by Lehua Parker | Jul 10, 2013 | Mainland Living
W
ay back in caveman days when I was a kid, I used to dream about a magical place where you didn’t have to wait a week for the next episode of your favorite tv show. In this fantastical place not only could you see an entire season back to back, but if you missed an episode because the Boss of the TV decided he’d rather watch Let’s Go Fishing or some football game, it was no big deal. You didn’t have to try to catch it on the summer repeats; it was there, waiting for you whenever you were ready.
Of course, some shows never got a summer repeat. I’m still traumatized by missing the series finale of MASH. It took me twenty years to catch it on a rerun. Can you imagine? We’ve come a long way, baby.
Back in college when VCRs became cheap enough for people to own, I thought I’d won the lottery. I had three ratty VHS tapes I rotated through, recording shows over and over until the images were grainy and spotty. It was awesome. I could record shows and fast-forward through the commercials, perfect for my ADD/OCD viewing style.
When DVRs came along, I thought people were finally getting it. No more crappy tapes. I could watch one show live and record another or even record two shows and watch a third from the day before without sparing a single moment on ads for things with wings or class action lawsuits.
Heaven!
But with more channels and content available than ever before, I often had to make hard choices over what got recorded and what didn’t because of scheduling conflicts and limited disc space. I became the Queen of Programming, a.k.a. the DVR Disc Space Nazi to the rest of the family.
You’ve seen it? Delete it!
What do you mean, you were gonna watch it? If you didn’t find time in the last two weeks what makes you think tomorrow’s gonna be any different?
Nobody needs 20 episodes of The Brady Bunch, not even Alice. You get two, tops!
We all have our crosses to bear.
A couple of months ago we upgraded our DVR system with mega storage capacity and the ability to record five programs at once–and that’s just the family room. I doubt I’ll ever have to choose what doesn’t record again. You wanna store 30 episodes of Shake it Up? Fine. Just don’t expect me watch it with you, especially now when you can watch your show in the family room and I can watch mine everywhere else. Recorded shows now play on my iPad, my laptop, smart phone, and any other computer or tv in the house. Tell me again why I need to get out of bed?
But, wait! There’s more!
With so many shows available to download on demand, I’m going back and watching series that didn’t make the record list the first time around. Not shows. Entire series like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Sopranos, House of Cards, Mad Men, Merlin… It’s a long, long list.
Magical? You bet. But to a story junkie, it’s like an endless supply of Columbia’s finest. It makes downloading books at 2 am via Amazon look like near beer.
Like a Weight Watchers escapee at an all you can eat Vegas buffet, I better pace myself. Maybe waiting a week for the next episode wasn’t so bad after all.
by Lehua Parker | Jun 26, 2013 | Mainland Living
For Father’s Day my husband bought himself a meat smoker. In the four days since he set it up, he’s cooked a nine pound brisket, eight ears of corn, three pounds of teriyaki beef jerky, and is now smoking a seven pound pork roast, his attempt at replicating kalua pig without the imu.
Did I mention we’re a family of four?
My spices have been confiscated and combined in secret rubs sealed in tightly lidded jars labeled #1 Kansas, #1 Memphis, and #1 Kalua. Spray bottles with suspicious liquids line the refrigerator door. On the dvr new shows are crowding the playlist like BBQ Pit Masters, Epic BBQ Pits, and Steak & Ribs. Pallets of pellets–yes, pallets–of mesquite, applewood, and cherrywood pellets are on order. There’s talk of expanding the deck, adding an outside fridge, a firepit, a sink, and dutch oven cooking table.
I am starting to be afraid. Very afraid.
But nobody, no matter how dedicated to carnivorous delights, can consume that much meat. What he’s really addicted to is family and friends. We’ve hosted more get-togethers and are planning more since the meat smoker arrived than ever before. We’ve enjoyed the easy company and I gotta admit, I’m enjoying letting someone else do most of the cooking. He even cleans up after himself.
I’m starting to think his Father’s Day present was really a Mother’s Day present in disguise.
by Lehua Parker | Jun 5, 2013 | Mainland Living
About once or twice a week I have to go through the fridge and pantry and weed out the limp celery, wizened apples, and suspiciously fuzzy baked goods. With two ravenous teens in the house it’s hard to strike the right balance between having enough fresh things on hand and schedules that often leave us eating out.
However, with six horses, fifteen chickens, two dogs, and three cats also at home few things go to waste. Peels, stale bagels, and nobody’s-gonna-eat-that leftovers get tossed in a bag or a bucket perched on the edge of the kitchen counter. It’s understood that the next time a kid heads out to gather eggs or toss hay to the horses, the bucket goes along, too. They’re supposed to share the wealth.
But sometimes I can’t wait to get things off the counter. It’s no surprise that like Pavlov’s dogs, all I have to do is step out on the back deck and all the chickens, dogs, and cats come running. They know I’m lazy and will huck things over the railing into a planting area instead of walking out to the corrals. The horses come to the fence line and whinny, but they know it’s unlikely I’ll walk out unless I have shoes on.
I rarely have shoes on. But they never give up hope.
Over the years we’ve learned a few things. If I thought I could get away with it I’d have one of my kids keep track and turn it in as a science fair project. Too bad none of their science teachers have caught the vision or seen the value. For the record:
One horse loves red grapes and will do anything to get them. The others don’t care.
All horses love watermelon and corn tortillas, but not even chickens will eat bell peppers, celery, or fresh pineapple.
If you hold out a stale loaf of French bread like a sword, horses will take bites.
Only dogs like peanut butter-flavored anything.
Cats want their own piece of whatever it is, even if they won’t eat it. Just having their own makes them happy.
Dogs will do tricks all day if you give them a little something. It doesn’t matter if it’s dry dog food from their bowl—if it’s coming from a person it’s a treat.
Chickens get excited over cherry tomatoes until they take a peck. They probably confuse them with strawberries. I’d be sad, too.
Horses really like granola bars unless they’re coated in chocolate. In fact, none of the animals really like chocolate, which proves they’re not as evolved as we thought.
What are some of the memorable things you’ve fed your pets?
by Lehua Parker | May 29, 2013 | Mainland Living
The Hair Wars are back.
My kitchen and dining room look like a scene from Steel Magnolias. There are four different brands of hot rollers, two curling irons, clamps, pins, and enough abandoned bottles of crap-that’s-not-the-right-shade-either foundation to cover the Golden Gate Bridge. Costco-sized cans of hair spray, curling mousse, and rat-tailed combs litter the counters. My daughter sits on a stool, terrified of the hot wax and tweezers.
It’s rodeo princess pageant season again and neither of us are happy.
In full rodeo regalia, my thirteen year old daughter is stunning. Tall and built for the runways of Paris or Milan, she moves like the athlete she is. Last summer she competed for the first time and served as the first attendant princess in the Mountain Valley Stampede. She and her horses traveled all over Utah performing in parades and rodeos. My shy daughter discovered she loved being a rodeo princess. Her favorite part was helping out at the Special Needs Rodeo where she ran with a stick horse and draped rodeo queen sashes over all of the girls.
A year older and wiser, she’s ready to do it again.
In rodeo grand entries she’s a speed demon on her performance horse Brownie and competes in barrels and poles. On Trigger, her bomb-proof-whatever-happens-I’m-cool horse, she’s all smiles and glitter in parades.
It’s not the horses or hard work or public speaking that gets to her.
It’s the hair.
In the world of rodeo pageantry, it’s got to be big, Dolly Parton big and curly. My daughter’s hair is a shiny mass of blonde—fine, thick, and straight as a stick. It’s all one length, down to the middle of her back. Don’t even think about cutting it.
In her everyday middle school, piano recital, soccer playing world, she wears it in a no-nonsense ponytail with accent braids. If she’s dressing up, it merits a messy, organic flower looking bun. Make-up to her is a little moisturizer or sunscreen. A touch of clear lip balm and bright nail polish is the most she will do.
But in spring her love of horses and performing do battle with her hatred of all things foofy, and she tries to suck it up as we shape eyebrows, apply foundation and mascara, and perform nightly experiments with hot rollers and a pharmacopeia of products—all in search for the elusive combination that gives her long-lasting southern belle curls.
For the record, curling mousse, pink foam rollers slept on overnight, and half a can of light-weight hairspray are the only things that really work. Last year she complained, but now she says she’s mastered the art of sleeping on her face.
A throw-it-in-a-ponytail blonde myself, I’m not like my beauty queen sisters who know all the secrets. As much as she hates curling her hair, I hate curling it. It’s a volatile combination.
Her father and I keep telling her she can compete without all the fuss, but we both know to win that’s not true. Hair and make-up requirements are explicit in the contracts.
And that’s too bad.
Watching her practice, there’s something special in the grace of a young woman bare-faced and natural. It’s easier to admire the teamwork between rider and horse without the complications of rhinestones and belt buckles.
I try to remember these days, storing them against a future when make-up matters, when getting ready takes longer than eating breakfast, when it becomes less about riding and more about looking. According to my mother, those days will come.
But there’s hope, she says. Like you, that could be a just a phase.
by Lehua Parker | May 15, 2013 | Mainland Living
I’m buying a new rug for the downstairs bath. I dashed in there this morning, nose running, scrambling for a wad of toilet paper for what I insist are allergies, but fear is really a cold. Maybe strep. I don’t have time for a doctor. It’s spring hay fever, I’m sure.
Too bad I can’t swallow. That’s normal, right?
Anyway, I should’ve turned the light on, but I was in a hurry, stepping hard and fast across the tile, reaching along the vanity, down near the commode, when it squished.
I flicked on the light real fast.
There it was in the middle of the cutest blue rag rug you ever saw: a dead robin.
Well, part of one.
Did I mention I was barefoot?
I’m getting a new rug.
I wish the cats loved me less.
by Lehua Parker | May 1, 2013 | Mainland Living
With busy people it’s all about the when. When you’ll finally read that book gathering dust on the nightstand, when you’ll finally make time to have that conversation, exercise, clean the closet.
I think we all feel the pressure of time’s cold, clammy hand pressed against our necks.
Until we don’t.
We don’t talk about having too much time on our hands. It sounds ungrateful, wasteful, just think of all the starving kids in Africa bad.
The truth is time is like chocolate—too much and you fall into a diabetic coma. Too little and you’d give an arm and a leg for the rest a coma would bring.
Surrounded on all sides by wind, cold weather, and the geriatric crowd, time becomes glue, trapping my mind and spirit as I nurse a $2.50 can of warm Diet Coke and try to ignore the carafe of goldfish crackers the waiter placed next to me.
Baseball hat and sunscreen on, I sit in the cruise ship’s piano bar waiting for the sun to return, wondering if I can talk anyone into a card game. I surreptitiously fiddle with my watch, counting the hours until the next meal and hoping my too comfy tee-shirt and capris will pass in the smart-casual roulette wheel of the cruise ship’s dinner dress code.
Probably not, but attitude is everything, particularly with maître d’s.
I wish I could take these hours and save them for days when I need more than 24, spreading the time wealth glut, storing them like the fine dark chocolate bar I have hidden in the back of the pantry. On rough days I break a tiny piece off and savor it. Think of it: the ability to sneak a fifteen minute reading break in between laundry, cooking dinner, or running an errand or even an hour’s nap in the sun after a too-late night spent holding a hand in the dark.
But time waits for no one and all I can do is try to store the memory of idleness, of sitting at a table with nothing to do but sip and scribble and wait for the sun.
ay back in caveman days when I was a kid, I used to dream about a magical place where you didn’t have to wait a week for the next episode of your favorite tv show. In this fantastical place not only could you see an entire season back to back, but if you missed an episode because the Boss of the TV decided he’d rather watch Let’s Go Fishing or some football game, it was no big deal. You didn’t have to try to catch it on the summer repeats; it was there, waiting for you whenever you were ready.
