Ascending Adams

Peter’s leaving tonight to climb this mountain (Mt. Adams) with his friend, Paul.

I feel so mommy about this, worried that he won’t get enough sleep before they climb (they’ll start at 2 AM!), that he’ll exhaust himself (hey, he’s been drinking beer at WSU for a year!), that he’ll fall, that he’ll get altitude sickness, and that (oh god, I am my mother!) that he’ll be freezing cold at the top.

Am I really always going to worry about my perfectly capable adult children? Is this some sort of curse? Or is it just “Parenting: The Adult Years”?

The hike is long and strenuous, with a 7000-foot ascent.

Peter and Paul (as far as I know, no Mary is accompanying them) will be using ice axes and crampons and will each be carrying a fairly heavy pack. They’ll spend the first night (or actually, the evening) here at what’s called “Lunch Counter,” halfway up the mountain, before beginning toward the summit very (very!) early the next morning.

Fortunately they’ll have SPOT with them. No, SPOT is not a dog. It’s a cool, geeky tool that will allow them to send us text or e-mail messages to let us know exactly (to the precise gps coordinates) where they are and that they’re OK. They can also use it to call for help or to call 911. Very cool, very geeky, and very mommy-friendly!

Since Peter left his camera in the storage unit at school, my camera was pried from my claws I lent him my camera so he could chronicle his trip.

Hopefully I’ll soon be posting a photo of a pooped but proud Peter taken at 12,281 feet!

Bottom o’ the Bag Crouton Chicken

The big two-pound bag of roasted garlic focaccia croutons from Costco is a staple in our pantry. Yes, I know these croutons are not exactly diet food, but they are delicious and so I sprinkle them sparingly (or not?) on our daily salads.

Invariably, there’s an inch or more of crouton crumbs at the bottom of the bag once we’ve worked our way through it. I hate to throw away these crumbs, so every few months I make Bottom o’ the Bag Crouton Chicken for dinner.

It’s EASY and yummy!

Here’s an approximate cast of characters (yours may vary):

And an approximate recipe (your quantities and ingredients may vary):

• Chicken breasts
• Eggs
• Milk
• Spices (I use a mixture called “garlic & rosemary bread dipping blend” that I got at TJ Maxx for $2.99!)
• Croutons (the buttery, garlicky kind, of course)
• Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

The great thing about the bottom o’ the bag croutons is that you can turn them into bread crumbs just by running a rolling pin over the closed bag (or almost closed, if you don’t want an explosion) a few times.

Mix the eggs, milk and spices together in a pie tin. Pour the crushed croutons onto a plate. Now, dip a chicken breast into the egg mixture, coating it completely. (Yeah, just get your hands in there!) Once well-coated, place the chicken breast onto the crumbs and press down to coat the bottom side of the breast. To coat the top side, just scoop generous amounts of crumbs from the plate and pile them high on top of the chicken. Don’t skimp. Remember that the whole idea is to use up the croutons!

Now place the chicken into a well-greased 13x9 pan. Grate some Parmesan over the crumbs and bake the whole mess at 325 degrees for about 45 minutes. (Addendum: make that 350 degrees for 45 minutes. We had to put ours back into the oven!)

I serve the chicken with a green salad and another Costco’s discovery, Harvest Medley wild and brown rice mix. Deslish!

If it’s as gorgeous a day where you are as it is in Seattle, you might want to eat outside like we did!

Enjoy!

What does it say about me that…

…I find this comic absolutely hilarious… 

…and oddly, deeply poignant. 

Personally relevant. 

Sad.  And sweet. 

Hopeful.  Inspirational, even.

Analysis, please?

Partying with your adult kids: awesome or awful?

Elisabeth ran the Rock and Roll Half Marathon this morning. Then she and her housemates had a party to celebrate some of their 25th birthdays and we were invited!

I took so many pictures that the only efficient way to show them all is with a slideshow:



Is it weird that we occasionally party with our kids? Normally, "partying" just means hanging out at home with them and sometimes a few of their friends. But this was a barbecue hosted by Elisabeth at her house, with lots of 20-something friends. I was honored that she invited her whole family!

June 27th: Mother’s Day

My mother would have been 82 today.

In a word, Mom was feisty. It was often said that when Edith walked into a room, that room became Edith. Yes, she adored being the center of attention, but I believe that even if she hadn’t craved the attention, it would have come her way anyway because she was simply one of those people who turned heads – not because of her beauty (although she was beautiful – more so as she got older and believed herself to be less so!), but because of her indomitable spirit.

The problem with living the death of a loved one is that the memory of that death often over-shadows the memory of that life. Because of the intensity of my last week with mom (which I chronicled in my journal), my first thoughts of her often land in that week when she asked if she was dying on Monday and breathed her last tiny breath the following Sunday. I hate that the memory of death is so disturbingly pervasive. I think that’s the reason why we so often see slideshows of loved ones’ lives at memorials. Here’s Mom’s:

When I reach further back than the very end, a life full of memories comes to me. At mom’s memorial, I spoke about the three different roles Mom played in my life. She was my mother, of course. Then, when we traveled together much later in our lives, she became very much like a sister, and finally, as she began to lose her fight with cancer (a fate that she never admitted or accepted until her very last days), she became more like a daughter.

By her own admission, Mom wasn’t exactly maternal. I don’t have memories of lots of hugs and kisses or lap-sitting and story-telling with her. But she loved her family ferociously and I never doubted that. Ever.

After she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, Mom and I traveled together to Bavaria, where she grew up, and in the span of those two weeks we became equal partners, more like sisters than mother and daughter. I loved that time, but it was short-lived, as her cancer returned with a vengeance the following year and I was suddenly thrust into more of a maternal role with her. And by the end, by the last week of her life, the one I can’t purge from my head, I stroked her head like the mother of a feverish child and watched her curl into a ball and fade away in front of me.

Unfortunately, that’s the memory that stays with me – all too pervasive and undeserving of such prominence.

Today, on Mom’s birthday, I have decided to remember her life instead of her death. I am choosing to remember my feisty and ferociously protective mother as she was. She was this to me:

…and this to me…

…and this to me…

…and this to me…

and because a story is a story till the very end, she was this to me:

But mostly, I think, she was this to me:

Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you every single day.

The beauty (and memory) of an empty refrigerator

I opened the refrigerator this evening and realized that I’d become my mother.

There’s no other explanation for the comfort I felt when I realized that that the refrigerator was nicely emptying out and, if only someone would finish off the gallon-size jar of pepperocinis (what got into me on that Costco trip?!) or guzzle a beer, we’d be approaching actual refrigerator satisfaction.

A refrigerator full of food made my mother nervous. When the fridge was well-stocked, she’d lament that “it all needs to be eaten.” Like now, she’d say. And when the contents of the fridge became more sparse, she’d noticeably relax and exclaim how nice it was to have it “all cleaned out.”

My siblings and I, children of the Ho-Ho generation and admirers of neighbors with fully-stocked refrigerators (Suzie Lisker’s family even had a steady supply of Sara Lee pound cake in their refrigerator!), thought Mom’s obsession was a little nuts.

So this evening when I opened the refrigerator and without thinking, thought to myself (if such a thing can be done), ‘It’s getting there… just a couple fewer items and this will be a perfectly empty refrigerator,” I audibly gasped at myself.

I expected that I’d realize that I’m becoming more and more like Mom when I’d someday peer into the mirror and see her quizzical eyes looking back at me or unexpectedly hear her intonation in my voice. But never did I expect to peer into a refrigerator containing not much more than (ahhhhhhhh!) a few eggs, some baking soda, and a jar of barbeque sauce and realize that now – right now – I am becoming my mother.

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter B

Beautiful Boo and baby-face Bailey battle in a box.

No really, I AM working!

The stars aligned today: I’m working at home, the weather is glorious, and my day isn’t quite as crazed as usual.

(Don’t envy me too much.  They’re re-landscaping next door and a huge dump truck filled with manure just arrived.  PU!)

Of course, on the rare occasion that I have a relatively peaceful day, I know that I will soon be paying for it with an insanely busy day. 

Today, for example, most of my projects are in others’ courts. Microsoft is reviewing a demo as well as translations for its eleven localized versions, a marketing campaign I’m working on is at various stages of client approval, a technical deployment guide is being produced by our team, and other projects are at various points that don’t demand my immediate attention.

Tomorrow, though, and for the rest of the week, as projects land solidly back on my plate, I’ll be in project manager purgatory, reviewing every demo, whitepaper, VO file, and website as it comes my way, and disbursing them every which way for more client feedback and – hopefully – for some final approvals and wrap-ups before the end of the fiscal year.

In other news, I‘ve hit 6+ months since I broke my ankle and I’m discouraged.  My ankle still looks like I have a case of elephantiasis – especially since having the screw removed two weeks ago.

Really – isn’t that just gross? 

Will I ever wear normal shoes again, or am I forever destined to wear ugly tennies and slip-ons with a pad in one shoe to make up for the difference in the size of my feet?

You know what I really miss?  “Rushing around”!  I have a rushing-around, get-it-done approach to most tasks, but somehow moseying and lumbering and limping just doesn’t cut it for me.  It’s insanely frustrating!

Someday I am determined to walk down stairs normally again.  I still have to go down steps like a toddler (foot down, catch up, foot down, catch up…) because I simply can’t yet extend my knee out over my toes which, if you slow down your movements when you walk down steps, you’ll notice is a necessary movement.

But who am I to complain?  I am well aware that the recovery from a trimalleolar fracture  is a long process lasting up to a year or more.  I’m just impatient, that’s all!

You know what I want to do on my ankleversary?  I want to start ballroom dancing lessons with Tom! 

Hell, we’ve very much gone through all this together and he’s been a phenomenal caretaker, dedicated, helpful and compassionate (and truly, he has not complained once!), so we should definitely celebrate together.

Jon Minus Kate plus the Bachelorette

I hardly ever watch TV because I simply don’t have time for it (remember, I work during prime time), but tonight I indulged in a double guilty pleasure – the heartbreaking episode of Jon & Kate Plus Eight, in which Jon and Kate break the news that they’re separating, rotating in and out of their new million-dollar home so the kids can stay put…

and catching up on The Bachelorette which I’ve missed pretty much all season, but which seems to have a whole lot of its own drama going on.

It’s probably a good thing that TV isn’t my thing because (I’m ashamed to say) I’d probably get sucked into this crap fairly easily. 

Tom could never get sucked in, on the other hand, because he’s so innately empathetic that he simply can’t watch the reality show scenes where someone gets rejected or otherwise gets their feelings hurt. Really – he has to physically leave the room.

It’s pretty sweet – which embarrasses him no end, but endears me to him even more!

So there you have it… a completely and totally throw-away post with absolutely no wisdom, no interesting photographs, and not even a decent title.

(And I don’t even have the excuse that it’s NABLPOMO. )

Tune in again tomorrow when we’ll return to your regularly scheduled stuff.

25 Years of Fatherhood

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Monetize or not?

I’m throwing this one out to my readers. All three of you. (And therein, perhaps, lies my answer!)

I’m considering the idea of placing ads on my blog. I don’t really want to do it because I like the idea of a “pure” blog, beholden to no one and inspired only by my ideas and desire to write and connect. But at the same time, times are lean and I wouldn’t mind a little extra income.

Sitemeter says I have somewhere around 150 visitors a day. With meager stats like that (and really, I’m fine with that number; I’m not actively doing anything to increase those numbers… I just plain write), is it even worth considering placing ads on my blog?

I’d love some opinions, personal stories, even stats if you have them. And hey, if only three people reply, there’s my answer. Right?

Opa the Sailor Man

I grew up on sailboats.

Please do not read that as I sail because I do not.

I was always along for the ride because either I had no interest in learning to sail or my parents had no interest in teaching me (I don’t remember which). By the time I was in high school, I preferred to stay home when my parents sailed every weekend. I would only accompany them if I could bring a friend -- preferably a boyfriend -- with whom I’d snuggle either atop a sleeping bag on the bow or wrapped in a sleeping bag on the stern while my parents tacked and jibed all around the San Francisco Bay.

To me, sailboats were a place to socialize or relax while someone else was at the helm. That someone was my dad…

…or my mom.

My parents had a passion for sailing. Mom grew up on the Chiemsee in Bavaria and sailed (and skied!) since she could walk. She taught Dad to sail when they first met and that was the beginning of 50 years of co-skippering.

Now (five years after Mom's death) Dad has a new skipper, a new first mate -- his POSLQ (person of opposite sex sharing living quarters!), Lou. They jibe perfectly together.

This afternoon Dad and Lou arrived in Seattle on their way to the San Juan Islands where they, along with Lou’s younger sister Sally (who’s still over 70!) will sail for a week – Dad at the helm, captain of a sailboat again…

 

…at 81 years old!

He’s most definitely Opa da (Sailor) MAN!

Lost in Translation

In my job as a Senior Project Manager on Microsoft projects, one of my responsibilities is to manage the localization (global translations) process for a variety of media.

One of my current projects is managing the production of a marketing video for a major Microsoft business unit.  (You’ve learned by now that I’m vague when it comes to discussing details of my career on my blog, right?)  In addition to the English version, I am responsible for localizing the video into eleven different languages (including three separate Chinese spoken languages and two separate Chinese written languages), with both on-screen and voice-over translations.

The process of localization is very detailed and a bit complicated.  One localization is complicated enough, but eleven is nuts.  (And when that project is one of many that I’m managing these days… well, let’s just say that I’m feeling just a tad overwhelmed!)

The first step is, of course, to create the English version.  Sometimes it already exists and we only need to localize it into other languages, and sometimes (as is the case with this project) it’s a new production and is completed just prior to the localization efforts. 

For the English version, we develop a script and have it approved by the client (in this case, Microsoft).  We then determine what needs to be localized (on-screen or print only? voiceover too?).  Then we contact the localization service, submit to them a special script specifically for localization (I divide it into “sound bites,” each of which will eventually be an individual file) and then they start the localization gears rolling.

The localization service sends the English sound-bite script (by now it’s a complicated-looking Excel spreadsheet, one tab for each language, one cell for each sound-bite) off to their translators around the globe. At the same time, they send us talent options for each localization’s voice-over, and I send those on to the client for approval.  For both the voice-over and the written translations, Microsoft sends the samples on to their subsidiaries in each country for review and approval.

Once the voice sample and the written translation has been approved by each country, which sometimes takes quite a few review cycles, that “sub” sends final approval to Microsoft, who passes it on to me, and I pass it on to the localization service… who then schedules studio time with the talent.

Once I receive voice over files for each language, I send those to our production people, who have been busy working on the video’s visuals (which I also manage) all along.  They then fit each localized voiceover onto the video – which has hopefully been produced at a pace so as to allow for “text expansion” for especially “wordy” languages like Russian.

At the same time, our production team incorporates on-screen translations and, if we’re lucky, we then have a localized video!

Times eleven… making up a portion – not even half – of my current workload! 

Until I was involved in localization efforts myself, I had no idea how many steps and how many different teams were involved! From the individual Microsoft subsidiaries around the globe, to Microsoft management, to two external agencies (the external Microsoft PM and me), to the localization service, to the studios, to the localization talent (translators and voice talent), it’s a group effort every step along the way, all around the globe!

I thought this might be interesting especially for my expat friends, some of whom I’m sure are involved in localizations for various forms of media.  If I were bilingual, I’d move right to my foreign country of choice and start my own business in the localization arena!  Now there’s a profession!

Elaine at Alaska Airlines Customer Service: May angels land on your shoulders and stay all day!

My mother-in-law has been visiting us from her home in Palm Springs, California since last week. Over the past few days we’ve shopped and bar-b-qued and gone wine tasting and generally had a wonderful time, and Nana has treated us to some wonderful and very detailed stories about her past.

All this time, we thought Nana’s return flight to California was scheduled for tomorrow, but when I got home from work today, Tom told me that it had actually been scheduled for this morning and his mom was quite upset by the confusion.

Not to worry, I assured them, and I got on the phone and the Internet simultaneously in an effort to get Nana on a flight tomorrow morning.

My first call was to Alaska Airlines customer service. Not sure who I spoke to then. She wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but she wasn’t all that helpful or compassionate, either. “Ma’am,” she said, after I’d been on hold for 20 minutes, “I can book your mother-in-law on the same flight tomorrow, but you’ll need to act quickly, as it’s 90% full now. The difference in cost for the trip is $80 and the change fee is $100,” she informed me, with absolutely no emotion – no friendliness, no compassion, no warmth – in her voice. She wasn't rude or unfriendly, either. She was just...well, void of expression.

“Excuuuuuse me?! $180 for missing a flight? How much is a new one-way flight?” I asked

“$220.”

Of course. Make the fee just a tad under the cost of booking a new flight. Brilliant.

Not.

I told the operator that we’d call back, then I hung up, and immediately searched the Internet for a new one-way fare for under $180.

I couldn’t find a single flight at that price for tomorrow. Even Priceline’s name-your-fare couldn’t help with a one-way ticket.

“Just book the flight,” Nana said, her head in her hands and, it seemed, close to tears.

So I called Alaska Airlines back, Nana’s Gold Mastercard in hand. Her fixed income Gold Mastercard. Her how-could-I-have-overlooked-this Gold Mastercard. I felt awful for her.

After a short time on hold, Elaine at Alaska Airlines Customer Service answered the phone. She greeted me warmly and asked how she could help me. I told her that my mother-in-law had missed her flight back home today and that we were hoping she might be able to help us.

“I’d sure like to help someone today,” she said. “I just hung up with a young man who I couldn’t help at all and it’s bothering me. A lot.”

She told me about a developmentally challenged man who called her from Hawaii with a ticket on a Delta flight, reserved on Expedia. Once he realized he’d missed his flight, he called Delta, who informed him that it’d cost him $1,100 to get home!

I don’t know exactly how or why, but somehow this man then got a hold of Elaine, an Alaska Airlines agent who, of course, couldn’t access any of the man’s information. But Elaine felt compassion for this man who was obviously not only developmentally challenged, but also had no money and was very scared and confused.

Elaine called the Delta ticket agent and airline reservation agent to airline reservation agent, asked her to help this man out by waiving fees, finding him a cheap flight, or somehow helping him to get home without breaking him.

No can do, the Delta agent said. $1,100 is what it’ll cost for the guy to get home. She wouldn’t budge… and Elaine was helpless to do anything except, I assume, offer him an Alaska ticket.

I was Elaine’s next call and she seemed genuinely upset about her inability to help this young man.

She looked up Nana’s information and said to me, “I see she’s in a wheelchair. Let’s see what we can do.” As she worked, we talked about her father who had recently died and bequeathed to her his beautiful cane. We talked about how kind people can be, helping those using canes (or, I reminded her, crutches and knee walkers!), and we talked about the blessings of family visits.

“Alrighty!” Elaine then announced after a few moments. “You’re all set! Your mother-in-law should be at the airport at 8:30 tomorrow morning. Wish her a pleasant flight for me.”

Gold Mastercard in hand, I asked Elaine what the fee would be, knowing that it was officially $80 for the difference in cost and $100 change fee.

“Nothing,” Elaine said. “I’m just glad I was finally able to make a difference today. I was afraid the day would end without me being able to really help someone in need.”

“Elaine…” I said, not sure what to say. “May angels land on your shoulder and stay with you all day,” I said. Where did that come from? I never talk about angels!

But that’s what Elaine has been today – a real angel! Thank you, Elaine! Alaska Airlines must give “permission” for angelic behavior from their agents, so thank you Alaska Airlines, as well!

Crying over spilled milk

Last weekend, after our incredible visit with Paul, Lisa, Lauren and their family, Paul drove us to the Kingston ferry where we’d catch our connection back to Edmonds. On that short drive, he told us this story that I can’t get out of my mind.

Paul has been a firefighter in Southern California since before we met him almost 25 years ago. He has seen much. But this one stuck with him… and now it’s sticking with me:

Paul was called to the scene of an accident where two cars had crashed in the middle of a busy intersection. I don’t know any details of the crash or what caused the accident. I only know that the first thing that Paul encountered when he approached one of the cars was milk. Milk was everywhere, covering every surface of the inside of the car.

In the driver’s seat of this car was a man who was dying of his injuries. Between this dying man’s knees was the now-almost-empty gallon of milk. Try as they might, there was nothing the firefighters could do to save him.

As captain, Paul’s duty at that point was to find and notify next of kin. He found the man’s address, noticing that he lived less than two blocks from the scene of the accident.

Paul knocked on the door and was greeted by a young woman carrying a toddler on her hip. She greeted Paul politely and before Paul could tell her why he was there (and probably believing that he was there on some PR solicitation call) she said, “Oh, you’ll want to talk to my husband. He’ll be right back; he just ran to the store to buy some milk…”

Even after 30 years as a firefighter, Paul was stunned speechless for a moment – and then knew he had to break the devastating news to this young mother – this sudden widow. He said that this particular call haunts him more than most of what he’s seen, and that it reminds him of the importance of cherishing every second we have with the people we love and taking nothing for granted.

So when you leave the house today, whether for a long trip or for a momentary run to the corner grocery, remember the the tears that have been shed over spilled milk.

I have a screw loose!

Loosened and removed, in fact!

Today was my 6 month post-op appointment with Dr. Benirschke at Harborview Medical Center.

Based on prior experience, I’ve learned not to plan anything else for days when I have “quick” post-op appointments at Harborview – and lo and behold today turned out to be no exception. My appointment was at 10:15 this morning, it’s now almost 5 PM, and we just got home.

Why?

Oh just a little bit of minor surgery.

One of my questions for Dr. B today was why I continue to have limited range of motion in one particular area, and why that area continuously hurts and is perpetually swollen.

Turns out there’s a two-inch screw that Dr. B inserted to hold my tibia and fibula together to give that whole area more strength. Problem is, the dang screw has been causing me not only pain, but decreased range of motion and increased anxiety because it’d especially hurt when I moved my leg just so.

It turns out that there’s also a small risk of this particular screw breaking in the middle as I increase my range of motion, leaving half of it in each bone. That would most decidedly not be good!

“So when can the hardware be removed?” I asked Dr. B today. “Not for a year,” he replied. (Happy ankleversary!) “Except for this one… which I had a feeling might cause some problems. This one can be removed today.”

Gulp.

“What? Are you not emotionally ready?” he teased.

“No, I am. Or I will be. In a minute…”

An hour and a half later (because of his schedule, not my trepidation!), Tom, Elisabeth and I were in a mini-surgical suite, waiting for the surprise procedure.

I’m working on the “emotionally ready” part.

TK the nurse with the beautiful hair, prepared all the instruments and then Dr. B got to work.

First he had to find both the exact right spot and the exact right angle to locate the screw.

Good thing I trust the man blindly. Hey, any world-famous surgeon who answers his cell with “Joe’s Bar & Grill. Joe’s out” has my full trust!

After he marked my skin as if I was having some hoity-toity cosmetic surgery, he told me to just relax while he got things ready. Yeah, OK… but let me turn away first!

First things first. Sleepy stuff for my foot!

You don’t need to see all the shots at all the different angles, do you? Good – neither did I! I kept my eyes on my good ol’ focal point (because I’m a chicken):

First we need a sterile field…

… and then some slicing…

…and some poking…

and some “Marco! Polo!”

And then out came the hex screwdriver

And the vice grip on my leg…

…and some rockin’ and rolling…

And then… GOTCHA!

Dr B warned me about this next part. Because you can’t numb bone, he told me I’d feel it when he started twisting the screw backwards and withdrawing it from the bone. He said people described the feeling as “freaky.”

I can’t even describe what it felt like, except to say that I was very aware that it was deep inside my leg and it resonated in… well, yes, in a “freaky” way! Freaky and painful.

And then…

Well, hello there!

I was just relieved to hear that it was out. One can only take “heebie-jeebie” for so long!

I think Tom was relived too. Elisabeth, on the other hand, was loving the “blood and guts” (OK, no guts!) factor, and was snapping away.

Look! No more screw!

Immediately after it was all over, Dr. B suggested I get up and walk around, assuring me that since only the immediate area was anesthetized, I should be able to walk.

I took three steps and couldn’t believe it! The pain and the limited range of motion in that specific area was completely gone! I’d come into the hospital with a distinct limp and I left without one. (Or much of one…) Once again, Dr. B had performed his magic!

We celebrated with a quick lunch at Ivars on Lake Union.

Granted, this was one very minor hardware removal procedure. The more major one will occur in December, when Dr. B will remove both the 5” plate and the 2” plate, along with the 12 pins and various other hardware. For that procedure I’ll be in the OR and knocked completely out. (Which means sorry, no pictures!)

I’m still numb but it’s wearing off. I’ve been told that I’ll be quite sore for a day or two, but after that I should be moving around SO much better!

I can hardly wait!