News Trend Leaving Neverland|Actual

"Feet of clay: an unexpected flaw or vulnerable point in the character of a hero or any admired person."

-From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson

I know, I know.

I'm months late to the Leaving Neverland game. But watching this four-hour HBO documentary tonight has left me full of thoughts and emotions that need processing.

So here I go.

I grew up with Michael Jackson. He was just a few months older than me, so our childhoods intertwined through the Jackson Five's smoking hot Motown career in the early seventies. His solo career took off during my college days, and Off The Wall played as the soundtrack to much of my senior year. Though I was never anything close to a super fan, I always considered Michael's music to be a vital part of who I am.

But as the eighties stretched into the nineties, and Michael moved from Thriller to Bad to Dangerous, something about him began to feel more and more wrong.

His skin changed color.

His face bore evidence of many plastic surgeries.

He spoke in an eerie falsetto.

He lived in a place called Neverland and played with chimps.

He claimed to have fathered white kids and dangled one of them over a hotel balcony.

During these years, I looked at Michael Jackson and saw the wheels coming off a human being. Despite his outrageous success as a pop star, I saw him as a profoundly broken man. And even though he did a lot of good for the world, I looked at Michael Jackson and saw evil, though I never knew exactly why.

When we were both fifty years old,  Michael Jackson died. I felt nothing but relief that his crazy ricocheting ping-pong ball of a life had finally come to rest. God grant him peace.

* * * * *

Wade Robson and James Safechuck were children pulled into the madness of Michael Jackson's life. In Leaving Neverland, they each tell the story of how they were befriended, intentionally groomed, and sexually abused by Michael Jackson.

Their stories punched me in the gut.

I find both Wade and James to be intelligent, articulate, deeply thoughtful men.

I feel the sharp edges of their brokenness, and the weight of evil that bound them for so many years.

I have deep and profound compassion for Wade and James. Their lives were derailed and their identities crushed by the years of abuse they suffered.

I admire them for all they have done, and for all they continue to do, to break free of their pain and to reclaim their lives.

* * * * *

As much as I hate the things he did to Wade and James and Lord only knows how many other young boys, I have compassion for Michael Jackson. It's likely that someone did those same things to him when he was a boy, and he never found a way to heal. Despite all his success, Michael's life was tragic.

* * * * *

Now I've read the angry reviews and the hateful comments; I've even heard from people I know who believe that these two men, these so-called victims, are just scam artists who've come round with their trumped-up false accusations, trying to suck a few millions out of Jackson's estate or, even worse, damage his reputation as the king of pop.

And to them, I also offer compassion. Because when we put our heroes up on pedestals and refuse to look honestly at the people they truly are, we deny them their humanity.

To truly care about Michael Jackson as a human being, we must be willing to look at his life honestly, and accept his feet of clay.

News Trend Smart Dog|Actual

Yesterday, when Gracie and I were out walking, a woman, whose name I soon learned was Janice, stopped us and said, "Wow, that's the longest leash I've ever seen!"

Yep. We get that all the time.

So I explained that it's actually a fifty-foot piece of rope that allows Gracie to run back and forth, snuffling through the brush and exercising her hunting instincts, while I walk along at my own preferred smooth and steady pace.

Janice mulled over that answer and then asked the classic follow-up question:

"But she could wander out into the street. How does she know to stay on the sidewalk?"

To which I could only reply, "Because she understands what sidewalks are for."

And that seemed to take care of Janice's questions.

News Trend Sex On The Patio|Actual

The best ideas are when you take two older ideas that have nothing to do with each other, make them have sex with each other, and then build a business around the bastard, ugly child that results.

-James Altucher, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Mediocre Entrepenuers

This is not a good home for a plant. Too drafty.

Once there was a cracked planter on my patio step.

Oh, it hasn't always been cracked. Last summer, I found it at a thrift store, a nice wooden bucket sort of a thing with straight sides and interesting wooden knob things that probably served to attach a handle at some point in its previous life.

I brought it home, planted it up with some outdoor succulents and watched the whole arrangement bloom and flourish in the glorious August and September sunshine.

But at some point during the winter, the wood gave way to water. The fused strips of wood split in one place, and then two places. As spring came and I took over watering duties from Mother Nature, I noticed that any water I poured in to the old wooden bucket immediately streamed out the splintered side. While the plants inside were still riding the tide of good health from the winter rains, I knew their lush green luck would not last into the hot days of summer.

The old bucket had had it, and I needed to move my plants to a safer home. But what with my shopping ban, rather than running out to buy a new pot, I encouraged my brain to puzzle over the persoalan and see if I could find a solution at hand.

This home is much cozier, with ample soil for deep roots and plenty of sunshine. Soon this angel will be blooming again.

Once, on the far side of that very same patio, there was an empty planter.

Oh, it hadn't always been empty. Since the tall, ochre yellow pot occupies a place of honor in the view from my kitchen window,  I make a point to fill it up every spring with bright and showy annuals. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the annuals coast through the lean months of winter, and then perk back up again for a second summer performance.

The most recent occupants of this planter had already served me well for three summers, and sure enough, this March, I recognized that their long run was over. So I yanked out the exhausted roots and with them came a lot of potting soil, which left me with a planter not only devoid of flowers but also missing about eight inches of soil.

So I regretfully added "new annuals for yellow patio pot" to my long nursery shopping list, and reminded myself that, shopping ban or not, this purchase would be allowable and money well spent.

* * * * *

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that I was outside on my patio, running the hose, planting new tomato starts, and generally having a wonderful time that the lightning bolt hit. And it happened like this.

I was watering - or attempting to water, I should say - the plants in the cracked planter, watching the water pour uselessly down through the space between the inside of the planter and the dried soil, and spill out onto the step.

And then, without skipping a beat, I turned around 180 degrees to do something else, and saw the empty yellow planter standing straight in front of me.

Zip. Zap. ZING!

Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the broken planter, carried it to the yellow pot, turned it upside down to release the plants.

They popped out perfectly, all the soil in one intact disc. I dropped the whole bundle into the empty space at the top of the yellow pot, where the plants now sat at a perfect level to the top of the pot. Grabbing the bag of potting soil sitting nearby - remember my tomato planting project? - I quickly tucked soil round the diameter of the new occupants, settling them into their new home.

My only question:  why, why, why was I so blind to the obvious connection between these two conundrums?

Because I literally could not see both parts of the masalah at the same time.

From my kitchen window, I can see the tall yellow pot but not the wooden planter.

And from my patio steps, I look directly down upon the wooden planter but rarely lift my gaze to see the yellow pot across the way.

My brainstorm struck when I looked first at one duduk perkara situation and then directly at the other; that one-two punch of visual connection jump-started my brain and showed me a solution that I could not otherwise see.

These are not the plants that I moved to the new planter, but they look very similar.

Imagine these blossoms in hot pink.

Soon, my happily relocated plants will bloom again, and this episode of sex on the patio will be complete.

* * * * *

More stories about the secara acak ideas that fuse themselves together in my head:

Sex In The Kitchen

Sex In The Workshop

Sex In The Garden

Sex In the Front Hall

Sex On The Patio

Sex With The Bookcase

Sex In the Side Yard

News Trend Dr Pepper Barbecue Sauce|Actual

For at least five years, this recipe for Dr Pepper barbecue sauce has been taking up valuable real estate inside my special tried-and-true-favorites recipe book.

Which is pretty darn nervy because I have never even once actually made it.

But for all these years, I've had a special place in my heart for this sauce. Whenever I'm giving this binder a good clearing out, and pitching the recipes that I don't truly love, I let this one stay, just because of that key ingredient:

Dr Pepper.

My family proudly boasts of a longstanding obsession with this drink of 23 flavors. Back in his wild youth, my husband used to buy an old-fashioned glass bottle of the good Doctor every afternoon as he walked home from high school. Strolling along the sidewalk in all kinds of Ohio weather, he would drink either in icy sips or overheated gulps. And each day, as he polished off his delicious beverage, he would toss the bottle into the neighbor's yard as he walked by.

Always the same neighbor. Always the same yard.

I mean, he wasn't exactly throwing Molotov cocktails, and this was the sixties after all. But I have always been a little bit shocked by his naughtiness and total lack of conscience. Don't let his pocket protectors fool you, people. He was quite the bad boy.

Would you like to check out a few photos of my husband during his rebellious youth? Go here.

Years passed. My mom quickly picked up on my husband's passion for Dr Pepper and whenever we came in to visit, she would stock up on plenty of the good stuff to keep him hydrated through the hot and sticky Midwestern summers.

As they grew, my daughters fell in love with Dr Pepper too. Countless family snacking sessions were punctuated with the snap! And fizzzz of a fresh can being opened and poured between two or three glasses as sisters shared a drink.

And I worked through a decade-long devotion to Diet Dr Pepper which I considered then and now to be truly the nectar of the gods.

Around here, drinking Dr Pepper is a time-honored family tradition, so when I stumbled across this recipe for a DP-based barbecue sauce, I printed it, filed it, and waited for the right day to give it a try.

Though I never expected I'd wait five years, that day finally came. Today.

* * * * *

Ingredients:

1 cup minced onion

seperempat cup vegetable oil

1 1/dua cups Dr Pepper

1 can crushed tomatoes, about 15 ounces

1/2 cup orange juice

seperempat cup cider vinegar

1/dua cup honey

1/dua to 1 teaspoon cayenne

salt to taste

This is the kind of recipe that makes me grateful for my pantry. I keep a fairly wide collection of spices, vinegars, oils, hot sauces, and sweeteners on board so that when a new recipe strikes, odds are good that I already have what I need.

Sure enough, all I needed to buy for this barbecue sauce was a fresh bottle of Dr Pepper, and more orange juice so my fourth-born would not find a practically empty OJ bottle rattling around in the fridge where her favorite beverage is supposed to be.

* * * * *

Directions:

1. Heat the vegetable oil in a pot over medium-high heat. Add the onions and saute for 4-lima minutes, stirring often.

Dua. When the onions are just beginning to brown, add the remaining ingredients and stir well to combine. Simmer for 30 minutes.

3. Pour the sauce into a blender or food processor and puree it until it is smooth. I used an immersion blender which worked, as usual, like a charm.

4. Put the sauce into a saucepan, bring to a simmer and continue to simmer, uncovered, for 1-2 hours.

The sauce will store for several weeks in the fridge

Source: Simply Recipes

Now I happened to whip up a double batch of this sauce today, so about half of it went into the fridge as the recipe suggests.

But the other half marched directly out to the waiting hot coals of my Weber grill and was put to work on a mess of chicken tenderloins.

The finished product was magical.

So magical in fact, that I dove into my dinner with abandon, completely forgetting that I wanted to catch a photo of my full plate.

Here then, is most, but not all, of my plate of Dr Pepper Barbecue Sauce chicken.

Trust me, I will not wait five more years to make it again.

News Trend Home Tour: Patio Life|Actual

^ One of the great luxuries in life, I suppose, is a patio.

Fresh air and sunshine; comfortable places to sit and eat, a patio marries a home's interior to the out-of-doors and I count myself very lucky to have one.

^ A proper patio has a floor of some sort. I've monkeyed around with gravel and bark and brick patios as well as the original concrete pad out back that came with our house, but in one way or another, they all drove me mad.

So when my mother died and left me some money, I knew just what to do. I paved over my front patio with big, beautiful slabs of slate, a more rustic version of the slate stonework laid in the front hall of the house where I grew up. A lot about that house drove my mom nuts, but she always loved that stonework and I'm happy I could replicate it here. She was a patio fanatic herself, and I know she would approve.

^  Seating matters.

We often gather here in the evenings as my husband and daughters trudge home from their busy days out in the world, and let's be honest: everyone wants a comfortable spot. So I pull up enough chairs and spread around the cushions so that we all can have a soft and cozy seat.

And let's be honest about this, too: Gracie rarely lies on the ground. Ever the princess, she usually takes up more than her fair share of the couch and needs to be coaxed to properly share the space with her humans.

^ A table is useful. My husband built this one out of his supply of pallet wood, and I coated it with several layers of outdoor Varathane to stand up to the moisture of the Pacific Northwest.

Some days, my table is open for the drink glasses and small plates that collect around our early evening snack times. Other days, it's heaped with plants. Gracie prefers the snacky days and loves the easy access of the low table. We are always working on her self-control.

This summer, I'm experimenting with weather-proof metal trays as a safe place to set down our phones and tablets. Not only do they protect electronics from plant debris and the inevitable puddles that come from daily waterings, but they also give me a target to toss my phone which makes finding it again all that much easier.

^ I personally am a fool for a swing. Found this IKEA model at my local thrift store a few years back and my patio life is vastly improved. I sit here while Gracie mows down her dinner, and she knows perfectly well that she can't touch a tidbit of kibble until I sit down in the seat and give her the magic word: "Okay."  Then she is free to attack her bowl, and believe me, she does.

A rug is a nice addition to a patio, and lately, quite a trendy one at that. I like the concept, and used rugs with abandon on my old brick patio. What can I say, they helped keep down the weeds that grew between the bricks. Now that I have my marvelous stones, I don't feel a need to cover them up with a rug. But here on the original aggregate porch, a rug to cozy up my favorite corner still suits me just fine.

^ Though I mostly prefer minimal decor - read that cutesy knick-knacks - indoors as well as out, I'm a firm believer that every room needs an edited collection of small things to create interest and tell a few stories. My mom collected birdhouses and this turquoise model was my favorite of hers; so glad it's mine now. The carved wooden bird I have had since the days of '80s country chic, but to me the simple silhouette and streamlined design hold up well to this day. Scented geraniums are the outdoor equivalent of an outdoor diffuser, and the metal tray is another safe zone for my ever-in-the-line-of-danger phone.

And suspended above, because I am a fan of hangy things too, are bronze bells and a white ceramic wind chime. God forbid that the chime would ever actually ring, because it wouldn't take much movement to break that sphere and let's be honest, I just like how it looks.

^ More objets d'art: from left to right, my husband's collection of walking sticks, an old-school wooden post box that used to serve as a drop-off and pick-up place during my days as a hard core Girl Scout leader, and my spider plant family who is staycationing on the front patio this summer.

^ Oh, a view is nice too, isn't it? Between the patio and the walkway, I built in two small planting areas for succulents and ground covers to scramble about, and left open sight lines to my rose garden beyond.

^ Though most gardens are meant to be viewed from the side, the areas close to walkways benefit from a top-down perspective. A low-lying bird bath, a Cuban pot with a ruffled rim, and you know, rocks, add visual interest for passersby.

^ We are lucky to have a deep front lawn. We're situated at the front of the neighborhood, and the developers cleverly set our house way back on its lot to greet the newcomers' eye with lots of space which lends the (misleading) appearance of a goodly estate.

On the down side, our back yard is a postage stamp but the long expanse of grass in front gives us the right balance of privacy and connection to the world going by.

^ And two more essential patio touches: wind chimes and string lights.

Our wind chimes have been merrily tinkling away out here for several summers now, but the string lights have been a mere fantasy until last weekend.

^ Last weekend, we were all standing around and trying to contrive the best way to hang them .

Pro tip: unscrew the light bulbs and set them safely aside until the wire is securely hung. Experience has taught me well that any attempts to hang the string with the bulbs screwed in place will result in broken light bulbs, gnashing teeth, and extra trips to Target.

We realized the wind chimes would need to give up their usual spot, and debates ensued about where to move them.

And that's when my husband said, "Oh, keep them close to the laundry room window (shown in the second photo above); I like to listen to them as I'm folding clothes.

Well. Who knew.

^ With summer in full swing, Gracie and I spend time out here every day,

reading

talking

napping

eating

or just plain lazing around.

When autumn comes, and the rains fall, the leaves swirl, and darkness creeps in earlier each day, we will cart off most of the patio furniture and move the potted plants to frost-free zones.

But Gracie and I will still spend time out here every day, all year round. When we get home from our walks, I'll serve my dog her dinner on the porch step, and then I'll sit down in the swing to watch her eat. If it's cold, I may lay out an old towel so she has a comfortable place to lie down. I may even grab myself a blanket to wrap up tight against the cold.

We will sit, cozy and warm.

We will feel the fresh air upon our faces, and we will watch the world go by, and we will dream of summer days to come.

And we will think what a grand thing it is to have a patio.

News Trend Meet Fiona|Actual

"Gracie, meet Fiona. Fiona, meet Gracie." Wagwagwagwagwagwagwagwagwag.

Casey

Bailey

Ranger

Ghillie

Gracie

and now Fiona

Back in 1986, a few weeks after moving to our merk spanking new house in a still-under-construction neighborhood, my husband and I brought home our first Irish Setter, Casey.

A few months later, new neighbors strolling by our house stopped to delightedly stare at our red-headed pup. "An Irish Setter!" they beamed at us. "We lost ours a few years back. Right now we have a smaller dog but you know what they say. 'Once you fall in love with a Irish Setter, you'll never be happy any other breed.'"

Sure enough, within a few years, the Andrews added a new Irish lass named Bailey to their family.

This afternoon, the Andrews were just returning home from picking up their new setter when they realized they were following our car into the neighborhood. As I pulled into my drive, they pulled in right next to me, and out from the back of their van popped this adorable little face.

And in all the thirty-plus years from that day to this, between the Andrews and the Streichers, there has always been at least one Irish Setter on the block and usually two.

Given that we live just a half-dozen homes apart, this is quite remarkable. Though they were wildly popular in the 1960s, you don't see that many Irish today. Well. Unless you're on our street.

What's more, our dogs' lives have been interwoven in such a way that when one of us has lost our beloved pets, the other family has carried the baton alone until a new dog came on board. It's been a lovely, special bond between our families and quite a treat for our neighbors to feast their eyes on not one but usually two charming Irish Setters prancing along the sidewalks or lying like mahogany-colored jewels upon our green grass lawns.

From inside the house, my two younger daughters heard the commotion - which consisted mostly of me gushing over sweet Fiona  - realized a new dog was in the mix, and came rushing out to greet Fiona for themselves.

Sadly, our perfect streak was broken for a few months back in 2017. After living a long, full life, our Ranger went to his reward in January of that year, and poor seven-year-old Ghillie suddenly fell ill and was gone by March.

These were sad days. But they didn't last long.

By July, a new dog came calling. The Andrews called me one Saturday morning to say they had just got wind of a homeless Irish girl who needed a new home. They would love to take her but the timing wasn't quite right, so would we like her? We quickly said yes. And that is how we got our Gracie.

Like Gracie, five-year-old Fiona was shuffled from one home to another too many times in her short life.  But those days are over, and this sweet girl has found her forever home with the Andrews.

Within a year, the Andrews sent out word on the local Irish Setter grapevine that they were now ready for their new pup.

They waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No Irish Setters to be found.

Until today, when their daughter found a listing for a five-year-old redhead at a shelter in Tacoma. Off dashed the Andrews to pick up their new dog, Fiona.

So tonight, once again on our street, the Streichers and the Andrews each have a beloved Irish Setter curled up and dozing at our feet, and all is right in the world.

We are so happy to meet you, Fiona. Welcome you to the neighborhood!

* * * * *

Here are some stories about how we got Gracie. Spoilers: The Andrews helped.

Surprise!

Red Beauty

Two Weeks In

Hunting Dog

Irish Inspiration

News Trend Gracie, Don't Read This|Actual

"I'll have whatever he's having. But make mine a double."

"Well, hello there, lovely lady. Come here often?"

 "What? He already paid for my treat? What a kind gentleman!"

The other day, I went to the Fremont Sunday Market.

You know, your typical Seattle upscale urban hipster farmer's market with tons of

fresh flower bouquets

macrame swings

organic raw honey

silver toe rings

shabby chic furniture And

tie dyed baby things.

Plus, of course, food stalls featuring tacos, Indian food, coffee drinks, macarons, veggie wraps And old school popsicles.

All of which were great.

But my favorite venue was the food truck from the Seattle Barkery featuring treats for dogs And their human friends too.

As I stood nearby, watching a constant parade of customers visit the truck, two thoughts collided in my mind:

What a wonderfully wacky world we inhabit where dogs can buy treats at a food truck.

And

I hope Gracie never, ever discovers that I came here without her.