I am now becoming officially indoctrinated, falling slow motion into a cult that has existed for hundreds of years, many of them a bit on the bloody side.

You see, I am participating in new member classes (the Catechumenate) at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral.

It seems like I have to try as many denominations as I can. I started out Presbyterian and briefly flirted with the United Methodists. After a stormy stopover in the United Church of Christ, I discovered peace and spiritual resonance in the ancient traditions of the Episcopal Church.

Lots of my fellow members from the UCC congregation left at the same time I did, the result of serious congregational contention. Many of them moved on to become Unitarian.

But I had to be different. I went for the more dramatic tradition. I chose mystical and ritual over practical. I like the colorful robes, the gigantic organ, and the kneeling. I love having communion every Sunday. I'd probably be a great Catholic if it weren't for their absolutist exclusiveness and some theology that I just can’t swallow.

The Catechumenate is nine months long, and if I so choose, I may officially join the church around Palm Sunday. No other church that I've been involved with demands such commitment from newcomers. I like that the cathedral, and the 70 participants in my class, take this seriously.

I have many questions I hope will be answered in the coming months: Why do Episcopalians wear black so often? How do they manage to keep disease from spreading when everyone drinks from the same communion cup? Is the Anglican community really protestant, or just Catholic-light? How do they decide where to put those signs that say, “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You”?  How many Episcopalians does it take to screw in a light bulb? Ok, I already know the answer to that one, but I’m not going to say it. I need to show some respect or I may be looking for a new denomination soon.

PostBlog from Scottsbluff – Pigging Out in the Panhandle

You might think it strange to take a 24 hour road trip to Scottsbluff, Nebraska with the primary goal of eating a lot of local food. Well, I never denied being strange. This is what my friend Brian and I did a couple weekends ago.

Highlights of the eat-fest included a Scotty’s cinnamon glacier - ice cream mixed with a slushee and flavored with cinnamon. It tasted like Christmas. It was totally worth the drive.

Of course when in Nebraska, one must have a Runza - seasoned beef and cabbage cooked inside delicious, doughy bread. We also sampled some of the delectable local Mexican cuisine, and had a delightful breakfast at a greasy diner.

We were pleased to be accompanied by my niece and sister-in-law who reside in the area. When it comes to eating, I can always depend on my family. Every event with my dad or my siblings centers around food. Every holiday, birthday, actually any gathering for any reason – we never miss a meal. Even when one of us is in the hospital, we don’t  forget to eat.

Wherever two or three Calkins are gathered, I always say, there is food also. Our obsession with food isn't limited to just consuming vast amounts of it. We use food to show love.

 After going through surgery a while back, before he was fully conscious, my dad sent me out to get him a chocolate malt from Cold Stone. I got one for myself as well so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

The afternoon of a different surgery he asked for two éclairs from Lamars - the kind with frosting filling, not pudding, per his exact specifications. The nurse said he wouldn't be hungry so soon after surgery. Clearly she didn't know who she was dealing with.

I've been more or less on Weight Watchers for the past year. I do weigh less than when I started and I look pretty good. When, after losing 30 pounds, I visited my dad, he said he was proud that I'd lost so much weight. He then proceeded to pull out cheese and crackers, chips and dips, olives, and beverages for us to consume before heading out for dinner.

It's not just my dad. It's all of us. On those rare occasions when my sister comes to visit me, the highlight is often a trip to Whole Foods where we buy little samples of cheese, some crackers, maybe some potsticker dumplings to snack on. One time we bought an entire cake (moist, with fresh berries in the whipped cream filling) for just the two of us. And let me tell you, it was good.

I have to admit that it's not just when I'm with family. I make food part of many routines in my life. For example, one of the locations of my gym just happens to be next door to Whole Foods. It seems only natural that after working out, I should head over to the store's deli for a specialty sandwich (turkey, fig jam, greens, and brie on a club roll). And while I'm there, how can I not go by the bakery and pick up a couple of those big, fresh chocolate chip cookies? I have just come from the gym, after all, so eating these treats won't make that much difference.

You see, while showing love to others with food, I've also learned love myself.

Smoke, Sexual Harassment, and No Seatbelts

It's a wonder we survived the 1960s. I’m not talking about the cold war, Viet Nam, or hippies.

I've just started watching Mad Med on Netflix - a show on A&E about an advertising firm in 1960.

In addition to the plot and characters such as the mysterious and troubled Don Draper, and in spite of being horrified by much of what I see, I'm fascinated by the 1960 styles and attitudes. Like a car accident, I can't look away.

It is a world made for straight, white, men. The only African Americans in Draper's life are the nearly invisible elevator operator and the guy who brings the sandwich cart around. Gay and lesbian people are either invisible or reviled, and live in constant fear of losing their jobs or worse. When a divorcee moves into the neighborhood, she is greeted with gossip and hostility, except for one of the neighborhood husbands who makes a pass at her.

They did things in 1960 that we wouldn't dream of doing now. For example, they smoked - in the office, in the kitchen, in bed, in the doctor's office, in the car... There is smoking in every scene. Pregnant women are smoking. And they drink: at the office, at lunch, everywhere. People drink mass quantities of wine and liquor. Sloshed, they get in the car and drive, and nobody says a word!

Also in the car, no one wears a seatbelt. Little kids climb from the front seat to the back seat and back again, as Mom speeds down the street.

I don't think Mad Men is exaggerating, except perhaps in the sexual harassment department. In Mad Men, if you're a secretary (and all secretaries are female), you should expect to be hit on by men in the office, multiple times, and you don't complain. Sometimes, you give in. This certainly happened in 1960, but surely not as much as Mad Men portrays. While my dad referred to his office staff as "the girls," I doubt very seriously if he sexually harassed them. On the other hand, without today's consequences, and with 1960 views of women in the workplace, I suppose sexual harassment could run amok.

 Don't be fooled by politicians who tell you things were better in the good old days. I'm not saying we don't have problems now. But at least there isn't second hand smoke in the office, gays and lesbians can usually find a safe place to be, and we work our own elevators.