Lori Borgman

I can catch a plane, a ball, a cold and the flu, but the one thing I can’t catch is home improvement skills.

I recently painted a small bathroom cabinet. The project took three days, not including 11 trips to the big box hardware store.

Meanwhile, on six different cable channels, people with home improvement skills ripped out small half-baths and replaced them with master baths featuring double sinks, heated floors, lighted mirrors, saunas and walk-in showers large enough to wash a team of Clydesdales. What’s more, they did it all in under 60 minutes.

This week, my inner home-improvement self was prompted to redo the shelf paper in the kitchen cabinets. I upped my game thinking I could try peel-and-stick vinyl tile. I asked a clerk if it was hard to cut vinyl tile. He guffawed and said all I’d need is a knife.

The man in the blue vest lied. After leaving a small trail of blood from the kitchen to the bathroom medicine cabinet, I returned the vinyl squares and bought peel-and-stick shelf paper.

Peel-and-stick lives up to its name. You peel and it sticks—to you, your clothes, your scissors, your hair, the sides of the cabinets, the tops of the cabinets and to every other inch of peel-and-stick in a 3-mile range.

My skill set deficiencies are not new. In seventh grade, girls took home economics and boys took industrial arts. Boys made projects with hammers and saws.

Girls learned how to sew a shift. A shift is a dress resembling a pillowcase with an armhole on each side and a zipper in the back. Our teacher Miss Grove, the first person I ever knew to wear contact lenses, made me rip my zipper out and put it in again. Miss Grove blinked her eyes a lot.

The fourth time Miss Grove told me to rip out the zipper and try again, I had to buy a new zipper. Miss Grove’s eyes blinked faster and faster each time she checked my work. Eventually, the entire left side of her face began twitching wildly.

Being that our school was progressive, for one week the boys took home ec and the girls took shop. I was sure I would do well in shop. My dad knew how to build; my brother knew how to build. Surely, I could build, too.

We made letter holders—three pieces of wood, nailed and glued together. At some point in the process, we were to put the letter holder in a vice. I crushed it.

Literally.

The shop teacher had me try again with new pieces of wood. As he watched over my shoulder, he took the soon-to-be letter holder from my hands, finished it, put it in the vice and said I could watch the glue dry.

Those sorts of experiences might set a lot of people back, but not me.

I remain a home improvement visionary—albeit without the skills or tools.

It happened at our oldest daughter’s place. I rang the bell, peeked in the side window and saw an ill-defined, furry mass lumbering toward the door.

My mind flashed back to my days in the Pacific Northwest when Bigfoot sightings were common. Was it a Bigfoot sighting? Here and now, in a sprawling Midwestern suburb?

As the creature drew closer, I could see facial features. It was not Big Foot; it was our oldest daughter wearing a thick, plush throw. She’s petite, so it was more like Little Foot, if you want to get technical.

Throws are all the rage these days. A throw is a soft, fuzzy, cuddly blanket, which apparently you can never own too many of. We have received throws as gifts and have thrown throws as gifts. We are one more layer on an ever-growing trend.

A throw is home décor and fashion accessory all in one.

Once a throw leaves a sofa or chair and is wrapped around your winter-weary body, know that it does not add pounds. It adds cubits. Perhaps even an invitation to play for the NFL.

The throw our daughter was wearing was basically a sleeping bag with sleeves. It is a throw that allows the wearer to stay warm and read a book at the same time, which for most of us is the short road to a long winter’s nap.

We were given a large, soft electric throw recently. Think XXL heating pad that could easily cover a family of five. When the grands come over, it’s the most popular item in the house (outranking even homemade chocolate chip cookies).

On a visit to another wing of the family, one of the grands, looked at me and said, “Grandma, you wanna throw?”

It took a few seconds before I realized she meant a fuzzy blanket, not a ball.

The grands are often wrapped in throws. Not only in their own homes, but in ours as well. We have become an extended family of human burritos. Somebody, pass the chips and salsa.

This season of the Great Coverup makes me anxious for spring. I hope when everyone unwraps we all still recognize one another without all the extra bulk and padding. It will look like the weight loss of the century.

 

 

Our garden is always at its best in mid-winter when I nestle by a fire and linger over seed catalogs. I have yet to tuck a single seed into the ground which is now granite.

As of page 3 in the catalog that arrived two days ago, I have visions of deep red tomatoes piled high in bushel baskets. Page 10 adds pole beans gracefully winding around beautiful trellis structures. Page 13 gives birth to green peppers so gorgeous they should be on display in art museums.

I read the words “you’ll never be satisfied with grocery store again” and pump my fist in the air.

The herbs in my imaginary garden cover rolling hills (never mind that the backyard is flat) with thyme, rosemary, lavender and oregano. Waves of basil reach for the sun.

I drool over seed catalogs the way other women drool over jewelry. “Could I see these seeds under a magnifier, please?”

“Look! It’s a 14 carrot!”

In hopes of maintaining some connection with reality, I propose that seed catalogs come with a black box warning. CAUTION: Seed catalogs may produce wild dreams, grand delusions and unrealistic expectations.

One of my favorite seed companies is offering the Martha Washington Kitchen Garden Seed Collection to commemorate the nation’s 250^th anniversary. I’ve read several Washington biographies but apparently missed the parts about Martha gardening. I’m not quite able to picture Martha wandering about Mt. Vernon hoeing garden beds, planting seeds and pulling weeds.

My sources say George Washington oversaw most aspects of managing the grounds and there is “evidence that Martha Washington was involved in dictating what was planted in the kitchen garden.”

Ah, a kindred spirit. Dictating is my forte in gardening as well. “I’m only asking you to move this giant hydrangea (for the third time) because you’re a perfectionist and I know you want the spacing right. I’m doing this for you, Honey!”

The seed names are mesmerizing. They are descriptive on a par with women’s cosmetics. Martha’s seed collection offers “Blue Curled Scotch Kale,” which is puzzling and captivating all at the same time. “Amish Deer Tongue Lettuce” is perplexing. Was the lettuce a favorite of Amish deer, or does the lettuce taste like the tongue of an Amish deer?

“Armenian Cucumber” hints of theological disputes sure to kick dirt any garden. I added “Early Scarlet Globe radish” to my cart without even looking at the picture. On the other hand, “Georgia Rattlesnake Watermelon” was a hard pass.

Many gardens are at their peak in the dead of winter, for when the ground is frozen and the air is frigid, imagination grows wild.

 

Against our daughter’s better judgment, she sometimes asks if we can homeschool her youngest when she has a scheduling conflict.

Her concern is not that we don’t cover the material; her concern is that we modify and augment the material or sometimes deviate entirely from the material.

We call it enrichment.

The last time our student was here, she asked me to check her work on a metric conversion problem involving kilo, hecto, deca, unit, deci, centi and milli.

“You know the mnemonic for metric, right Grandma?” she asked. “King Henry Doesn’t Usually Drink Chocolate Milk.”

I told her all I knew for sure about metric is when the obstetrician says, “You’re at 10 centimeters,” the baby is coming real soon.

She gave me a puzzled look.

Instead of doing a lot of conversion, I suggested King Henry swing by Walmart and buy anything he wanted in pints, quarts, 2-liters, six packs and cases of 24.

The look on her face said this was not helpful and that I was going to be reported to the principal.

To my credit, I excel in language arts. I do good with grammar (well, sometimes), and specialize in pronouns without antecedents, my favorite example being: Susan told Emily she was looking old.

Our occasional student also has been covering all the major body systems with wonderful charts, graphs, and overlays. I did well on the cardiology unit, probably due to being of a certain age and knowing a lot of people with heart issues.

This week, when our student was going to do her schoolwork here, her mother sent an early morning email with the subject line, “Urology Test.”

The email said, “Mom, would you mind printing this at your house? I’m currently out of paper. She needs to take this test. You can attempt it, too, if you want.”

Maybe it’s because I just had a physical, but I was flummoxed. I called our daughter to clarify that the urology test did not involve anybody taking strips of paper and little plastic cups into the bathroom.

When she finally finished laughing, she confirmed that was correct. The only testing would be with pen and paper.

Whew. Close one.

It’s a game of hide and seek a lot of women play. You hide the last bite of something delectable for yourself, not because you’re selfish, but because you are a visionary.

Based on personal history and past performance, you know with certainty that soon, maybe in the next week, day or next five seconds, you may feel depleted, exhausted and in need of a small pick-me-up.

You need a bit of encouragement. Or a bite of encouragement.

The key to keeping a small private reserve is knowing where to stash it.

For years I kept a couple of Hershey Kisses in a buffet drawer with the cloth napkins. It was a great hiding place. Not once in the history of our family has anyone ever said, “You know what would make this meal complete? Cloth napkins!”

The napkin drawer was such a great hiding place that I often forgot about it myself. I rediscover my small stash each year at Easter and Christmas, the only times we use cloth napkins.

Another strategy is tossing a couple of miniature candy bars in the freezer for later. Later comes when someone goes to the freezer in search of butter, digs around and pops out yelling, “Look, old Halloween candy! The kind only Mom likes!”

If the treat is something no one else likes, you can leave it in plain view. Dried apricots are safe here, so are nuts and fresh dates.

It’s easy to quietly consume something sweet that you saved for later, but crunchy snacks do not lend themselves to stealth. Chips can be heard from outside the house at the far end of the driveway. Small children have been known to awaken from a deep sleep by the crunch of a single Cheeto. Fritos smell. For days. Weeks maybe.

Hiding things has a cascade effect. Whenever we go out of town, I hide my ancient Rolodex with old addresses, defunct landline phone numbers and home repair contacts. Like someone is going to break into a house and say, “First thing we look for is an old Rolodex!”

“Look! I found the ID number for her library card!”

If they only knew what was hidden in the napkin drawer.

I’m not sure why there is a stash of anything delectable anywhere. Whenever we have something special, the husband refuses to eat the last piece or the last bite. He saves it for me. I don’t even have to hunt for it.

Love is sweet.

I was puzzled when the husband announced he was going to burp the house. I asked if he thought it would need a diaper change, too.

“You know, burp the house,” he said with an air of disbelief.

I didn’t know. I couldn’t get my head around patting a two-story house on the back.

He said burping a house is based on the German practice of “lüften” where you open all the windows, so cross ventilation lets the inside air escape and the outside air enter.

It sounded like spring cleaning – or what I do after we’ve had fish for dinner. He said when you air out a house in the winter, it’s called burping.

He was surprised I had not heard about burping a house. I was surprised he had heard about it. He’s not exactly what you’d call a domestic by nature.

When we were dating, he invited me over for dinner, but all the dishes were dirty and piled in the kitchen sink. He’s come a long way, but still. Who was this man? How and when had German domestics infiltrated his head?

I nonchalantly pointed out that the ground was covered in 10 inches of snow and the outside temperature was 5 degrees.

“Even better,” he said. “The furnace has been running and running and who knows what we’re breathing. Burping the house releases trapped, moist air from cooking, showering, and breathing. It also reduces condensation and prevents mold growth.”

I married an infomercial.

He threw open all the windows. The warm air was sucked out of the house and bitter Arctic air blasted in. I grabbed my coat, scarf, gloves and the book I’d been reading and dashed into the utility closet to stand next to my new BFF—the furnace.

I saw the husband shoot back and forth from one side of the house to the other a few times, monitoring air flow. “It’s getting awfully cold in here,” I shouted. “Are we about finished burping?”

“Not yet!” he said. “Two more minutes to go on the timer.” It was a timed burp. Perhaps one times burps in adolescence, but here? Now? Us?

“I’m going upstairs, where it’s warmer,” I shouted over the roaring furnace.

“Fine,” he said, “but I’m burping the upstairs next.”

The man was showing a domestic side that has been hidden for many years. I liked it. Only a fool would resist.

 

Three of our grands have their learner’s driver’s permits, but somehow, I seem to be the one receiving instructions on how to drive.

“You probably should have waited ‘til that car passed,” advises our oldest daughter, as I pull into traffic. She’s my front seat passenger and mother of twins with drivers’ permits.

“Excuse me? I pulled out just fine, thank you. And, by the way, I’m not the one with ‘Please Be Patient: Student Driver bumper stickers plastered all over my vehicle.”

I always wondered who put those stickers on their cars. Now I know. She’s sitting next to me, scrutinizing my every move. I won’t be surprised when she pulls out a clipboard and begins taking notes.

“Brake!” she snaps.

“Seriously, girl? You’re going to tell me how to drive? Even your father knows not to do that.”

“Well, I’m teaching two teenagers to drive, so I’m practically like a real driver’s ed instructor now.”

Sure she is.

“I taught you to drive, didn’t I?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Dad did. Remember, you taught J to drive, so neither of us girls wanted you as a teacher.”

Great. I know where she’s going. One time, one time. OK, maybe two or three times. “But I taught your brother to drive a stick shift in a Ford 150,” I say.

“Yeah, and every time he killed the engine you punched him in the arm.”

“It was reflex,” I say.

I come from a long line of impatient driving teachers. My grandfather taught my mother to drive a stick shift. She got in, shut the door, started it up, let out the clutch and killed it. “Lesson over,” my grandpa said. He got out, slamming the door, and my mother didn’t learn to drive until she got married.

I’m not sure the kids need to know that story. Come to think of it, they absolutely do not need that story.

My driver’s ed instructor and I grab fast food for lunch and use drive-thru. Two very long lines wrap around the building and then merge to exit.

“Zipper, Mom. Zipper.”

“I’m going to merge,” I say.

“No, you zipper. The car in that lane goes, then our lane goes. You know, like a zipper.” She holds up her hands demonstrating how two sides of a zipper go together.

I may have gotten my license in the last century, but I don’t need hand motions explaining how a zipper works. What I might need are stickers on the back of the vehicle saying, “Please Be Patient: Dueling Driver’s Ed Instructors in Vehicle.”

For the record, I merged then, I merge now and will continue to merge.

 

You know winter is knocking on the door when the go-to topic of every conversation is wind chill. You know winter has moved in and made itself at home when the house settles with loud cracks, the hardwoods creak and kitchen cabinets along an outside wall have the interior temperature of a cave. Winter is the lingering houseguest with no departure date in sight.

Experts claim that exposing oneself to light is the best defense against a long, dreary winter. I have taken this wisdom to heart, frequently rotating from the glow of the light in the refrigerator to the warmth of the light over the stove, to the radiance of the light in the oven.

Yes, there is a correlation between all those appliance lights and seasonal weight gain, but when you pull a warm apple crisp from the oven, that idea completely disappears – often beneath a mound of vanilla ice cream. It’s hard to hear rational thought when you’re chewing.

In the long days of winter, I often take my laptop into whatever room has sunlight streaming through the windows. I do this in hopes of increasing productivity, and it does. Naps increase exponentially in the warmth of the sun.

A friend announced she wasn’t going to suffer through another long, dreary Midwest winter and was taking preemptive steps. This is commonly known as “Freezing the Day.”

She and her husband booked a rental on the coast of Alabama in March. They have planned every hour of every day of their trip — absorbing the sun.

My first newspaper job out of college was in North Dakota at the Fargo Forum. I started in January. The temperature was 19 degrees below zero, which means the windchill was probably 70 below.

Every time I stepped outside, the moisture on my nose hairs froze into tiny icicles. With every breath taken, I could feel a burn deep in my lungs. Covering a story in Minot, I was informed their claim to fame was having more mentions on the Weather Channel than any other town.

The people were warm and hospitable, but the frigid temperatures were unbearable. I left before a second winter. I regret not having a shirt that says, “I survived winter in Fargo.”

I have recently spied an enormous squirrel on our patio. He is so large that when he sits on his haunches, he can fold his tiny hands and rest them on his enormous protruding belly. He has no definable neck.

When he’s not shaking the daylights out of the birdfeeder, I suspect he competes as a sumo wrestler.

The squirrel is either a warning we’re in for a North Dakota winter, or a sign to quit warming myself in front of all the appliance bulbs.

 

 

It’s too late now, but I probably should have become a chiropractor.

Why? Two words: tech neck. It’s when a neck has been bent over a screen for so long that it needs medical attention. The phenomenon is everywhere. I’m not neck-saggerating.

I was in line to check out at a doctor’s office, and a mom and a little boy were in front of me. The boy was about 4, cute as a button with super long eyelashes. He was holding a tablet with his hands while his head was bent over it and braced against the wall.

His mom was having difficulty with checkout paperwork and the boy just stood frozen, mesmerized by animated figures running around on the screen.

I was watching the boy staring at the screen, wondering if he would blink. After five minutes, the tablet fell to the floor. Here’s the thing – the boy remained frozen with his head still bent and braced against the wall. It was nearly 10 seconds before he leaned over to pick up the tablet.

Maybe not today or tomorrow, but some day that child may need a neck adjustment.

Experts say that keeping your head, which may weigh 8-10 pounds, bent over a device is like holding a gallon of milk from the end of your outstretched arm. Your arm and your neck weren’t designed to dangle such weight for a prolonged period.

Some call it tech neck, others call it text neck. If the neck fits.

The other morning, I was outside when a car pulled up and let out a middle school boy so he could walk to the bus stop at the end of the block without other kids noticing his mother drove him.

The boy walked to the bus stop with his neck stretched out as flat as a diving board with face glued to his phone. If there was a neck craning event in the Olympics, the kid could bring home the gold. USA! USA!

I’m not a professional, but my understanding is that removing the phone is easy part. It’s getting the head and arms back to their original position that takes week$ and month$ of therapy.

Why aren’t chiropractors in mobile units cruising the city going from bus stop to bus stop, coffee shop to coffee shop or from dinner table to dinner table?

My primary care physician, Dr. Google, says: Tech neck is treatable and can be fixed by correcting posture, performing regular stretches, strengthening exercise and taking frequent breaks, but if symptoms persist or worsen, it is recommended to seek professional advice from a doctor or physical therapist. Or a family life columnist.

I added that last sentence. Yes, on the downside, I am untrained and unlicensed. On the upside, my fees are reasonable.

 

One of the girls gave me a tube of lotion guaranteed to reduce neck wrinkles in 14 days. “Thanks,” I said, “but it took me decades to develop these wrinkles. They’re not going away in two weeks.”

“How do you know that for sure?” she asked.

“Because I bought a tube of this myself a year ago.”

The only wrinkles I’ve had success smoothing are in clothes, using a powerful little steamer. My face may have wrinkles, but at least my clothes don’t.

What is it about women and cosmetics that make us believe the unbelievable?

I don’t believe in the tooth fairy, but I believe the dark circles under my eyes might magically disappear with little half-moon shaped patches promoted by a cosmetic line featuring close-ups of a 24-year-old. At that age, the model still has baby fat.

I don’t believe in leprechauns, but I believe the anti-frizz product a stylist used on my hair in a temperature- and humidity-controlled salon might really work in 95-degree outdoor temps with matching humidity.

Hope springs eternal. And so does my hair.

I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny, but I just might believe that a certain mascara can thicken eyelashes. And then my sensible-side kicks in and says, “You can’t thicken what isn’t there.”

I don’t believe the stork delivers babies, but I can be mesmerized by products that claim to reverse aging, defy time and turn back the clock. So maybe unicorns are real, too?

If you can make peace with the wear and tear of time, you eventually find a comfort zone that comes with aging. All those lines –laugh lines, smile lines, worry lines and prayer lines – are signposts of years gone by.

They are souvenirs from the seasons of life – the rough waters and the smooth sailing. They are character lines silently etched as you maneuvered the challenges of infants, toddlers, adolescents, teens and then letting go. Crinkles are from the joys of welcoming the next generation.

You know you’ve hit the sweet spot when the promises of turning back the clock lose their allure. You work with what you have, look in the mirror, and say, “It is what it is and today is a good day.”