Worn out green.

Did you ever just want to throw something away because you were too lazy to deal with it?  Didn’t want to sew that button on for the hundredth time, fix the hem, glue a gaping hole shut, nail a board back in place.  Do you get worn out from being “green”?

I’m feeling the pain of green tonight, in the form of the meatloaf pan.  I looked from the sink to the trash can and back again.  If it were not for the fact that the pan was older than me, I would trash it.  How can a pan be older than me?  I remember my mother making Christmas goodies in this pan when I was a very small child.   I drove her crazy as she tried to count out the cups of ingredients. She would count 1 and I would say 2.  No wonder she is so talented at math.

 Another thought came into mind.   My dear father would probably come back from the dead and punish me, something he rarely did, if I threw the burned pan in the trash.  But darn it Daddy!  The pan will have to soak in the sink for days. Take up needed space and get moved from side to side and just be a general pain. I could just run it through the dishwasher multiple times.  A trick I learned isn’t really a trick.  The drying cycle actually bakes the blackness on more.  You eventually have to get out the brillo and scrub till your hands ache.  Daddy would nod his head with an “I told you so grin”.

There are so many things we all are trying to recycle these days: clothing, grocery bags, plastic bottles. I fully appreciate all these efforts but at the same time, I’m trying to lighten my load, live with less.  I took out a pair of clogs from 1979 the other day, the first pair of shoes I bought as a college freshman. I refuse to part with them but don’t think I will ever wear them. Is this green?  Is this recycling? Is this just crazy? 

The pan has seen years of abuse, burned food more often than not.  I will be green, let it sit for the week in the sink until the layers of blackness have soaked off so I can muscle off the remaining carbon, The pan will live to see another burn meatloaf.  And the clogs..  Maybe on the first truly cold day I will wear them.  I will recycle my youth.

To quote Kermit the Frog  “It’s not Easy being Green” 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5rceMe-kt4&feature=related

Fashionista Soccer

The First  Soccer Game.

 

 At times I thought it wouldn’t happen. First the practice was on the wrong night; she didn’t like that. It didn’t meet her schedule requirements.  Then she found out the uniform requirements:  soccer cleats, a team shirt, ( a color not of her choosing), and shin guards. “What are shin guards Mom?’  I explained apprehensively picturing a battle when asked to wear said uniform.

The first practices were accomplished with much enthusiasm, I  started to relax.  Her older sibling had already begun to question her about the first game. Did she know what position, color of her jersey and other little details?  And then they ask the dinger… “What are you going to do with your  hair?”  My heart sunk, No- not the hair?  Don’t talk about the hair. Shoulder length, thick, a mass of tangles after an hour of brushing, lectures from my 78 year old mother how I don’t take proper care of it.  Not the hair!  I gave the siblings the look that warned them to quiet down or lose their inheritance. She looked  inquisitively at all of us.  I looked away,  practicing ambivalence.

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Saturday morning arrived, along with, it a head full of extra hair.  I sighed and tried to pay no attention. Let her do her own thing, including her choice of athletic shorts, pink with her Atomic yellow jersey; the yellow that can be seen from the Space station on a cloudy day.  Upon arrival at the field she happily marched to the field and joined her team.  She was playing defensive guard.  Now here I readily admit I am a football fan.  I’m the graduate of an ACC team and fan of the Football team and a parent of a High School Football player.  I know the game of foot ball, soccer not so much. 

I do know enough that when the ball comes toward you, fixing your hair, adjusting your jersey, and checking the alignment of the stripes on your shorts is not in the soccer manual.  From my chair on the sidelines, I yelled, “Puddie!   The BALL, here comes the ball!”  My extra hot Mocha did a little bobble as I laughed, shifting in my chair.  My daughter looked to me, back to the field, and with a look of surprise, took off after the ball. 

Successfully kicking and blocking the ball from entering the zone, she looked back to me for approval.  Seeing my smile, she struck her fashion pose and proceeded to dance as if she had the radio tuned to Taylor Swift.  “Puddie… the game!”  The dancing stopped, but not without flashing me that smile that told me she was proud of herself.  The “see what I can do?” smile.

We will make it through the rest of the season with her fashion sense, creative hair styles and immeasurable patience from me.  She will learn many lessons about soccer and me?  Touchdown Puddie!