My spate of cleaning last week was inspired by a project to clean my bedroom that came about because we got a new mattress. Getting the mattress meant getting the old box springs and mattress down to the guest bedroom downstairs, getting that set of mattress and box springs up to the back porch awaiting donation to a friend.

You'd think the struggle of moving over-sized, unwieldy items down and around the stairs would have tired me out. But the size of the dust bunnies under the bed frame prompted the cleaning of the floor. That led to the realization that the dust on the top rows of the curtains had to go and then the walls and and then it became an all-out war on the whole house.

Meanwhile, the Captain was in home improvement heaven. He'd done all the research to determine what mattress we wanted and what foundation it would need. He'd gone to Lowe's. He'd gotten out his power tools. He'd measured and sawed and drilled and created the precise number of horizontal slats at the precise width apart and then created new legs running below that to give further support to the Casper foam mattress that arrived via mail because that's how we do things now.

He really worked hard. He'd done a great job. And no blood was spilled during the construction project. We'd avoided any marital spats ala the famous front walk project where he'd come home after I'd spent all morning digging out old stepping stones, widening the path and laying down new, bigger stones. I was sweaty. My arms were approaching noodle status and I had whole families of blisters on my hands. "Did you research the best way to do that?" he'd greeted me. "Did you use a level to be sure the ground is even?"

I was pretty sure we'd divorce before we got the stones in place, or kill each other, but somehow we managed to keep the stones on the ground and not swing a shovel too close to each other's heads.

In Jeff's defense, research is an important part of any project and I confess that I often will dive right into an idea only to find that if I'd slowed down a bit and examined the right way to do something, I'd be better off. (Those stepping stones were no where close to level when he came home...)

While he was exploring the best foundation for the new mattress, he'd asked me if I would be open to having it on a simple bed frame instead of in our sleigh bed frame. "No," I'd replied, not even looking up.

"How about on the floor?" he'd asked. "The hardwood would be good support."

I'd looked up at that one. "We are grown-ups. We sleep in a bed," I'd decreed.

He muttered something about me being an old lady as he turned back to his research, but I stood, well, firm. And thus, he decided we could keep our bed frame, but the current system that held the traditional box spring wasn't worthy.

While he created a better support system, I cleaned in different parts of the house. I quite purposefully stayed out of his way as he trotted back and forth with tools and lumber. Genius, right? I've learned a few things in our 20+ years together...

So. He finishes the slat project. The mattress arrives. We un-box it. I saw it, and I thought to myself. "Hmmm." But I didn't voice anything. I was hoping the thing would inflate a bit after having all the air sucked out of it so it would fit in the box. I think I didn't comment out loud. Here's what it looked like when we first installed it.

In my head, I thought, "No way, buster," but out loud, I think I said, "Uh, honey. Does that look a little low to you?"

He shook me off. He thought it would be fine. We just needed to get used to the look of it.

"Lay down on it and see if it's more firm and better than the old one," he suggested.

I did just that. Now, Jeff is almost a foot taller than me. Our old bed required me to jump up a little to get into it. I had to stoop a little to get into it. I felt like Snow White stumbling into the dwarves' house.

"I feel like I'm sleeping on the floor," I said.

"You'll get used to it," he said.

My pillow fell through a crack between the mattress and the top of the head board that was about the size of a pass-thru between a diner kitchen and the counter area. Later that night, I got out of bed to go to the bathroom, and I stumbled because I was used to sliding down a little bit. In this bed, I had to kind of climb up out of it.

I don't know how to describe how I felt laying in that bed because I've never really thought about the height at which I've slept before. But you've camped out, right? When you camp out, you know you're sleeping on the ground. You don't think about your position in the universe, there's just a lot of it on top of you.

The mattress is great. It was beautifully supported and I did sleep better than in the old one. Jeff did too, but he claims I drift over to him and move around a lot and that keeps him up. The old mattress had formed a bit of a trough which made it easier for me to roll over onto his side. The new one, of course, doesn't have that and apparently I keep more to myself now.

Horizontally, it was lovely. Vertically, though. And it looked weird!!!!

"It's fine," said the man. "You'll get used to it. We are the only ones who see our bedroom, anyway."

When I suggested -- again -- we needed to elevate the mattress, Jeff was less-than-enthused. He had done the research, the work and he had done a great job. It's true.

"Fine," he finally said. "But you're doing the box spring research."

We ended up with a steel box spring that's suggested for the mattress we have. It came UPS. He worked to improve the wooden structure he'd built -- yay! power tools -- and I read the instructions. They were more pictures than words, but I bent to the task.

It didn't take long at all, and of course it required a little more cleaning after all the cardboard bits and pieces were collected.

Alison was home while we worked on this, and she's witnessed our attempts to work together. She found herself a nest in the living room and put on her headphones. (The girl has learned a few things over the years...)

We used all the parts that came with the thing and assembled the steel box. It's literally a steel box with vertical slats covered in a zippered fabric shell. Its light, but strong and will be all the box spring we will ever need.

"I bet that the support you built will make this even better," I said, sucking up a tiny bit, but honestly believing it, too.

It's slightly lower than the old set but I don't have to jump up to get into it. The pillows don't slide underneath the head board and when I go to the bathroom at night, I slide off and over rather than having to climb up to the floor like I'm on a submarine.

Here's what it looks like now. Not that anyone but the Captain and I will ever see it...

It's better, right?! And we are still married...

For the love of God, please

Please don't ever look too closely at the tops of your kitchen cabinet doors. Or the little bit of cabinetry that surrounds your stove. Don't wonder if your hand can fit under that bottom drawer under your oven. And don't consider checking out the back of your free-standing microwave.

These are places you should should never, ever think about.

Heed my warning or you'll end up spending most of your Sunday morning on your hands and knees scrubbing at grime and grease that's been living in those spaces rent-free and happy as a grimy lark for years.

Unless you're better than me and deep clean more often. I made the mistake of looking at the spaces I tend to ignore after telling the Captain I was almost out of Costco's Kirkland disinfectant cleaning wipes. It was an innocent mistake. I'd nearly emptied the packet of them I had upstairs in a bid to eliminate some of the grossness of sharing a bathroom with a man.

To be fair, I shed hair like a Shetland sheepdog undergoing chemotherapy. It's gross, too. But my white tiled bathroom floor is clean now, and there's not a speck of dribble on the porcelain throne.

And it turned out that when the Chief Dribbler and Shopper of the family came home with a new case of cleaning cloths, I was actually almost out of the first pack of the 3-pack they come in. When I realized I was now over-stocked with the handy cloths, I decided to wipe down the kitchen counters.

I was done with that and ready to read the paper when I made the mistake of opening one of the cabinet doors, cleaning cloth in hand.

Ever looked at the inside of your kitchen cabinet doors? DON'T DO IT. Otherwise, if you're a real human being with a real human family, you'll see a CSI unit's DNA wet dream.

Neither Jeff nor Alison is particularly tidy in the kitchen. And they're in the kitchen a lot. I don't usually complain because I tend to get some tasty treats out of the deal. I also get dishpan hands cleaning up after them.

One memorable cookie extravaganza of Ali's left a film of powdered sugar over the entire room. This was AFTER she'd cleaned up. The cookies were beautiful and delicious, I grant you. Jeff can't heat up soup without leaving spots of it from heating source to bowl. (There's a pattern here...)

Anyway, most my kitchen is sparkling right now. I finished the open pack and got about half-way through the second in my original Costco case.

I had to play chauffeur before I got to the inside of the refrigerator, and I ended that task with a trip to the gym. In a surprising turn of events, I managed to keep from driving through the drive-thrus of the multiple Dairy Queens I passed. I was hoping to keep from eating until after the gym, and I did! Personal record, Tracy Wiseman: I didn't eat until 4 p.m. when I got home.

And no, I didn't cook any of it. Thank God for leftovers. I'm too exhausted to tackle the inside of the fridge. If I get my way, it'll be take-out menus for the rest of the month.

They Saw Her Coming

I'm not saying Alison Reed is a glutton, but she has the appetite of a lumberjack in that skinny little body of hers. This is what she left behind after our annual Christmas Eve dinner in 2017:

And this is what greeted us when we arrived back at the site of our Christmas Eve foray this year:

In case you missed it, the sign limits customers to one plate of crab legs.

Despite the limitation, she dove back into the crab, extolling its deliciousness to anyone who would listen. Later, after she'd gorged on other treats, she made room for ice cream. She dripped a bit on her skirt. She snatched up the ice cream with a finger.

"Hmm," she said. "Tastes like crab."

Just as she has every year since she discovered crab, our delicate flower reeked on the way home.

Our Maine Christmas was amazing, as always. We worked a tiny bit of the excess off with a trip to a local skating rink that's conveniently situated on a bay, but also across the parking lot from Bissel Brothers brewing. A little fun for everyone on the party.

We had our usual cookie day, where despite years of honing our decorating talents, Auntie Mary kicked our butts with her better detailing. Yes, Alison turned a stocking into a crab claw. She's a little fixated.

We scored our usual bags of loot and spent lots of great, quality time with the Reeds of Maine. It's awesome there. Except for the times when the snow is taller than me, of course. And the wind howls, sending sub-zero temperatures down your shirt. We'll brave it, though. The benefits are worth it.

Oh, side note: I whined a while ago that I couldn't squeeze myself into my wedding dress, which was the dress I'd planned to wear New Year's Eve to the Indy Masquerade. The good news is, I did manage to get into the thing, zip it and still breathe. I could have worn it if I'd wanted to, but I still have a few more pounds to go to make it slip on with a whisper instead of a gasp.

Following a pattern set by my friend Anna, I started shopping at a vintage Goodwill boutique (it's a separate shop from the main site, where I'd started out but didn't find anything that worked) and found a velvet dress for -- get this: $16 and needed only a small hem to make it work. It did the trick and looked super fancy. Had I not told you where I'd gotten it, you'd have thought it would have required at least another zero.

Happy New Year, everyone.

I was wrong...

I was wrong to not pack the chocolate-covered pretzels.They’d already saved my life once this weekend. How could I have left them behind this morning?!

Let me back up. 

I’m trying to extend the time between when I wake up and when I chow down in my bid to be an intermittent faster. Ali had a swim meet Saturday, and I knew it would start early and go long. So, I took a tall travel mug of coffee and purposefully didn’t put snacks in my survival bag. Instead, I packed a book, a battery in case it went so long my electronics died, my iPhone, my iPad and my PR newspaper. I love my kid, but there were eight schools and a bunch of races my kid (or kids I know) wasn't in. I can feign interest only so long.

Knowing I could get a touch hangry, I threw an emergency container of chocolate-covered pretzels in the car, thinking more of a starving swimmer than myself. I had stopped eating at 8 p.m. the night before, and I was at the meet around 9 a.m.

Four hours later (that's 17 hours without food for a girl who wakes up hungry) I was starting to hallucinate and plot the murders of other spectators who’d visited the snack bar and had the bad manners to bring back the bounty they found there. Fake-cheese covered chips, popcorn, M&Ms, both plain and peanut. Hot dogs. The smells. The crunching. The smiles that full tummies brings. Oh, the humanity!

By this time, my electronics had powered down and up again. I was distracted from mass murder by my friend, Denise, who had hoped to see Ali swim but came in just after her last race and literally hours before her next. She had to go before Ali got back in the water. Denise and I took a walk, and I continued it after she left.

It was raining, so I couldn't go outside, and the only open area of the school included the snack bar. Someone back there was grilling hamburgers. The smell was aggressive to put it mildly. Despite my best efforts, I floated toward it like a cartoon character, following my  nose.It was past noon, the earliest I could eat under my intermittent plan. I had really wanted to wait until the meet was over. I’d thought I could last. Wrong. 

I impatiently waited for the guy and the toddler ahead of me. The little girl couldn’t decide between Cheetos and plain chips. She danced around chanting some nonsense that I'm sure was adorable on some other plane of existence. “Just pick one!!!!!” I screamed in my head. I know it was only in my head because they scampered away unharmed and carrying their damn Cheetos.

Finally: my turn. I order a burger, slurring my words a little bit around the saliva that had accumulated in my mouth. My taste buds rejoiced in premature jocularity. I could see them, smell them, taste them!!! I started a little happy dance of my own.

“No burgers,” said the oldish man standing right next to the aluminum foil wrapped tray of steaming burgers. 

“Uh, are you serious?” I asked, amazing myself by not jumping over the half door. I was sure I could take the guy, but there’d be witnesses.

Apparently unaware that his very life was in danger, he advised me that the burgers were for the “help.” I swallowed hard and reassessed the witness pool, which was only growing.

“I’ll have a hot dog,” I managed to say.

It might have been the best hot dog ever formed. And the most quickly devoured. I immediately wanted more but slunk upstairs to take my place among the better snacked. Ninety minutes, one medal, and a podium visit or two later, the meet finally ended and my swimmer emerged. We get to the car and I’m already driving before she shuts her door. “Taco Bell or Arby’s?” I ask. 

“I’m not really hungry,”she says.

I almost stalled the car.”Well I’m starving, “ I say. 

She tossed my emergency snack stash at me. I’d forgotten all about them. I stopped the car to open the lid and then apparently made inappropriate noises as I gorged on dark chocolate and peppermint covered pretzels..

"Wow," she said. 

You’d think that with that experience fresh in my head, getting Ali to a birthday party in the wilds of Hendricks County the next day would have reminded me to pack snacks. But my plan was to treat myself to something in the nearby town. I'd have a late breakfast in a small town cafe or something where I could soak up some ambiance and read and relax. 

It was going to be wonderful. I'd indulge myself for the couple hours Ali would be with her friends.and I'd get a little work done or read the paper or something. A solid plan. After, I'd pick up the party girl and hightail it to Jenna’s Christmas concert on the northwest side of Indianapolis. Dining solo made sense for both time and mileage as the party site is about 30 miles northwest of our house.

Except that we get to Jamestown only to discover the party is in Greenwood. For you non-Hoosiers, Greenwood is about 50 miles southeast of Jamestown. 

It was almost 1 p.m. when I'd gotten Ali to the right spot and found a restaurant in Greenwood. I was ready to eat my own arm off. 

I run into the restaurant only to be greeted -- eventually -- by the oldest hostess still working a hostess stand in America. She's beyond the need to curry favor from anyone and can't quite reach the silverware she's supposed to give me. Wars have been fought and ended faster than the time it took for her to get me to a table. 

Still, I waited patiently, dreaming of something sumptuous. Pancakes maybe. The breeze coming through the window ruffled the laminated pages of the menu and I contemplated running out to the car for my wrap. Hoping to order fast, I toughed it out and started scanning the menu only to be yelled at by the calorie counts next to the yummy pages. I ended up with a half sandwich and soup, which was the most reasonable of the selections. Even the salads were over the top. Huddled there in the wind tunnel, I contemplated pie. I'd suffered enough, goddammit. (I resisted.)

It wasn't long before I had to get back in the car to get Ali and to head back north. I did snag a York Peppermint Patty for dessert. What kind of restaurant offers candy at the register, by the way? I think I was glad I resisted the pie. How good could it have been if they they have to offer you packaged candy at the register?!

After driving another 40 miles, I wasn't hungry anymore and got through the concert just fine. It was super fun and Jenna was a great entertainer. Now, I'm home and have 90 minutes left in the day to eat. 

Wish me luck tomorrow. If you see me out and you're hungry, I'll have yummy pretzels for you.

Your other right

Alison has never had a strong grasp on directions. North, South, East and West are simply words to her, not indicators. And while she can read and speak Latin, sing songs in various languages and recite every element on the periodic table, she's hard pressed to find her way home on her own.

She had a swim meet in Eastern Hancock County Saturday.

She did well in her first time in competitive water this year, but we arrived at 8:30 a.m. and didn't leave until 2 p.m. I've been trying to do this intermittent fasting thing and had purposefully not brought snacks.

By the time the swimmers left the water, the hallucinations were starting. Not remembering that she needed driving practice, I speed walked to the Subaru and asked her if she was hungry. She wasn't but agreed to plug "Arby's" into Google Maps.

"Not Dairy Queen?" she asked.

"Oooh. Dairy Queen," I said, guessing correctly that if there were an Arby's, there'd also be a DQ. I get a sandwich and then head to dessert. We agree that she'll drive once we get all our dietary needs met.

At DQ, I ask her what she wants. She reminds me that she filled up on the coach's bagels.

"YOU love Dairy Queen," she said. "Oh, but if they have those star things, can we get a box?"

I get her an individual item and we decide we need to listen to Christmas music on the way home. And, I remember that Sambol's Tree Farm is in Hancock County. I got a great wreath there last year and was hoping to get another one but didn't want to make the trek out there.

Thank you, Google, it's just down the road. "Let's go!" I say.

She looks at me as she nibbles on her cherry star. "Uh, I'm driving. I can't eat and drive at the same time."

My little rule follower. We find music, she finishes her treat and we wait for the voice in the phone to tell us where to go. Hancock County abuts Marion. It's not exactly Kansas, but it's not her usual environment.

The tree farm is just down from the interstate ramp, so we had our bearings and didn't need Google to get home. I get my wreath, we get back in the car. I tell her to turn left onto the the state road and then look for Interstate 70 where she'll head west.

She looked at me, uncertain. "Follow the sign to Indianapolis," I say.

She gets us on the interstate and I said, "Just keep west, take the Keystone exit and turn right."

We belt out Christmas tunes. I turned to Candy Crush and email and it wasn't long before I heard her say, "Whoops" and inform me that she'd missed the exit.

I looked up and around as the Shadeland exit grew smaller in the rear view mirror.

"We could have gone home that way," I said. "But let's take Keystone."

"OK," she says, explaining, "The sign said Indianapolis."

Just this year, this kid has successfully navigated herself across Eastern Europe and around the state of Tlaxcala, Mexico. But OK. 

I went back to my game. I was on a particularly hard level, and the girl has got to hone her local navigational skills.

My reasoning was that Keystone is clearly marked, and it's a straight shot home. A few miles north, a left, a right and then left onto our own Castle Row.

"You know where you're going, right?" I say when she exits smoothly onto Keystone.

"Yes!" she says indignantly. "I'll be turning right, right?"

I shake my head in the non-affirmative. "Left," I say.

"I'm pretty sure it's right," she said.

I shook my head.
"I know what I'm doing," she said.

"OK," I say, thinking I've got all afternoon, a power source and a heated seat. I leaned back.

She rants at me a little bit more as she makes sure she's driving the speed limit, not a speck more, and checks traffic to change lanes to the right.

I bite my tongue. With more confidence than she deserved to feel, she turns right on 56th and heads east. I maintain my silence. Moving further away from home, but at a steady 40 miles per hour, she happily buzzes along. We come to Allisonville Road. She looks around a bit as we wait on cross traffic.

I'm still minding my own business in the shotgun seat.

"Hey!" she says suddenly. "I'm on the way to Nikki's house."

"Yup," I say.

We crack up as she sighs and turns right and then comes to the next intersection. "I turn right here, don't I?" she asked.

"I don't know, do you?" I ask.

She looks at me. "I think so," she says. "Yeah. I just came from there, so I'm just going to make a big square. I turn right. Right?"

"Right," I say.

We get back to 56th Street and head west toward home.

"You told me to turn right," she said.

"I said left!"

"No, you didn't. You said right!"

"I did not!"

We're shouting, but laughing at the same time.

We get to Keystone. She stops and looks at me, her foot magnetized to the brake.

I'm incredulous at this point. She's lived in this area for all of her 17.5 years on this Earth. Our Ogden friends used to live just up the street from where we are and beyond that is Taco Bell. I know she can get home from Taco Bell. It is not, however, in sight.

"Well, you have some options," I say. "You can just go straight and we can go home down Dominic's hill."

Dominic is a friend from her Christ the King days. If we biked near his house, we had to go up what was to her elementary school-sized legs and little girl bike, an enormous challenge. That incline behind the Chatard baseball field will forever be "Dominic's hill" to us.

She guns it across the intersection and gets us home without another question.

"You said right," she mutters.

Tradition delayed

For at least a dozen years, Ali and I have had a tradition of decorating the Christmas tree together. It's Step 2 of the Reed holiday habit.

Nice spread, aye?

We start things off on the way home from Thanksgiving, which is usually down home, by breaking out Jeff's House of Merle X Marks the Spot Christmas music mix. We sing along for the 90 miles or so it takes us to get home and by the time we get home, we're on the edge of ready.

This year, instead of waking up to hours of pulling out decorations, I got up at 3 to get Ali up and to the airport for a trip to Mexico with her school choir. She was chosen for the 8-day, over the school week, trip to Tlaxcala and has spent the last several days singing her heart out in churches built in the 1500s and traipsing around scenic Mexico.

Mr. Riley is earning his corner of heaven... and snack on Earth.

You can see and listen to her choir here, here, here and here, thanks to great trip chaperones and the magic of Facebook and mu pilfering from a Dad named Mike Berry. His daughter apparently didn't think he was too bossy to go. The least he can do is let me steal from him. 😁

In between multiple singing events, the girls have danced with local villagers, sang with kids, exchanged gifts with schools and host families, scaled ancient ruins, eaten tons of great food and sprang a flash mob in a crowded market. They've had a wonderful time.

As for me? Well, Christmas has still escaped from the bins but the tree is naked of ornaments -- that's Ali's favorite job. One year, we had a tree with little else but stuffed animals. She's gotten over that, though she may not appreciate what I've done with our collection of Island of Misfit Toys collection. She usually insists they sit above the picture window in the front room.

I did put the tree up and wrap it in lights -- not her favorite part. She claims she's excited to get home and get to it. We'll see. She comes home tomorrow night. I've cleared the next day for whatever she wants to do. I expect my morning will be available, though...

When turkeys attack

In an hour or so, we'll get in the car and drive to my sister's house. We'll laugh. We'll eat. We'll make fun of each other and talk about old times.

Like when we were all at home and somehow ended up with an attack turkey. It was a huge old Tom. I don't know why he was so mean, where he came from and if we ever ate him, but he was terrifying.

If you've never had a turkey chase you to the outhouse in the dead of the night, you haven't lived. Or had your bladder control tested.

Too much insight into my psyche on a national holiday? Sorry. Not sorry.

Our upbringing was one long lesson in the old adage, "That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I was the youngest, so I missed some of the more bucolic of our family times, but I'm sure I'll be reminded today. 

We won't be at my family home. It and the outhouse is gone now. The only turkey at Donna's will be on a platter, but if past gatherings are any indication, we'll serve up memories of that enduring life lesson and how our truly devout dad tended to laugh at things that other parents might find alarming. Like:

• When I'd snatched Nancy's 10-speed and was riding down the country road in front of our house and a snarling dog chased me into an electric fence. He was down at the neighbor's house when it happened. They both watched the scene play out. As the dog ran back home, the neighbor asked my dad if they should go untangle me. My dad shook his head no and probably said something about me needing to build up a little more character.
• When my parents' friends were over and the wife was in bathroom when a water pump sprang into action. It was a normal sound for those of us who lived there. Carmen Boyd, however, came from the city. Pants around her ankles, she jumped from the toilet to the ceiling and called for help thinking a wild animal was in there with her.
• When Donna failed to come to dinner for what seemed like hours, only to drag herself inside, wet and cold. She'd fallen into a well while she was out watering the cows and had to drag herself out of there.
• When Diane was dressed for a date and fell into the muddy pig pen.
• When he caught my brothers with smokeless tobacco and made them eat it. Donnie swallowed it and sat there defiant. David had a harder time and Dad let him mix it in with what was left of the gravy.

Sigh. How those were good times, I can't quite explain. I'll have to gather more proof.

Hope your Thanksgiving is full of laughter and safe travels.