From Chamber Pot to Party Spot: The Evolution of the Bathroom

    
            I’ve finally convinced my accountant husband (Did you catch that—accountant?) that our twenty-seven-year-old master bath needs a make-over. I’ve been collecting ideas for this event for the past ten years, so I have a pretty good idea of what I want. But just to be sure I wasn’t overlooking any new innovations, I researched some bathroom ideas online. My mind is reeling. 

            I’m still adjusting to the idea that every home needs a theater room, and now I learn I need a bathroom with a couch, a 72” flatscreen, and a shower with piped-in music and room for twenty people.  I try to be modern and open-minded, but really. At what point did the bathroom replace the family or living room as the entertainment center for the home? When I’m bathing, the last thing I want is someone sitting on a couch, chatting with me while I scrub my...face. Or a crowd joining me in the shower as we sway to the salsa music and sip our margaritas. And am I to stay in the tub until I’m shivering and shriveled in order to watch an entire football game? Okay, half the game. I guess I can always towel off during half-time.  And where is the toilet? I can’t imagine anyone desiring nearby company while using that particular fixture.

            Call me squeamish, prudish, even uptight. I mean it. Call me those things. I don’t go into the sauna at the gym if I see a “nekked” woman in there. I just clutch my bath sheet a little tighter and wait until she vacates. This overdone modesty is most likely unhealthy and probably stems from my conservative upbringing. Or maybe from a poor body image inflicted on me during adolescence. But whatever the source of my damaged psyche, it’s there and I deal with it in my own way. Quite frankly, at this point in my life, it’s a lot easier and cheaper to avoid nekked sauna people—or entertaining in the bathroom—than it is to seek therapy. 

            So back to the re-do. I have four requirements for the new bath: 1) no wallpaper 2) updated fixtures 3) plenty of storage 4) easy maintenance. Of course, I want it to be pretty and functional, but one of the functions doesn’t need to be housing a party. Call me a party pooper—no pun intended—but I’m keeping the toilet and tub in the bathroom and the margarita machine in the kitchen. 

Come right in! The party's in the bathroom.

 

Circle of Friends Book Club: Feeding Mind and Body

             Circle of Friends, the book club of which I’m a member, has met for almost fifteen years.  It is composed of bright, educated women who share a passion for reading and discussion. We also share another passion: food. Cooking it and/or eating it! Each month, along with our book discussion, we enjoy a wonderful potluck meal in a member’s home.

            Our book selection for July was In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson. To avoid a lengthy post, I’ve provided a helpful link to a synopsis. Although the book is a #1 New York Times Bestseller, it received mixed reviews from our members. Providing a look at the Nazi’s rise to power in the 1930s, the book is a well-researched and documented account of a perilous and confusing time in world history. For those who are drawn to this period and seek answers to how such atrocities could have occurred, the book provides some revealing insights. And Larson is to be admired for his unbiased, almost journalistic approach to the subject. Obviously, this is not light reading. It is not even inspiring reading, as it serves up few heroes during this tumultuous time. So while some members found the book intriguing, I think others were in the mood for something more entertaining or uplifting. However, the book did generate interesting and thought-provoking discussion, and I think one way to keep the tragedies of history from being repeated is to keep the conversation going.

            While reactions to the book were mixed, our salad-and-dessert luncheon received five-star reviews. One dessert that garnered many recipe requests was Shelley’s Pink Lemonade Gooey Butter Cookies. With a name like that, how can they be anything but melt-in-your-mouth delicious? Shelley tells me there is a Pink Lemonade Sugar Cookie mix, but it is not nearly as good as this recipe made with cake mix. And she says these cookies freeze well. Once again, for the sake of space, I’ve provided a link. Thank you, Shelley, for introducing us to these scrumptious cookies! And btw, I can tell you this recipe is basically “idiot”-proof. I tried it and the cookies came out tasty, if not quite as pretty as Shelley’s. J

           



A Good Read

Can I Help You? I'll Try My Best!

         In my post Screamin’ and Kickin, I admit I tackled blogging reluctantly and without a clear focus. But through much soul-searching, I eventually settled on my purpose: to become the Erma Bombeck of the blogosphere. Rather ambitious, I know, but wasn’t it Robert Browning who said “...a [woman’s] reach should exceed [her] grasp”? Or as my Arkansas friend Denver puts it, “You should shoot for the moon if you want to clear the fence.” So while it might be a bit beyond my grasp to scale to the literary heights of Erma, that became my lofty goal: to offer funny, entertaining, and occasionally poignant insights into life.

            Then I hit a snag. I read (in a blog, of course) the purpose of blogging was to offer helpful advice and to provide links to more helpful advice. Oops. Other than the recipe for 3-2-1 Cake, I’ve dropped the ball in the helpful advice category. And for two good reasons. 

            First, I lack expertise in any one area. (I can just hear the voices of my family, friends, and adversaries rising in unison: “But that’s never stopped her before from giving advice!”) There’s a difference, however, between expert advice and one’s opinion. And well...yes...I’ve never been shy about vocalizing my opinion. But somehow it’s different when words are put in writing for perpetuity...or until my blog ceases to exist. Second, there are already millions of blogs out there, written by experts and offering information on everything from acne to zucchini. So while the world could certainly benefit from another beauty or gardening idea, it doesn’t need to come from me. I’m taking my cue from the blogs I enjoy most—the ones that entertain and inspire me. The ones that make me laugh and make me think. 

            But just to show that I’m not totally opposed to the helpful blog concept, I’m willing to compromise. Did you notice the links I provided in this post? And in the same spirit of helping, I’ve received permission from my amazing book club friends to share their insights and comments on the books we read. Perhaps this will help you in your reading selections. My book club friends are also talented cooks, so from each monthly meeting I’ll share a recipe that received rave reviews from our members.  

             There is one subject on which I consider myself not exactly expert but at least above average. If you ask me a question about grammar, I’ll do my best to answer it. And if I don’t know the answer, I’ll provide you with a link. :-)

The Right Gear: A Lesson from My Bike

I recently bought a new bicycle and made an amazing discovery: The right gears make a world of difference! My old bike had gears, but only two of them worked. One gear got me off and the next gear kept me going. But it required a lot of huffing and puffing, and I was developing some serious quad muscles. My new bike, with its twenty-four gears, has not only made biking a pleasure, but it has also freed up some of that huffing-puffing time for thinking. One of those thoughts: Life—just like bike riding—requires us to shift gears from time to time to get the most from it. 

Low Gears 

The low gears are designed for starting out and climbing. They get us smoothly into our ride and give us extra oomph for inclines. In life, there are the times we need to operate in the low gears. As the day begins, prayer, meditation, and/or scripture reading can give us the boost and encouragement needed to get through the day. Same with climbing.  Challenges in life require extra help. They call for us to shift into the very lowest gear and rely on help from a higher source. Life’s low gears don’t relieve us from all the hard pedaling. But as we plug along—breathing heavily, sweating, grunting, maybe even complaining—we know we’re not doing all the work alone. And we know we won’t be climbing forever.  

Middle Gears 

Unless we’re in training for a bike-a-thon or a hotter-than-hell trek across Iowa, we’ll do the bulk of our riding using the middle gears. These gears are best suited for level sections of the road. Here, the bike and rider share the work, but it is fairly easy, and the ride is smooth. We have time to look around, take in the sights, enjoy the cool air on our faces. Hopefully, we can spend most of our lives in middle gear where we enjoy our work and problems are minimal and manageable. These are good times for reflection and for giving thanks for the gifts of contentment and everyday pleasures. 

High Gears 

Traveling in high gear is exciting. Zipping along at top speed, we’re exhilarated. We might be flirting with danger, but that’s part of the thrill. We’re going somewhere, and we’re going there fast. We experience those same moments in life. They’re fun. They give us a chance to test ourselves, stretch our comfort zones, see what we can do. But as fun as those times are, they never last. And would we  want them to? Could we keep up that pace forever? Would we enjoy it as much if we did? Often when we’re in those situations of complete bliss, we suddenly find ourselves sailing along a little faster than intended. We suspect we might be losing control and we panic. Those are the times to gently apply the brakes, to slow down and take inventory of what needs to be done. To ask ourselves what adjustments need to be made?

Sometimes merely slowing down isn’t enough. Sometimes we need to press hard on the brakes. Come to a complete stop in order to avoid disaster. One of my favorite Bible verses is Psalm 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God!” Be still. Hmmm. Maybe sometimes the best gear in life is none at all.    

My shiny, new wheels. Now, if someone would invent

a helmet that didn't make me look like an insect on an

Orkin commercial, my riding pleasure would be complete!

Master Brooks's Bookses: Story Time With Daddy

 In observance of Father’s Day, I chose not to review a book but rather to share my thoughts on story time with my daddy. Sometimes when Mommy is gone or is busy—or sometimes just because he wants to--Daddy reads to me, and that always makes story time extra special. Which books we read is not important because story time with Daddy is not really about learning my ABC’s or numbers or colors. Neither is it about trucks, or puppies, or roly-poly pangolins, fascinating as those subjects may be. Story time with Daddy is about sharing an experience, about spending quality time together. It’s about the two of us cuddling in the big chair and winding down from a busy day of work or play. And it’s about being assured just before I’m tucked into bed for the night that my daddy loves me and will always take good care of me. Happy Father’s Day to my daddy and to all daddies who share the gifts of time and books with their children.

I give story time with Daddy a whole big bag of goldfish!

That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Laugh

            The recent experiences of two friends caused me to reflect on the truth of the above statement. One of those incidents involved falling headfirst into a trash cart. The other centered on a deathly combination of high heat and humidity, a blood donation, and an extremely constricting undergarment. (Hint: Rhymes with thanx.) 

            Hearing my friends’ stories brought to mind one of my own humorous, near-death experiences (yes, there have been others) which occurred on a vacation when I was fourteen. The three-day drive from Texas to central Oregon with six people in a Rambler station wagon was in and of itself a test of survival. But survive it we did and, after a couple of days rest, were pronounced fit enough to trek on over to the Oregon coast and visit the sand dunes.  

            When we arrived at the coast and I saw the beautiful, windswept dunes reaching gracefully for the sky, I was impressed. And when I saw people scurrying all over them like ants on an anthill, I decided dune running must be great fun. Five hundred people couldn’t be wrong.  

            I followed my two younger cousins—native Oregonians and veteran dune runners—up a steep ascent and took in the view from the summit. Funny how that anthill now seemed more like a mountain. A very tall mountain. I mumbled something about needing to catch my breath and encouraged my cousins to go ahead. I watched them make their way to the bottom with no problems. It didn’t appear to be particularly threatening. Surely, if they could do it, I could. I started my descent on a run. 

            What I hadn’t observed—and what no one had bothered to tell me—was that you don’t run straight down a seventy-degree incline. You zigzag. Twenty feet into my run, my arms were circling like windmill blades in a gale, and my legs were pumping at full capacity in an effort to catch up with my head. Thirty feet into my run, my life flashed before me and I hit the sand face first, coming to a stop only after completing three head-over-heel revolutions. 

            Lying flat on my back in the sand, all I wanted was to recover my breath and take an inventory of my body parts. See if they were all intact. But I didn’t do that. And I’ll bet you know what exactly what I did do. I sat up and looked around to see if anyone was watching.  

            OF COURSE, THEY WERE WATCHING! They probably hadn’t been that entertained since seeing The Flying Wallendas on the Ed Sullivan Show. Five hundred people, eyes wide, mouths agape, stared while I smiled and acted as if I did this sort of thing every day. Then I stood up and with great dignity wobbled to the bottom of the dune.  

            Once family members realized I wasn’t dead, they started laughing. They laughed on the drive back home from the coast; they laughed all the way to Texas. Weeks later, as I continued to remove sand from body orifices, they continued to laugh. In fact, just a few weeks ago, my sister said, “Remember the time you fell down the sand dune in Oregon?” and started chuckling. 

            Almost fifty years after that incident, she’s still laughing. And to prove my point, I’m alive and laughing as I write this post.    

 

           

Luxury at Its Finest

This past weekend, the Inklings gathered for what is one of the highlights of my year—our annual writing/eating/critiquing/eating/sharing/eating retreat. Our luxurious accommodations were provided by Martha Bryant and Lisa Marotta. Luxurious is not used here in the usual sense of the word, as there were no king-sized beds with pillow-top mattresses, no mini-bar stocked with tiny bottles of libations, no WiFi, no room service or trendy restaurant in the lobby. Neither was there a spa featuring herbal mud baths or Swedish massages. But who needs that kind of luxury? Phfft! You can find those amenities at any ol’ five-star resort.

Our luxury was of another—much better—sort. Martha’s “Trabin” and Lisa’s “Relaxi Taxi” are comfortably furnished mobile homes perched on a bluff high above Lake Tenkiller. While the beds aren’t draped in 800-thread-count sheets, there are plenty of them, and they’re quite comfy. And when you fall asleep with the sound of rain pattering on a metal roof, it’s like being lulled to sleep by a lullaby. There are no towel warmers in the bathrooms, but there are “en suite” bathroom facilities, and as a veteran of lake retreats in years past, I can attest that detail is indeed a luxury. We had two fridges stocked with wine, beer, colas, bottled water—anything we needed to slake our thirsts as we “toiled and sweat” over our writing assignments. If for some reason, we wanted contact with the outside world, we had our iPhones. We had Roy Bryant’s incomparable corned beef brisket and homemade salsa, and if we were still hungry after polishing that off, we could go a mile up the road for fried catfish and blackberry cobbler at The Dairy Princess. There was no exercise room to counteract all those calories, but we did have our very own personal trainer (in the person of Lisa) to lead us on invigorating hikes. To all of this indulgence, add breathtaking, one-of-a-kind views of Lake Tenkiller. We could sit on the decks during the day and watch the hummingbirds flutter around the feeders or observe the geese families paddling in the shallows of the lake. In the evening, we watched the sun set and the moon come up and shimmer across the water.

But as luxurious as all this was, the accommodations weren't the best part of the weekend. For me, the best part was spending time with five (should've been six, but sadly Shel couldn't join us) beautiful, smart, talented, and gracious women. Oh, and I have to add funny. They are definitely funny. They are women with whom I can trade ideas, share concerns, describe dreams, laugh at mistakes. Women who teach me everything from how to navigate Pinterest (thank you, Brandi) to how to clarify and pursue goals. Women who offer encouragement in limitless supply. When I’m around them, nothing seems impossible.

My wish for all women is to have a group of friends such as this. Because to be in such company is to wallow in the lap of luxury.

L to R: Inklings Sonia Gensler, Lisa Marotta, Martha Bryant

Kelly Bristow, Brandi Barnett