Frustrative License

I cannot be concise.

I try. Truly.

In fact, today, I sent out a brief (very brief), 223-word, 2 paragraph “caption.”

Details tell the truest story.

Seriously. I went to the store for milk.

vs.

I drove Granny’s beat-up powder-blue Buick to the corner market for milk to go with the Happy 99^th Year birthday cake we ordered – in the shape of her car, including rust! The baker just had to have a photo!

Ok, well, anyway…

As usual. It’s all about how you look at it.

And how many layers you have to scrape through to find simplicity.

And the fact that you don’t know the strata sequence.

Or how many vision changes it took to finally finish.

Medium manipulation: words, paint, notes.

Stories, images and sound: Art.  

Ironically concise.

.

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Churdled (milk)

Then, it occurred to me.

“Wait – my chocolate milk? I haven’t bought any chocolate milk, lately.”

“Yeah, you did.” Jeff came back. “It was just a little one, with the rabbit on it. I think maybe it wasn’t any good anymore. It smelled kinda funny. It was kinda old, too.”

My mind went from – I don’t remember buying chocolate milk to – “Wait – what? How old? It smelled bad, and you used it anyway?” I squawked and gaped.

“Well, it wasn’t that old. I checked the date. Just a couple of weeks. And, I don’t drink the stuff, so I don’t know what’s good!”

The rule-follower in me was flabbergasted. My brain shorted into partial words. I stumbled over ‘chocolate’ and ‘milk’ and ended up with an accidental coinage. “You gave me ch–urdled milk? This is why perishables are date stamped!”

“Nah,” Jeff insisted, remarkably patiently, considering we were having this conversation  for perhaps the hundredth if not close to the hundredth time. “Those are just sug-gest-ed dates. Things don’t suddenly go bad on that date.”

“I know that,” I insisted, back. “But, they eventually do!”

That earned me an eye-roll. “Well,” he jokingly reasoned, “If you just drank the white milk, ya would’a had better coffee, then.”

“Yeah?” I countered, “and what is the date on that?”

Jeff yanked the fridge open and grabbed the milk jug. “Hmm,” he noted, grinning. “Says yesterday.” He pulled off the cap and, to my horror, full-on stuck his sniffer in the hole.

Not much scared Jeff. Inserting his nose into, or, even taking a swig from, a gallon of possibly spoilt milk, wasn’t on his list of scary stuff. For the record, though, being chased with a dead fish, was.

“Nope.” Jeff split-second analyzed the experience. “It’s definitely not ch-urdled, yet.” He glanced over at me, and grinned at my expression. “Probably wouldn’t use that either, wouldya?”

Me, grimacing back: “No. Especially, not since you just stuck your nose in there.”

“Aw, my nose didn’t touch the milk!” Jeff scoffed.

“So what, if it didn’t touch the milk? Your nose got wiped on the spout! You’re gonna have to pour the milk over that!’

“Geez, ok.” Jeff went for a paper towel. “I’ll wipe it out!”

“Don’t even think about giving me that milk, tomorrow.” I warned him. “And, don’t cook with it, either!”

Jeff guffawed. “You’re not gonna die from the milk!”

“Damn, right.” I replied. “Cuz, none of it is going past my lips!”

He took a swig, swished it around in his mouth, and ridiculously wiggled his tongue in my direction. “Wanna kiss?” he teased.

(To be fair, I guess Jeff helped coin the word. I dropped it, but he picked it up and ran for the punchline.)

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Coffee, in a Clutch

Friday, September 29, 2006.

Jeff was up early with me, Friday morning, and very much back to being his usual perky self. While I was in the shower, he made coffee and packed my work breakfast and lunch for me. I knew I would be short a van pool passenger this morning, which gave me a few extra minutes.

So, I sat and sipped my creative, coffee surprise of the day. Raspberry flavored coffee with vanilla creamer. Jeff and I had joined the Gevalia coffee club, convinced by the free coffee maker. The flavor assortment was a bonus, too. Back then, whole beans were considered radical. But, we had a spice grinder; specifically dedicated to coffee. Fancy.

Jeff was the brew-master, in-charge of keeping our cabinet stocked. Each new shipment was a challenge to him. I can only recall one time when I had to explain that I hadn’t been able to drink the disaster in my cup.

I’m not a fan of scalding hot coffee. I prefer cold, however cool, room temperature, and lukewarm are acceptable alternates. Yes, I’m that person – the one who uses a spoon to chase ice around a water glass to cool my coffee. Because of this, I rarely drank my freshly- brewed, morning beverage at home. Hardly ever on my commute, either.

Insulated car cups hadn’t come close to popularity, or reaching and reacting the efficient way they do now. As the van pool driver, my commute was close to an hour. So, by the time I got to work, the coffee in my up-cycled, individual soda bottle, was a pleasant room temp. In summer, it was almost properly chilled from parking in front of the air conditioned vents.

The conversation about the concoction I threw away, ended in laughter, as usual.

I started it. “Whatever you put in my coffee, this morning, please, don’t ever do that again.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“No. It was terrible!”

“Oh.” Jeff pondered. “It seemed like it would work, to me.”

“What was it?”

“Hazelnut, but there wasn’t enough. So, I added the cherry kind we got in Traverse City. Then, we were out of cream, so I added the rest of your chocolate milk.”

He was right. A chocolate-covered, cherry cordial hugging a hazelnut sounded like it should have been good, but…

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Milk and an Air Horn

About the milk:

I found this sweet-sad note from my father to Jeff. I don’t have Jeff’s original part of the email, but the subject reads, ‘Carnation Milk.’

From: Dad

Sent: Monday, May 27, 2002

To: Jeff & Jodi

Real funny! Keep them coming!

I really enjoyed your visit. I wish we could have spent more time doing things together that guys do. Maybe things will turn around someday for the both of us. Let’s keep the faith and try real hard.

Miss you already,

Dad  (It’s not often that a guy has three dads)

P.S. Jodi, are you going to change your email address to “Korte.”

About the air horn:

There’d rarely been a night when Jeff hadn’t woken up at least once. He’d wander the house, have a snack, watch tv or get on the computer. I’d gotten used to that and barely noticed anymore.

one night in early June 2004, Jeff had decided that he did not want to possibly disturb Nannee by using the computer in the office room next to hers. Instead, he’d gone to the den and fallen asleep to the TV.

In the morning, Nannee let Jeff know she’s had a very rough night. She thought she might have been having a heart attack and called out to us repeatedly. At the other end of the house, we had not heard her. She insisted she felt fine that morning, and p’shawed the suggestion that she visit her doctor, saying it hadn’t been that long ago that she’d seen him.

It was Jeff’s idea to provide Nannee with an air horn. I wasn’t home when they tested it. As we went to bed, I worried that we might not hear it with our bedroom door closed. Jeff assured me, we’d hear it, but left the door open to ease my mind.

The next night, I heard the air horn. Jeff heard the air horn, and with the windows open on that cool June night, most of the neighborhood probably heard it to. I was already jolted half out of bed, when Jeff took off from his side, closest to the bedroom door.

He got there first and called back to me to call 911. Nannee went by ambulance to Bixby, then by ambulance to Toledo. The Bixby doctor was quite angry when he spoke to us following some tests. He ordered a stomach pump, curtly demanded to know who her doctor was and then left us in the curtain-divided emergency room.

When he came back, he was more subdued. Nannee and her doctor must have known her digestive system was failing. She hadn’t shared that with us. She had told us, though, that she didn’t want to die in a hospital.

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Enjoy This Week’s Discovery Links:

An internet search found this joke. I’d wager this was likely it. ;-):  Carnation Milk Joke

Not true, but: Carnation Milk Snopes

Air Horn: There’s an App for That

The Politic of Cows

The honeymoon saga is being interrupted by a side note.

I hope you all voted today.

You know, my Jeff was a patriot. He always removed his ever-present hat for the national anthem. He removed his hat and placed a hand over his heart for any flag passing by. He admired his friends in the service, had great respect for veterans, never missed a Memorial Day or 4th of July parade, and believed America was the greatest country in the world. 

Jeff also had a wisdom to impart when anyone began discussing politics.

“It doesn’t matter who becomes president tonight,” he’d say. “When we all wake up tomorrow, the cows still gotta get milked.”

This self-proclaimed non-politicking was just a bit of Korte bluster mostly to offset his father’s very-politicking Korte bluster. His practical point was that things tend to stay the same and nothing drastic happens overnight after an election.

Jeff truly cared about his country, his state, his home. I’m sure he would have been horrified by this election, disheartened entirely. I’m afraid this election could very well turn our nation into a disaster tomorrow. I’ve been praying it doesn’t.

At this point, though, the only thing I can say for certain is Jeff’s truth still stands.

Cows still gotta get milked tomorrow morning, regardless.

Quote for the Week:

Enjoy This Week’s Discovery Links:

Cast: Not Casted

Bullish: Something Good

Michigan: Voter’s Battleground