My resolution is to lose weight.

My resolution is to eat healthier.

My resolution is to exercise more.

Why do we make New Year’s resolutions? Is there something magical about January 1^st? Will flipping the page on the calendar that you just bought for 50% off after Christmas make you a better person?

Okay, maybe it’s the fact that January 1 marks the start of a new month. After all, it’s probably easier to start a resolution at the beginning of a new month, isn’t it? But if that’s true, let’s change New Year’s resolutions to spring resolutions and start on April 1^st. Spring cleaning can be exercise, so how about a spring resolution to exercise more.

Maybe it’s the fact that starting a resolution in the beginning of a new year might just get you to keep it. Sorry, but how many of you resolved to lose weight last year and by March 1^st you were munching on a king size Snickers Bar? Oh wait, let me guess, it was a treat for losing one pound in two months.

No, January 1 is not the magical date. Besides, how many people actually start their New Years resolutions on January 1^st? Eating a bag of chips while watching the many bowl games on TV is breaking your resolution right out of the starting gate. And who really goes to the gym on January 1 to start the workout regime that you’ve been meaning to get to for the last year. That treadmill you got as a holiday gift, are you really going to use it on January 1? My guess, it’s an expensive coat rack.

So why DO we make New Year’s resolutions? The answer is simple, its what we’ve been told to do. But who started this oh so wonderful tradition? Who actually took the time to sit and think, “Oh it would be a good idea to change ourselves on January 1.” Let me guess, his resolution was to convince a world of people that this was a good idea. He succeeded.

So, here’s my resolution. I resolve to eat healthier and exercise more. I’ll start going to the gym sometime after I finish eating my large hot fudge sundae from Kopps. Really, I promise to start . . . sometime . . . maybe in April.

I’m a bad mother. No, that’s not it; I’m a neglectful mother. No, that’s not it either; I’m a forgetful mother. Yes! That’s it; I’m a forgetful mother. That is myself and every other forgetful parent at Target in Grafton on Monday night. The flurries outside couldn’t compare to the blizzard of activity that was taking place in the shoe department.

I’ve lived in Wisconsin all of my life. Okay, except for when I was in school but even then, I lived in Michigan. It snows there too. I should know better. It’s all summed up in two very simple winter equations.

Wisconsin + December = snow
Snow + kids playing in the snow = the need for boots

How could I forget? How could I not have bought boots for Monkey? But I did forget. I’ve never forgotten them before but this year . . . oh well.

My Mom was always prepared. She always remembered those two simple winter equations. My heavy rubber, nylon and fleece purple boots that weighted something like twenty pounds each were always there for me when I needed them. They were there along with my purple Eskimo style parka from Sears. Come on, you remember them. Purple parkas were for girls and the blue parkas were for boys. Buttons covered the zipper and the huge hood was trimmed in fake fur. And of course there was the penholder on the sleeve, just in case you needed to write a note to Nanook of the North on your way home from school. My winter wardrobe (the Purple People Eater Eskimo outfit) was always ready by the first snowfall.

Even though she hasn’t had to dress me for winter in, well . . . many years, I have to thank my Mom for remembering these two simple winter equations. It’s almost like she knew that I would forget them. Mother’s intuition, I guess. Besides boots, what else did I forget? Snowpants; a staple in every kid’s winter wardrobe. Thanks Mom for buying snowpants for your Grandmonkey.

Well after plowing through the crowds in the shoe department at Target, Monkey did come home with a pair of boots. Lightweight rubber, nylon and fleece black boots with purple flowers that weigh something like two pounds each. Snowpants, boots, a parka, and mittens make for a happy Monkey. She’s excited to play in the snow.

Wisconsin + December = snow

Snow that should be falling right about now. Snow that may create the first “snow day” of the school year. Snow that creates another winter equation.

Snow + kids playing in the snow = fun
 

A fifty-dollar sewing machine that I have used once in five years, a jacket I bought because it was a good deal (what was I thinking – it’s ugly), and DVD that Monkey didn’t like.

The Turkey Trot, waking up at 4am the day after Thanksgiving is an annual tradition for my Mom and me.

The night before our Turkey Trot, we scour the ads in the ginormous Thursday newspaper With pen and paper in hand, we map out our route; deciding which stores to hit first. Toys R Us, Target, Wal-Mart, Kohl’s, and Best Buy, just to name a few. After finding our treasures at these stores, it’s off to breakfast.

For many years our favorite spot for a Turkey Trot break was Le Peep. That was until that egg cracked and the restaurant went sunnyside down. Scrambling to find a new spot, we now frequent to i-Hop for a quick shortstack before continuing on our Turkey Trot.

After breakfast, it’s onto Bayshore to hit the stores there. With coupons in hand, we wade through the crowds at Boston Store, Chico’s and the many other specialty stores at the retail hub of Glendale.

Time flies when you are having fun; nine hours later and its only two o’clock! Now that our day is over, I drop my Mom at her house and we empty the bags out of the car. A new sweater, a pair of earrings, a cake pan that I might use next thanksgiving, a video game for Monkey (and Silverback Gorilla), all Black Friday bargains.

Then it’s time to head home for a much needed nap. It’s literally a shop till we drop experience. It’s our Turkey Trot.

It’s not about buying some gadget that we don’t know what it does but it looks fun, it’s not about the thrill of the bargain hunt, it’s not even about the task of getting up at the crack of dawn after stuffing ourselves at our gobble till we wobble feast. IT IS about spending quality time with my Mom, it’s about continuing the tradition that we started 15 years ago.

What will this year bring? It might be a three-dollar toaster, a Snuggie, or a one-dollar hammer. Those ginormous ads will tell us where to go and what to buy. Undoubtedly it will be something that I think I need because it’s a good bargain. One thing I do know, I won’t be buying another sewing machine. That was a turkey of a purchase!

Monkey loves Halloween. The decorations, costumes, and of course the candy make Halloween her favorite holiday.

For us dogs, Halloween is TORTURE! Yes, it’s me, Daisy Belle Stein ranting about that horrible holiday - Halloween.

The torture begins with that tradition of going door-to-door asking for candy. Yes, I am referring to trick-or-treat. Let me get this straight. It’s okay for kids to put on silly costumes and go from house to house begging for food but when I get up on my two little hind legs by the kitchen table, I’m told to stop begging for treats.

The doorbell ringing, this is a sign to a dog. It’s a signal that people are coming over to visit. The doorbell tells us dogs to get excited; to begin wagging our tails and to begin barking with joy. People are coming into the house that I can stiff, people that will pet me. With this trick-or-treat thing, the doorbell rings, I get excited but only to be let down when the kids don’t care about me. They are just at the door for candy. There is nobody for me to sniff, nobody to pet me.

And back to that candy thing. People hand out candy. TORTURE!!! Sugar and chocolate, not staples in a doggie diet. You are handing out food and I cannot have any. Grrrrrrroooooowwl

So how do we canines avoid the doorbell dilemma? We go trick-or-treating with the kids. Now you would think that this would be a good alternative to watching Mommy hand out candy but it too is wrought with problems. The Halloween costume. Like anyone would really believe that I am a skunk. Seriously, last year my Daddy dressed me in a skunk costume. TORUTRE!!! I don’t like things on my head, especially stupid ears. And the tail of the costume, it’s longer than my tail. This isn’t very convenient when I need to stop on a lawn to do my doggie business.

My solution, we canines have our own holiday. Howl-o-ween. It’s a holiday when we get to sleep all day and beg for as many treats as we want. Oh wait, this is everyday for a dog.

Anyway, if you see a funny looking skunk walking around your neighborhood on Saturday, don’t run. I won’t spray you. Not if you give me a Milk Bone!
 

Boo!  Did I scare you? 

Yes, it’s that time of year again – Halloween.  It’s a time for those of us with a penchant for sweets to rejoice.  It’s all about the candy, cookies, candy, cupcakes, candy, and all other types of Halloween sweet treats.  Did I mention candy??

Here is one of Monkey's favorite Halloween treats.  It's quick and easy. 

Marshmallow Ghosts

1 large bag of large marshmallows
1 bag of mini chocolate chips
1 can of vanilla frosting (don’t use the whipped frosting, it doesn’t stick well)

Dab a little frosting on the flat side of a chocolate chip (a toothpick works well) and place it on the side of a marshmallow.  This will be one eye of the ghost.  Repeat with another marshmallow to create the second eye. 

Repeat the process to create as many marshmallow ghosts as you need. 

Enjoy!!
 

With autumn upon us, we are approaching the end of the 2009 season for the East Town Market in Cathedral Square. 

This seasonal Saturday morning event, the wonderful East Town Market, brings people of all ages, ethnicities, and socio-economic status together to celebrate Milwaukee’s love of food. Whether you are there to pick up ingredients for a dinner party or you’ve come just to enjoy the sights and smells of the Battle of the Chefs, there is something for everyone at the Market.  

Sadly, soon all the white roofed tents lining the edges of Cathedral Square will be gone. Gone too will be abundant flowers, vegetables, and fruits for sale from some of the best farms in the Metro Milwaukee area.   

This year brought what I think to be the largest selection of vendors yet. Not only were we treated to wonderful produce but also this year brought us a plethora of handicrafts and even vendors selling pasta and snack foods.   Did anyone try the pizza chips? YUM!!

For those of us with a sweet tooth, the East Town Market did not disappoint. Whether it was chocolate pasta from Pappardelle’s or oatmeal raisin cookies from Wildflour Bakery, there was something to satisfy our sugar cravings.

As for me, well, this foodie will be there bright and early on Saturday morning. I’ll be in search of the best apples for a homemade apple pie.    After all, no autumn is complete without the smell of an apple pie baking in the oven. 

Green Bay, Port Washington, Brown Deer, Good Hope . . . and roads in between. Enough already; enough with the orange barrels!

I’ve lived in Wisconsin long enough to know that we have two seasons, winter and road construction, but this is getting carried away. There is no place in the North Shore that is or has been immune from orange barrels this road construction season. The oranges barrels that once lined Silver Spring Drive in Whitefish Bay have now moved their way north creating the likes of war zones in Glendale, Fox Point, and Bayside.

Really, I’ve had it with the orange and white-stripped plastic contraptions that create mazes up and down the streets. And furthermore, how dumb does the Department of Public Works actually think I am? Do they actually think that I am going to drive on a road that looks like it’s been victim of an insurgent bombing? No, they feel the need to put a sign in the war torn lane that reads, “lane closed”. Well, if it weren’t apparent enough with the dust, rubble, and road sign, DPW trucks are blocking the area once considered a drivable lane. But really, that “lane closed” sign, THAT sign made all the difference. Without it, I’m sure that I would have maneuvered my way through, avoiding the trucks, workers, and broken concrete. DPW, thank you for saving my car and me. I just don’t know where I would be without your sign.

Okay, I just don’t get it. We live in an age where technology is ever changing. Things are built to last longer like the long life battery. In fact, when things wear out, we have long lasting replacements like the artificial knee. Why can’t a new super road construction material be invented? A super material that would withstand harsh Wisconsin winter road conditions. A super material that would only need to be replaced every twenty years. A super material would mean less orange barrel aggravation.

Just think what would happen if we had a super concrete . . . our two seasons would then become four. Gone would be the traffic delays as we zigzag in and out of those plastic contraptions. Our cars would not be coated in concrete dust. Our cars’ shock absorbers would not be worn out from driving on uneven, rubble laden roads. We wouldn’t be subjected to unsightly Porta Potties on the street.

Okay, I do get it. Super concrete would put car washes out of business. Super concrete would create unemployment for construction workers. Blah blah blah . . .

But as I see it – super concrete would be the best medicine to beat the orange barrel aggravation.
 

The summer festival season is upon us. Irish Fest, German Fest, and Festa Italiana are among many of this City’s many ethnic festivals. These fun summer traditions show Milwaukee ’s diversity and cultural heritage. They show both the country and the world that Milwaukee IS “a great place by a great lake”.

The biggest of Milwaukee’s festivals is not an ethnic festival. Yes, Summerfest is here. It’s an eleven day world class music festival; “a great place by a great lake” to listen to music, try different foods from Milwaukee restaurants, and to have fun with friends. Security makes Summerfest a safe event but I think the police should be there too – the fashion police! Let’s re-examine the name Summerfest. How about we re-name it “Don’t You Own a Mirror Fest”? Sadly, Summerfest is a gathering for those who have no fashion sense OR those who just don’t care what they look like. Even worse . . . are those who think they have a fashion sense AND think they look good, but they don’t. Go buy a mirror!

Women, don’t come to “Don’t You Own a Mirror Fest” wearing 4 inch stilettos with a tight leather mini skirt and black lace tank top that’s two sizes too small which shows off your implants. This look is just not in vogue. Your bottle blonde hair that’s teased with a half dozen cans of Aqua Net hairspray really does not add anything to the ensemble. Save your back, there’s a lot of walking to do at Summerfest, at least wear sensible shoes (maybe 1 inch heels) with your otherwise OMG, what the H is she wearing outfit. And if you are one of those people wearing this “Holly Hooker” outfit because you want to be noticed for how good you think you look. Let me tell you a secret . . . ssshhhhh . . . . you don’t look good . . . you look like trailer trash. Meet me in the magazine section of Barnes and Noble, I’ll buy you a copy of Elle, Glamour, or Vogue.

Guys don’t think you can escape the fashion horrors found at “Don’t You Own a Mirror Fest”. We don’t need to see your hairy chest. We don’t need to see the skull and crossbones, eagle, and names of you last ten girlfriends that are tattooed to your arms and back. We don’t need to see your size 40 stomach hanging over your size 36 shorts. Listen Bud, put down the Miller, your beer belly shows that you’ve already had enough.

Guys, listen up! Trust me, GQ and Esquire doesn’t advocate wearing a Harley tank top which shows your hairy armpits and those tattooed arms. You might think it’s sexy but here’s a reality check, it’s not! Okay, maybe it’s mildly acceptable. That is, only if you are trying to hook up with Holly Hooker.

Now, I don’t mean to pick on Summerfest. These OMG fashions can be seen at any of this City’s many festivals or even the Wisconsin State Fair. Don’t even get me started on how people dress there!

YOU can be dressed for the heat in fashion that is cool, casual, and appropriate for a great festival by a great lake; fashion that doesn’t make you look like you are attending a monster truck rally.

I really enjoy going to Summerfest. Look for me, I’ll be the one wearing cute walking sandals (try Think! or Naot brands – my favorites), khaki shorts, and a correctly fitting pink tank top (try J.Jill for something nice fitting and NOT lace). Oh yeah, and I’ll be the one without the heart, butterfly, and flower tattoos; I have NONE!

I’ll be the one enjoying the music and food without having to worry if I will fall in 4 inch stilettos. I’ll be the one giving you the “OMG what the H are you wearing” look.

Go enjoy the many festivals that Milwaukee has to offer. They are a part of our City’s heritage. But look in the mirror before you walk out the door. The fashion police are watching and your outfit; it might just be a crime.

The top 15 things that I learned after hand surgery . . .

1. Flossing teeth is easier with two hands. I’m not a fan of those little plastic pick things with a small piece of string. 

2. Putting toothpaste on a toothbrush with a barrel shaped handle takes two hands. That is unless you want to see how many tubes of toothpaste you use up before you actually get a small strip of gel on the brush before it rolls over.

3. Kids said that they wanted to see stitches. That is until they were actually shown the thirty “X”s holding my hand together. ICK!!

4. Soap operas are much more enjoyable to watch when you are on Percocets.

5. Fitting a heavily bandaged hand (that resembled a caveman’s club) through a slim shirtsleeve is like fitting a square peg in a round hole – don’t try it, it just doesn’t work.

6. A better name for physical therapy (PT) is physical torture.

7. Remember those armpit noises you made as a kid? Well, armpits are very useful to squeeze Costco sized bottles of shampoo. Put the bottle under your armpit and squeeze the shampoo into the good hand. This also works for bottles of body wash too.

8. Walking the dog with my left hand was okay. Holding the leash in my left hand while trying to also pick up poop with my left hand, not so much.

9. Recovery from surgery hurts. Don’t tell me, “at least it was nothing serious.” No, I didn’t have a quadruple by-pass but you have your hand filleted open like a piece of perch and then tell me it was nothing. You’re lucky that I didn’t swing at you with the club hand.

10. Writing with the non-dominant hand is not easy. I make no apologies for my handwriting; I know that my otherwise neat handwriting was a mess. By the way, the check that I wrote you was for two hundred, not two thousand dollars. My handwriting was bad, but not THAT bad!

11. Being knocked out under general anesthesia is a great cure for insomnia.

12. People will still try to shake your hand. What?  Don’t they see that you cannot shake hands. How about I just clobber them with my club hand. Heck, I won’t feel it through the bandages.

13. Daisy thought the bandages were a giant chew toy on my hand. It became a game, pulling the hand away so she didn’t chew on the bandaged hand.

14. While a child can open childproof medicine bottles, adults with one hand cannot.

15. Chocolate is a good painkiller. Okay, it's not that it really kills the pain, but I love chocolate and it distracts me from the pain.

Thanks to all who chauffeured me around, cooked meals so Silverback Gorilla and Monkey didn’t have to live on fast food, and just called to check up on me.  I have great friends and I can always count on them. (I guess that makes 16 things learned)

Oh, there is one more thing that I learned (#17). Hugging a stuffed animal and crying due to pain is okay. Especially when the stuffed animal comes from the animal collection of a nine year old Monkey who just wanted Mommy to get better.

Arf arf

Yes, it’s me again, Daisy Belle. My Mommy just had surgery on her paw (hand) so she asked me to write a quick blog posting for her.

I remember when I was a puppy, I was outside and something thorny got stuck in my paw. It hurt and I was whimpering so Mommy and Daddy took me to the vet. The vet took out the thorny needle and my paw began to feel better.

Mommy didn’t get a thorn in her paw; she has some yucky swollen tendons that hurt her. I feel bad for Mommy. Her paw is all bandaged like a mummy and she is sleeping a lot. Daddy says it’s because of the medicine to get rid of the pain.

I know that when her right paw is better, Mommy will have funny stories to tell about being one-pawed.

I hope Mommy gets better soon. In the mean time, I can still snuggle up to her and she can use her left paw to rub my tummy. And for me, it’s all about the tummy rub.

First, I would like to thank my little pup, Daisy, for writing my last blog posting. I’m very impressed that she can use her little paws to type on the keyboard.

As I have stated or should I say, Daisy said; chickens are not good pets. However, there is another farm animal that many people also keep as pets – oink oink. Yes, the pig.

Let me first reiterate, farm animals do not belong in homes located in major metro areas. Like chickens, pigs smell. And you thought picking up after a chicken was bad . . . OMG . . . go live on a farm if you want to shovel that *&^%! Plus there is that snorting noise. It’s bad enough that Silverback Gorilla snores loudly, I couldn’t imagine being woken up by a snorting pig.

While I know of no proposed or existing ordinances allowing pigs as household pets in any of the North Shore communities, I’m sure that one is bound to pop up soon. Why? Let’s face it; pigs are getting a bad rap these days and some group like Pork Is Great (PIG for short) will surely intercede on behalf of the rights of swine. Isn’t that what always happens? Some group comes to the aid of the victims of society, even if the victims are fat smelly swine.

Okay, baby pigs are cute to look at when you are at the State Fair. And then there is Piglet and Babe. Oh, and I cannot forget the pig from the old Pig ‘N Whistle. But these are the swine exceptions. I’m not a member of PIG, I don’t eat pigs, and frankly I don’t like them but on one issue I will come to the defense of swine.

Oh yeah . . . the bad rap that pigs are getting, it’s due to this swine flu thing that is going around. Now, I don’t mean to make light of it. Seriously, people have died from the swine flu or whatever the new politically correct name for it is – H something or another. This illness should be taken as a serious matter. But please, don’t you think we are getting a bit carried away? Closing a school because someone may have been in contact with the third cousin of someone who may know someone who might be sneezing is a bit out of control. Good grief, I was in Mexico five months ago, might I have swine flu (or H something or another) because I have a cough? No! It’s called asthma. Jeeze . . . give me a break!

This flu thing aside, I am still anti-pig . . . at least when it comes to them being house pets. Go ahead, make pigs legal as house pets and you’ll see what will happen. We’ll have an increased number of mosquitoes buzzing around because of the watery mud puddles for the pigs. Of course this will lead to a malaria pandemic which would quickly spread from Fox Point, Wisconsin all the way to Sydney, Australia. Got your surgical mask ready?

Another reason to raise our snouts and say no to pigs.
 

My name is Daisy Belle Stein, and I am a three-year-old Bichon Frise.  When I heard what my Mommy was going to write about this week, I jumped on the computer and decided to write this blog posting for her.   I need to voice my opinion on an important issue.  I need to speak on behalf of all my doggie friends.  We have a bone to pick with certain people.

I like to snuggle with my Mommy, Daddy, and two-legged sister (Monkey).  I like to give doggie kisses and lick my family, albeit Mommy isn’t too fond of the wet kisses.  I like to curl up on the floor and watch television with my family while they give me tummy rubs.  I’m a dog and these are things that dogs do.   By the way, American Idol is my favorite television show; woof woof for Danny.  

Dogs are pets. I think all my canine friends would agree that chickens are not pets.  Okay, maybe they are pets for kids living on a farm but chickens as pets in a major metropolitan area, to that I say “grrrrrrrrrrrrrowl”.  That’s doggie speak for “bad idea”.

Yes, chickens give eggs, something that I cannot do but if its eggs you want; go to the red bag store.  Yes, you don’t have to walk a chicken when it’s five below zero, snowing, or thunder storming outside but you do need to clean its coop.  And you think picking up after me is smelly; cleaning up after chickens - YUCK!

Have you ever had a chicken give you a kiss?  OUCH!  Even though Mommy might squirm at my wet tongue, she would agree that wet puppy kisses beat the painful peck of a chicken’s beak.

I don’t play fetch.  I could retrieve balls or Frisbees; I just choose not to do it.  I'm a lazy dog but in general, dogs like to play games.  Have you ever tried to play fetch with a chicken?  A chicken, what can they do, ring a bell with their beak?  How annoying is that?

I like my friends Chelsea, another Bichon Frise and Ginger, a Cockapoo.  Then there is Bo, the First Dog.  I’ve never met him but he’s my heartthrob.  Monkey has a Jonas Brothers poster in her bedroom but I have a poster of Bo above my bed, just call it puppy love.  We are all hypoallergenic dogs.  That’s why our families adopted us.  We don’t shed, we don't leave dog dander for others to smell, and we don't cause people to sneeze.  Even if my shedding friend Webster the Basset Hound leaves hair around, it doesn’t stink up the neighborhood.    

I’m not sure but I don’t think chickens are hypoallergenic, but I am a dog, what do I know?  Being that I don’t think these feathered creatures are hypoallergenic, their outside coops would pollute the air with irritants that would hurt people with allergies.  I don’t want to see my Mommy hurt.  Plus, when Mommy sneezes because of her allergies, she sneezes really loud and it scares me!  If I'm wrong and chickens are hypoallergenic, I’m sorry for inferring that their smell would be offensive to those with sensitive noses.  No . . . no . . . I'm not sorry.  Chickens smell.  If you don't believe me, just go to the chicken barn at State Fair.  Someone needs to put an air freshener in there.

If you want to raise chickens, go live on a farm.  Let’s keep chickens out of our North Shore neighborhoods.   Dogs are good pets.  Even cats are okay.  Chickens, not so much.

Arf Arf

Spring break.

What comes to mind?  Tanned guys in search of bikini clad girls on sun drenched Mexican beaches?  A trip to the museums of Europe?  Sailing the ocean blue on a cruise ship?

Spring break.

I really don’t remember spring break being such a big deal.  Maybe it was a huge event and I am just having a senior moment and don’t remember it.  Truly, I don’t remember much about my spring breaks.  NO!!  It’s not due to excessive alcohol consumption during breaks. 

What I do remember about my spring breaks is that as a kid, spring breaks for me were about sleeping late and just watching TV.  There weren’t hundreds of channels to choose from but you could always count on The Newlywed Game, The Electric Company or Love American Style for entertainment.

However, watching The Price is Right with my brother was the highlight of any day off.  What a sad life we had!!!

We would play along, a friendly brother-sister rivalry, guessing the price of the Sunbeam toaster or can of B&M baked beans to see if we came close enough to keep the Cliffhanger still on the mountain.  But when it came to the Showcases, the boxing gloves came off!!  Each day we would take turns being the contestant who decides to bid or pass the Showcase.  The loser had to set the table for dinner that night.  I cannot begin to tell you how many tables my brother set because I won the washer and dryer, the dining room set or the Ford Pinto with automatic transmission and a FM radio.

As for Monkey’s spring break, she’d rather watch SpongeBob instead of Bob Barker, oh wait, I mean Drew Carey, telling us to make sure that our dog is spayed or neutered (for the record, ours is spayed).  For Monkey, this one week vacation away from school will be about the Hannah Montana Movie, shopping for spring clothes, and time at the park to run off energy, despite the damp, cold, un-spring like weather.

Silverback Gorilla and I are dreading the day when our tall, skinny, bikini clad Monkey asks for money to go to a sun drenched Mexican beach for spring break.  If she bids correctly in the Showcase, maybe she’ll win a trip.  If she overbids, well, then she just might be spending her future spring breaks watching television and setting the table for dinner.
 

Yesterday the last chapter came to a close for Harry Schwartz Bookshops, a Milwaukee treasure for over 80 years.

I’ll save it for other bloggers to discuss the issues of giants like Amazon, Barnes & Nobel and Borders putting the independent booksellers like the Audubon Books and now Harry Schwartz out of business.  What I want to share is how Harry Schwartz Bookshops helped me to become a gourmet cook.

As a child I spent many weekend afternoons in front of the television, sitting on a green tweed sofa, side by side with my grandfather.  He was a great cook and weekend afternoons were the time when he learned new recipes and techniques from his favorites, the Galloping Gourmet, Graham Kerr and The French Chef, Julia Child.  After watching our favorites, we would head into the kitchen where I would watch my Grandfather prepare a delicious dish.

My Mom inherited her father’s love of cooking and is a good cook.  Me, not so much.  I was so lacking in my cooking skills that I could burn water while trying to boil it, if that’s possible!  I liked watching the cooking shows, but nothing made sense to me.  My cooking skills were so poor that while I was living on my own, my Grandparents would send me coupons for frozen dinners.  They were afraid that without the TV dinners and a microwave, I would starve.  Little did they know that I managed to burn many of those too!

When Silverback Gorilla and I got married, I did the bridal registry thing, registering for all the necessary kitchen supplies; pots, pans, gadgets, and the like, all professional quality because I thought that would turn me into a cook.  Wrong!  The better gift would have been Chancery gift certificates because we ate there almost every night.

Okay, so by now you are probably scratching your head wondering what watching cooking shows with my Grandfather and my total inability to even successfully make macaroni and cheese has to do with the closing of a Milwaukee institution.  Well the answer is simple, Harry Schwartz was known for bringing great authors to Milwaukee for book signings.

Shortly after my Grandfather’s death, Harry Schwartz in Mequon brought in Julia Child for a book signing.  Knowing that I spent time so much time watching her, Silverback Gorilla suggested that I go and have her sign a cookbook.  He thought it would be a great tribute to my Grandfather but deep down I know that my husband was hoping that seeing her would finally inspire me to cook.  Maybe I shouldn’t say, “inspire” me to cook; I had the inspiration, just not the ability.  Maybe somehow by meeting her, all of her skills and knowledge would be imparted on me.

That evening after work, we went to Harry Schwartz in Mequon where I met my Grandfather’s cooking idol.  A tall woman with a pleasant smile said “hello”, signed a copy of The Way to Cook, and shook my hand.  Whoever thought that SHE would be a spy for the government.  To quote Emeril, “BAM!”  Yes, it worked!!  She shook my hand and from that moment on my culinary skills changed.

I didn’t start simple like learning how not to burn boiling water or learning how to scramble an egg.  Instead I took out my knives and dove right in to The Way to Cook, successfully accomplishing the master techniques shown in her book.  I could do this.

After State Fair ribbons, many cooking class, one at the famed Cordon Bleu school in Paris where Julia Child studied, and many dinner parties later, my skills are well honed.  Like any cook, there is always room to learn more which is why Monkey and I watch the Food Network.  I already have a budding chef.  Her Great-Grandgorilla would be proud.

Thank you Harry Schwartz Bookshops for your many years of providing Milwaukee readers with a quaint locally owned place to go for books.   Thank you for bringing great writers to Milwaukee and thank you for helping me learn to cook.

 
Bon Appétit!
 

Rumor has it that heavy, frosty glass mugs with orange, white, and brown logos are once again going to be popping up all over the Milwaukee area.  Yes, A&W Restaurants are making a comeback.  Soon they will become fixtures on every corner, like Walgreens and Starbucks. 

Excitement would overcome my Brother and I when my Dad told us to hop in the silver Caprice Classic because we were going to A&W!  My Dad loved ice cream and custard, which meant that many summer nights were spent at Baskin Robbins, Boy Blue, Gilles, or Kopps.  But a trip to A&W, that was something special.  The thought of a root beer float in a frosty heavy glass mug; that frothy foam on top of dark brown soda with scoops of vanilla ice cream was heaven.

After pulling into the parking lot, my Dad would roll down the window of that silver Caprice Classic.  Yelling into the speaker box he would place out order, “three regular root beer floats and one large float.”  The large one, that was for me.  I guess that partially explains the weight issue I had as a kid. 

Moments later out came the carhop who attached a silver tray to the car window with two clips.  On that tray, A&W root beer floats – heavenly. 

My Brother and Mom were mixers; mixing the ice cream into the soda until the dark brown soda was a light tan color.  My Dad, he and I were slurpers; slurping up the soda through the straw, leaving the ice cream to eat with a long spoon.  However it was eaten, an A&W root beer float was a treat.
 
I look forward to being able to take Monkey to an A&W drive-in.  Sure, she’s had that frothy A&W root beer many times but it’s been out of the can that I bought at the white bag store.  We’ve even made our own floats by pouring a glass of root beer and scooping vanilla ice cream into it.  It’s just not the same.

Missing is that family time on a warm summer night, each of us holding a heavy, frosty glass mug with a orange, white, and brown logo on it.  Missing is the metal tray hanging from the car window.  Missing is my Dad telling us to hop in the car. 

Before Silverback Gorilla and I take Monkey to an A&W drive-in, I will share with her my frosty glass memories.  With many new restaurants opening in Milwaukee, it won’t be long before Silverback Gorilla tells Monkey to hop in the silver SUV because we’re going to A&W.   "Two large root beer floats and one regular float," he will order.  The regular size float is now mine.  As the carhop hands us our root beer floats, I hope that Monkey feels the excitement of my childhood.

One question remains, will Monkey be a mixer or a slurper? 
 

It’s that time of year again.  It’s a time when televisions pop up in offices throughout the country.  Computers allow us to both work and listen to the games.   The cheering drowns out the sounds of phones ringing.   Brackets are posted on lunchroom walls.   Illegal gambling takes over offices but nobody cares.

I love March Madness.

What’s the madness?  Is it the excitement of the tournament?  Your favorite team making the three point shot as the game clock runs downs to win the game.  Is it the excitement of taking out your old ratty college sweatshirt in support of your alma mater?  Or is it the madness that takes place when your brackets are busted because some Cinderella team, like Podunk A&M takes out a top seed in the first round?

The bracket selection process is crucial to winning the office pool.  Everyone has his or her own approach.  Do you study each team in depth before making your picks or do you shoot from hip and hope you’ve made some slam dunk choices?  

In years past I have always been the studious picker, studying stats, reading expert predictions and the like.  Some years this has worked and other years (like last year), well, I haven’t been so lucky.  This year I’m taking a different approach.  This year, it’s the shoot from the hip bracket selections.  I’ve just picked my choices based on who I thought could win, no logic was used in making my choices.  Okay, no logic was used other than hoping that East Tennessee State doesn’t upset Pitt.  Listen for my screams of agony if this happens! That’s it!  This year I’m testing the theory of women’s intuition in bracket picking.  Sorry guys, this isn’t an option for you.

Maybe next year I will opt for another selection method.  How about the mascot method?  Whichever school as the better mascot or team nickname moves to the next round.  My alma mater, Wisconsin, is the Badgers (GO BADGERS).  What a great nickname, Bucky Badger, a feisty and tough mammal.  Nobody wants to mess with a Badger, especially one that wears a red and white sweater. 

Silverback Gorilla went to Temple University.  Temple’s mascot, the owl.   Frankly, I don’t find the Owl very intimidating.  Who does the Owl scare?  Maybe the Podunk A&M Field Mouse?   I’d pit a Badger against an Owl any day.  While the Badger is fighting, all the Owl would be doing is saying, “give a hoot, don’t pollute”.

Well, with the first tip off hours away, I wish you luck and hope that your picks make it to the Final Four.      

Although I love Wisconsin, I picked UNC to go all the way.  I just hope the Tar Heels don’t lose to Podunk A&M.
 

It was a big white, blue, green and black vinyl case.  It had a silver clasp on the side and a black plastic handle on the top.  This carrying case held one of the treasures of my childhood.

Opening the clasp on this vinyl case unlocked a world of play, a world of fashion, elegance, and beauty.  It was a world of make believe but it taught us reality.  Inside this case was a hook on which hung beautiful clothes on pink and purple hangers.  There was a wide array of colorful shoes, scarves and handbags squished into the tiny drawers of that colorful vinyl case.  But most of all, there were dolls.  Dolls each with a blonde ponytail high atop her head.  She was known only by one name – Barbie.

Say it, I know what you are thinking; Barbie is a poor image to portray to girls.  If this is you, stop!  Just stop it now!  Barbie is a toy.   

Yes, her body proportions maybe based on her creator’s thoughts of perfect body measurements, her skin may have the perfect complexion, and her hair a beautiful golden blonde, but Barbie is more than all those things.   Barbie let us explore our childhood, use our imaginations, and dream of the future.  

I never had had the Barbie Dream House, Jeep, or cruise ship.  My friends and I would play for hours using our imaginations to create our own Barbie dream world.   We learned how to match clothes to make the perfect outfit and we looked for shoes that got lost in the lime green shag carpeting of my bedroom.  Barbie showed us that we could have a career when we grew up.  We would pretend that Barbie was a teacher, a stewardess, or nurse.   As kids we knew that Barbie was perfect but we also knew that she was only a toy.  

Like mother, like Monkey, my little Monkey has her own collection of Barbie dolls.  Barbie’s clothes have been updated throughout the years and her occupations have taught a new generation of little girls that they can become doctors, pilots, and attorneys, but one thing has stayed the same.  Barbie teaches girls to use their imaginations.  Even while Monkey and her friends play with the Dream Condo, the Corvette, and Barbie’s 747, they are using their imaginations and that’s what childhood is all about.  

At fifty years old today, Barbie has not aged even a year.  Her ability to stay looking youthful isn’t due to plastic surgery or Botox.  We keep her looking young so that we can see our children enjoy the same toys that we played with when we were their age.  As we watch them play, we can relive our memories of opening the big vinyl case and pulling out Barbie in her fancy white wedding dress with her iconic ponytail.

What will Barbie be like fifty years from now?  Will she be teaching girls that they can become astronauts who fly to Mars?  Will she driving a hovercraft?  Maybe Barbie will live in an eco-friendly treehouse?  Only time will tell but one thing is certain, fifty years from now there will still be children playing with Barbie dolls.  

Happy birthday Barbie!     

Two ninety-nine     Beep

One forty-nine       Beep

Six eighty-nine      Beep
 
Please remove unauthorized item from the bagging area.

What the heck?

Is some computer generated female voice yelling at me?  How dare she tell me that I cannot even put my purse down to find my wallet that has inevitably sunk to the bottom of my purse.  I need to put the purse down to get the wallet, to pay for the “authorized” items that are in the bagging area.

Like I said, what the heck?

Please understand that I have nothing against grocery baggers and cashiers.  They are hard working people supporting a family and paying for school; very admirable.  I do have to tell you that I am not really interested in making a career move to become a grocery store bagger or cashier.  But sadly, I think we are all headed down this career path.

My grocery store of choice is the one in Mequon with the sturdy red bags; heavy duty bags that can be re-used.  You know, the store with the great produce, beautiful meats, and specialty brands.  But more importantly, they have friendly checkout people who scan and bag my groceries.   Furthermore, they even offer to wheel out the shopping cart and put the groceries in my car.

When I do need to pick up something in a hurry, I do stay closer to home.  I go to a store, which is a part of a large grocery store chain in Milwaukee.   You know, the one that began as a place that looked more like a warehouse than a grocery store, the one that now has upscaled to call some of their stores “markets”.  I don’t care what they call themselves or how much they upscale; the fact is, they are not a “red bag” store.  Why?

It’s more than the fact that they have flimsy white bags; bags that when more than a couple of items are put in, break.   At best, these flimsy bags can be called “@#$%”, which frankly is what their limited re-use is; to pick up after my dog.   That is, if the flimsy white plastic is not punctured.

But it’s more than just the bags.  It started years ago, when I went to a “white bag” store and found that I had to bag my own groceries.  You mean to tell me that they cannot even have someone bag them for me?  Let’s see, while I’m unloading the cart, I’m also supposed to be on the other end, bagging the items.  Okay, this works if Silverback Gorilla is at one end and I’m at the other but what if I’m there by myself?  Lucky I am, if I do get some snarly person to help bag.  Otherwise, I wind up bouncing back and forth – unload and bag, unload and bag; well you get it.  Is this the best system?  Probably not.  Hire baggers!  Oh yes, and make sure they are friendly, like at the “red bag” store.

Recently, shoppers at the “white bag” store have begun to move up in the hierarchy of grocery store employees.   Not only do we now get to bag our own groceries, we now have the privilege of scanning them too.   Oh sure, the “white bag” store still has traditional cashiers but since they took out some checkout lanes to make room for self-checkout, the “real” checkout lane lines are very long.  Standing there with four or five items, I’m not about to wait for three people ahead of me with carts full of groceries to check out.  For a quick exit, I’m forced to use the self-checkout.

I scan my items under the watchful eyes of employees who man the self-checkout area.  If this is a cost savings issue for the grocery store, frankly, I’m scratching my head in wonderment.  They are paying people to stand around to make sure that there are no “unauthorized” items in the bagging area (i.e. making sure that I pay for everything) but these same people could be actually scanning my groceries in a traditional checkout lane.  In reality, we are paying the salaries of people to stand around and watch us do their jobs!  Since I am doing their job, where is my discount on groceries?

Occasionally, convenience forces me to still patronize the “white bag” store.  Just remind me to ask for the employee discount when I scan and bag my items.      

“Red bag” store, you are still my favorite.  Please don’t change your bags and please don’t install those checkout devices that yell at me for putting my purse in the bagging area.

“White bag” store - beep this!

A short and ugly haircut, nerdy glasses, and a retainer.  The retainer – that piece of pink plastic with metal wires that firmly fit around your teeth.  That is, until you learned the trick of popping it out with your tongue.  That piece of pink plastic that you wore to help your teeth stay aligned.  At least, that ‘s what I think its purpose is; after all, I am not a dentist. 

I feel like I’m twelve again.  Okay, minus the bad haircut and nerdy glasses; that leaves the retainer.  Yesterday I went to the dentist to pick up my new retainer.  Yes, at forty-uh, forty-something, I once again have a retainer. 

For a brief moment as I was driving to the dentist, I had a flashback.  I was walking up the stairs to the second floor offices at Bayshore where I saw the orthodontist.  It was there that sadistic tools were used to tighten the wires that were attached to metal pieces cemented to my teeth.  These wires and pieces of metal were used to straighten my Bugs Bunny-like teeth.  After the painful torture of braces was over, I graduated to the retainer.   

Snap out of it Pam, it was only a dream.  There would be no wires or torture tools.  I’m going to get a piece of plastic for my mouth.  

As I sat in the dentist’s chair, he explained that this retainer would help to prevent further shifting of my teeth.  Shifting that has taken place over the past so many years due to age and teeth grinding from stress.  What stress?????? 

He said that he had a blue box for me.  A blue box!  Of course my mind goes to thoughts of a Tiffany’s blue box.  I’ve never seen sterling silver retainers at Tiffany; but maybe, just maybe, my dentist convinced Tiffany to make one for me . . .  uhhhh . . . doubtful.  

So much for the thought of a sterling silver retainer in a blue box.  I was handed a royal blue plastic box.  I opened it up and surprise!  Gone was the pink plastic with metal wires that fit around my teeth.  Inside I found a piece of white plastic molded to fit my bottom teeth.  The dentist put it in my mouth to see how it fit. 

Flashback again.  That torture feeling came back.  It was too tight.  It hurt.  There was pressure on my teeth that I haven’t felt since I was twelve.  Snap out of it Pam.  It’s supposed to be that tight fitting.  I guess there is no purpose in a loose retainer. 

I was told to practice taking it out.  Instinctively I stuck my tongue underneath the retainer to pop it out.  Some habits never die.  It didn’t come out.  The tongue IS the retainer popper-outer.  I know its been years, but this is like riding a bike.  You just remember how to do it; tongue underneath, pop it up and out it comes.   How could this be?

Apparently dentists caught onto to the tricks of twelve year-olds.  These molded retainers don’t pop out the old-fashioned way. 

Wait, did I just say “old-fashioned”?  Yikes, I’m old!  I’m an old person with the mouth of a twelve year-old.