No Shave November

As I sit here staring at a Christmas tree invading my space in my usual spot in the corner, I'm reminded that things can be a lot worse. A lot worse. I've been listening a lot to Gary Vaynerchuk, aka Gary Vee, lately and he constantly reminds me to be positive. That complaining isn't worth your time. That we live in an age where we really do have it better than ever.

And before I get too far, I'll warn you, especially you mom, that this may make you cry.

Growing up as a kid, I was totally comfortable with having divorced parents. It was normal for me. I never knew how horrible an experience it is, for everyone involved, until I got older and met kids who had parents in the middle of a divorce. Or parents who didn't talk to each other. And then, as I was even older, I talked to my parents more about their experience in getting a divorce. It sucked. Thankfully, they put me first and, despite what some may claim, I feel like I've come out of the process as a fairly normal person.

My mother would eventually remarry. Bobby. Pa. Bob. Whatever I called him, he was my stepfather. I didn't know it at the time but he wasn't the nicest man. He was but he wasn't. He would go from being a complete racist to showering me with love and gifts. I never knew how good, and bad, he was until I was older. He died twenty years ago this past July and it hit me and my mom hard at the time. It was unexpected.

Shortly after Bobby's death, my mom started dating a new man. Steve. When I first met him, he looked like Jesus. A slightly older version of a long haired, bearded, straight out of some gold plated art piece, Jesus. I was shocked at how fast my mom went from grieving her husband to moving in with a new man. As I got a little older and watched other people in my family go through the same process of losing a spouse, I realized it wasn't a mistake. I realized it was perfectly acceptable because it was what they wanted. It made them happy to be together, love each other, to live with each other. I was the one that had a problem, not them.

I got over my problem with mom and Steve. I grew to accept Steve. I never lived with Steve as much as Bobby so I never got to know him as well as I should have. Again, that was my problem, not theirs. But over the last twenty years, I've gotten to know him well enough that he's been the best thing my mother could hope for. The best thing I could hope for in somebody taking care of my mom. And they really do take care of each other.

Where is all of this leading? Steve has cancer. He's had several different types of treatments with varying levels of success. But the cancer isn't curable. He's currently going through chemotherapy treatments which, as is often the case, is leading to hair loss. For a man that has had long hair and a beard for decades, this is a big deal. Even though he says it doesn't matter, I think it's been part of his identity for so long, I think it will matter.

So that's why I grew a beard for a month. No Shave November, or Movember in some places, began as a way to raise awareness of cancer in men. It has grown over the years and morphed a bit, but the endgame is still the same. Raise awareness and money for cancer research. So I grew a beard for a month.

In the end, it was interesting to see how everyone reacted. My son noticed first and knew exactly what I was doing. My wife and daughter noticed but didn't say anything for a bit. My wife made it clear she didn't like the beard. My kids didn't care much. I don't think my dad said anything about it. My mom was sad when she found out why. I told her that if Steve was going to lose his beard to chemo, I could grow one for a month in honor of him.

Every day, I was tempted to cut it off. It itched for the first week. Made me look like a skunk for the second week. Tickled and made my face feel numb in the third week. Insulated my face from a cold pillow in the last week. All in all, it wasn't fun. But I knew, every time I wanted to call it quits early, I knew Steve had it worse than me. So I kept it growing.

As others around town noticed, only a few asked why I was growing a beard. If they asked, I told them. It felt weird giving an elevator pitch on how my beard was linked to Steve but after a few tries I got a little better. Most people didn't ask. Some didn't notice. And that made me realize that it was like cancer. So many people have survived it or are currently suffering from it yet they don't throw it around in conversation.

As we're now past No Shave November, I'm back to a clean shaven face. I hated that beard. I don't think I'll ever grow another one. I hate cancer. But I can't do anything about that. But maybe, just maybe, if we all throw a few coins into a pot, we can help researchers find a cure or a better treatment. After all, cancer treatments have progressed exponentially in modern history. After all, we really do have it better than ever.

Beard:

No Beard:

Family Recipes vs. Mobile Apps

As a fresh-faced house spouse that's a 41 year old man, I'm a bit of a contradiction. And I'm okay with that. People don't understand my role in my family and in society and usually give a look of confusion when I answer the "what do you do" question. But to be honest, sometimes I don't understand my role either.

You see, as a house spouse, or housespouse if you prefer, I am fighting decades, centuries, and maybe even millennia of tradition where the "man" is the provider and the "woman" is the house keeper. So giving me a confused look is totally okay. But I challenge your preconceived notion about me because I still feel as though I "provide" for my family, just in other ways.

One of the ways I provide is by cooking. And I have a long and checkered past with cooking. Once upon a time, back in the olden days when television was on low-definition and cassingles were easily found, my ability to cook was limited to the simple things. A bowl of cereal. A sandwich with cheese and mayo. A box of macaroni was about as complex as I got.

As I grew older, I expanded my cooking abilities by learning how to make hot cereal, adding ham to my sandwiches, and, when I wanted to live on the edge, put tuna in my mac and cheese. But now that I'm a house spouse and YouTube creator, I'm delving deep into cooking. Deeper than I ever expected to go. And I have the women in my life to thank for it.

My wife was, and probably still is, extremely cautious about my cooking. While she seems happy to teach me how to cook certain things, she doesn't like it when I don't follow the recipe. Or when I DON'T. FOLLOW. THE. RECIPE.

I have my reasons for changing things, namely that when I cook, I try to put things in that I like but also know that the kids might like. And sometimes I just want a change on that recipe that's been used and reused so many times we're all a little tired of it. But another big reason is food allergies. My kids and myself are allergic to a few things and adding or removing or otherwise modifying a recipe is pretty normal. Prime example is most cookie  and cake recipes from my grandmothers include nuts of some type. That's a big no-go in our house.

But back to the recipes. According to the Washington Post, they might be "dead." And I can sort of see their point. With Generations Y and Z, apps are the shiznit. Apps are so hip, that my daily crossword will use "APP" as the answer to clues talking about computer programs. Meanwhile, I still try to make "SOFTWARE" fit into three squares. Apps are so commonplace, they can do just about everything for you. And as the article suggests, cooking is one of those things.

Despite all of these things swirling around in the vortex of today and the future of cooking, I'm not sure I agree with the idea that recipes are dead. And as I sit here and think of ways to convince you that I'm right, the only thing I can do is prove that recipes will become more of an "artisan" thing. Like blacksmithing and glassblowing, using recipes will not die, only become more of a niche market for artists.

That makes me sad. As much as I want to preserve history, especially my family's history, I can see how cooking will become an art (I mean, it already is but you know what I mean) reserved for special meals and everyday cooking will be relegated to bots, apps, and maybe even food replicators.

So where does that leave me as a housespouse trying to learn how to cook? It leaves me in debt to those women who came before me and who are with me now. My grandmothers, their mothers, my parents, my wife, all of them have worked so hard at the hearth, the oven, the cooktop, to ensure I was fed and wouldn't go hungry. I can only hope my children can do the same for their kids.

Behind the Scenes at the KGES Today Show

Happy Thanksgiving

New Polaroid Film In An Old Polaroid Camera - A Review

A recent Instagram post by my local camera shop (shout out to Richmond Camera!) showed some new Polaroid film hitting the shelves. As in, old film that's not so old any more. As in, I can use my old camera now!

Some History

As I was doing some research for my 40 Years Ago Today project, I had many Polaroids that needed dates on them. I could guess based on what was in the image but if it wasn't labeled, I couldn't tell for sure. The research was further complicated by the fact that I had Polaroids from several different people in my collection.

As I began to research the film itself, I quickly learned there was a way to identify when the film was manufactured. Once I found the production codes on the back of the film, I was able to better guess as to the range of years the Polaroid came from. I could also get a clear picture on which photos were from the same production batch. This helped in some cases where I may have had two different pictures from one single film batch but only one picture had a date on it.

Another interesting tidbit I never knew about Polaroid film until I did this research was that the batteries to power the camera were inside the film cartridge. This means that when the film is used and the cartridge is ejected, there are no batteries left to corrode in the camera. And for me, this meant that the camera was left is nearly pristine condition when I started using it again. Granted, I probably should have cleaned the rollers inside like the directions said and should have made sure everything looked good, but hey, it worked right away after decades of sitting around.

If you look at this Polaroid, it was manufactured in October of 1976. But the photo was taken in May of 1977.

The Film

There are eight (8) photos per cartridge. And at roughly $20 per cartridge, you're talking an average of $2.50 per photo. So think about your photos wisely. Below are some photos of the film as it's sold today. Note that the box has a stamped date on the bottom for when it was produced.

I can't really show you the cartridge until I finish this particular pack of film. But from the looks of things, it hasn't changed much. Although the battery does look a little more modern.

Included with the film is of course an instruction page. I really enjoy the part about shaking it.

The Camera

The camera is old. As in, I'm not even sure how old it is but I'd guess early 1980s. This is based on a photo taken in June of 1981 and a family photo in 1982. It's also the first camera I ever remember using as a kid. I specifically remember visiting my mom in Salinas, California in the trailer park that she lived in. We went up to the pool house and she gave me the camera and I took a picture of her. It was pretty crooked but I remember the awe of being allowed to use this fancy camera. I also learned that I needed to hold the camera steady and straight.

Since then, the camera has been a staple of most of the 1980s. It wasn't the best camera and my dad would eventually use a 35mm Canon for most of the important stuff but that meant the camera became mine. And while I didn't always take pictures of everything, I did use it. Once I got older and began using 35mm and then digital camera, I eventually left the Polaroid in a drawer or box never to be used again. At least that's what I thought.

Below are some photos of the camera. I can't show the serial numbers inside the flap until I finish this pack of film. But I'll try to come back and update the post later.* Note the light/dark dial on the front, the photo counter on the back, and the shutter button. The flash shown is a disposable flash bar that is powered by the battery in the film pack. I do have another flash that snaps onto the top of the camera and is powered by four AA batteries.

***UPDATE***
I found a used Polaroid exactly like mine at a local Goodwill store on November 28, 2017. I purchased it, along with the external battery-powered flash bar, for a whopping five dollars. After a light dusting, I put a new cartridge of film inside and pushed the shutter button. And it worked! Sadly, the flash bar was too compromised by corroded batteries to work. Below are photos from the inside of this new Polaroid camera.

The Results

The first photo I took, I used the flash, stood under a single lightbulb, and totally overexposed the film.

The second photo was a little worse. I assumed the overhead lights would be enough to light the subjects, but it wasn't. Should have used the flash. I also had some issues with the shutter button. I'm not sure if it's because I have fat fingers or if the button was recessed too much or if the button is old and not working right or if I was just being stupid. What ever the source of the problem, it didn't quite work as expected. Which I assume is why the image is blurry.

My third photo went much better. I stepped further back, had more lights (including the flashbar), and took extra care to press the shutter button carefully. As you can see, much better! But you'll also notice the image looks a little washed out some with the colors. They don't exactly "pop" but then again, it's an old camera using new film.

August Recap

As I realize I've forgotten to post a lot of photos this month, I figured a recap was in order. So enjoy.

The end of July saw the completion of the deck replacement. It also meant we would finally close on the Round Hill house in August. It was our first home. And while I would love to say that we could keep it forever, our move to Fort Max was the right thing to do. Even though we've had struggles here, in the end, it's a far superior house.

I mean, how could NOT take a photo of a weeener out in public?!

Elizabeth helped create a Whomping Willow tree at the local book store. And I was supposed to find out if these books are worth reading.

I mean, it's Mike Wardian. What else do I need to say? And a fellow Oil Creek runner. And the last place finisher accepting the Musical Caboose award.

The first day of school.

Aside from a bunch of research, I'm also reliving my childhood when I see stuff like this at Goodwill.

And speaking of research, I get to learn about all sorts of stuff. Like Prince Michael Romanoff used to live in the area. He ended up being a Hollywood legend and was even a pallbearer for Erroll Flynn.

Despite the traffic, I actually enjoy picking Elizabeth up at middle school. Keeps reminding me of my high school days.

I mentioned the nostalgia of my childhood in the 80s, right?

A local surveyor lives in the neighborhood. Keep looking until you see it.

William appears to be reliving my childhood too.

Yes, I was in a band called the Fried Egg Yolks. No, I won't say who was in it with me. Not because it's a big secret, but more to protect the innocence of the other person. After all, we played together like two times and, well, let's just say I had no idea what I was doing with a guitar. Since he may not want to be associated with that particular moment of history, I'll allow him to keep his dignity. Not worried about mine. Make sure you read the paragraph again Yvonne. It's to protect him, not because I want to keep secrets from you.

So what does all of this lead up to? September. Where I can hopefully get my stuff organized enough to write the Prologue of my story. Here's a hint. My childhood home in Oxnard, CA.