I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!
Last Thursday we went caroling at the local nursing home. I guess in my idea of a perfect world, the elderly aren't like discontinued figurines, placed somewhere then forgotten. It broke my heart when the home administrator, her voice choking with tears, thanked our group again and again for coming. She told us the residents we would see were the ones who rarely received visitors, especially during the holidays. Leading us down a narrow hallway, she brought us into a large dining room, filled with 50-60 residents, all displaying different stages of depression; some anxiously scanning the faces in our crowd, obviously hoping to see a long-absent loved one. Since I was pushing Robert in the stroller, we were moved to the front of the group. I wasn't too happy with that. I envisioned Robert escaping from his stroller and trying to go for a ride in someone's wheelchair, myself and a stream of people chasing him.
Our group hadn't sang together since last Christmas, but on that night, we were truly blessed, for our voices blended and complimented each other as we smiled and sang to that roomful of people. At the end of the first song, we were surprised by the enthusiastic applause. Robert, always wanting to be the center of attention, stood up in his stroller, clapped, and said, 'Thank you; thank you very much." The residents loved it, and clapped harder. They were so happy to have visitors. Allergies had me down all day, now I was ashamed that I considered not going there with my children.
We left there with a feeling of happiness, a result of the true meaning of Christmas
-------------------------------------
We had a quiet, but wonderful, Christmas. Christmas Day the boys played with their Kawasaki keyboard, and with the Playstation 2 and games Santa left. There's one game that they have a hard time prying me away from--it's called Dance Dance Revolution 2. It has a workout mode I'm in love with. I couldn't help but notice though, there a "clumsy" warning about falling and being too close to the television. Hmm. . .wonder if the designers created that warning with me in mind?
How was your Christmas?
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
A little more. . .
I found this fun meme at chelle's blog
The Letter A
Are you agnostic? No.
What is your age? I seldom act my age, so I lose track. Thirty-six.
What annoys you? People who are late and don’t have enough consideration to call and let you know they’re running late.
The Letter B
Do you like bacon? It’s okay. I could take it or leave it. .
What is your birthday? September 5th
Who is your best friend? John, of course
.
The Letter C
What is your favorite candy? Cinnamon disks
Who is your crush? John (boring, huh?)
When was the last time you cried? At the family Christmas. We lost 4 this year, one after the other.
The Letter D
Do you daydream? Course, that’s how I get some story ideas.
What is your favorite kind of dog? Husky/Malamute
What day of the week is it? Thursday
The Letter E
How do you like your eggs? Fried or scrambled
Have you ever been in the emergency room? Laughing my butt off on this one. Oh yeah. There for a while I thought they’d give us a reserved parking place.
What’s the easiest thing to ever do? Fall in love.
The Letter F
Have you ever flown in a plane? Yes
Do you use fly swatters? Yep
Have you ever used a foghorn? No, my voice is loud enough.
The Letter G
Do you chew gum? Yes.
Are you a giver or taker. Giver
.The Letter H
How are you? In what sense are you asking this?
What’s your height? 5′6 and ¾ inches. (might as well say 5’7”)
What color is your hair? Dark Brown
The Letter I
What is your favorite ice-cream? Chocolate mint
Have you ever ice-skated? Yes
Do you play an instrument? Yes, several.
The Letter J
What is your favorite jelly bean? Any kind that Jelly Belly makes
Do you wear jewelry? Toe rings, wedding ring, silver bracelet, necklace
Have you heard a really hilarious joke? Sometimes
The Letter K
Who do you want to kill? No one!
Do you want kids? As in do I want any more? I’m happy with these two
Where did you have kindergarten? Central Texas
The Letter L
Are you laid-back? Very laid-back; sometimes too much.
Do you lie? Not very much; I really try not to.
Do you love anyone? Yeah, friends, family. . .
The Letter M
What is your favorite movie? Rose Red
Do you still watch Disney movies? Yep
Do you like mangos? They’re okay.
The Letter N
Do you have a nickname? Deb
What is your favorite number? 23
Do you prefer night or day? morning.
The Letter O
What is your one wish? My children be healthy and prosperous
Are you an only child? Yes. My older brother is deceased
Do you wish this year was over? No.
The Letter P
What is one fear that you are most paranoid about? Being stalked, again. Happened several years ago when I was in my twenties.
What personality trait would you look for in someone you wanted to date? Honesty and humor
The Letter Q
Are you quick to judge people? No not really; I try and give people the benefit of the doubt.
The Letter R
Do you think you are always right? No, not perfect
Do you watch reality T.V.? Yeah, sometimes. I, um, like American Idol
What is a good reason to cry? When there’s a good reason for it.
The Letter S
Do you prefer sun or rain? I love rainy days. I light a candle, watch old movies, listen to music, read, or bake.
Do you like snow? I love it.
What is your favorite season? Fall
The Letter T
What time is it? 6:16 pm.
What time did you wake up? 5:30.
When was the last time you slept in a tent? A year ago in my back yard
The Letter U
Are you wearing underwear? Let me check. . . yeah!
The Letter V
What is the worst veggie? Brussel sprouts
Where do you want to go on vacation? Spain or Italy
What was your last family vacation together? This past summer
The Letter W
What is your worst habit? Being sarcastic
Where do you live? Texas
The Letter X
Have you ever had an X-ray? yes.
Have you ever seen the X-Games? no.
Do you own a xylophone? No.
The Letter Y
Do you like the color yellow? It’s okay. Blue’s my favorite though
What year where you born in? 1970
What do you yearn for most? ?
The Letter Z
What is your Zodiac Sign? Virgo
Do you believe in the Zodiac? nope.
What is your favorite zoo animal? Zebra. I’d love to ride one. J.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Crazy Weekend. . .what, you're surprised?
Last week was a whirlwind of activities. Seth had 4H meetings and a band concert, and some of the family, who missed the party earlier in the month, were coming on Friday to celebrate Christmas; this time there would be overnight company.
I waited until Thursday to do my major cleaning, and paid dearly for my procrastination. The house looked worse than it did before I started; cleaned window treatments were draped over the back of couches--which were pulled away from the living room walls so I could sweep behind them--cookie sheets and empty mixing bowls filled the kitchen sink, and remnants of Christmas wrapping paper littered my bedroom floor.
"There's no way I can get all this done by tomorrow," I muttered, rubbing my forehead as I walked from room to room, surveying the damage. In addition to the cleaning, I still had to finish cooking, Christmas shop, and finish stringing up the rest of the outside lights I had bought a few days earlier.
"Hey Mommy," Robert called from the living room. "I'm helping you clean."
That bodes no good, I thought, my "mommy-sense" tingling as I hurried to the living room. I pressed my fist hard against my lips, fighting the scream that was building inside of me because of what I saw.
There, standing by the antique off-white couch my mother-in-law gave me before her death, watercolors and paint brush in hand, was Robert. "See, I made it pretty," he announced proudly, pointing to the large, rainbow-colored streaks on the cushions. As dismayed as I was, I couldn't remain angry; after all, he did think he was helping.
"Umm. . .yeah. . .that's pretty," I said, kneeling down until I was eye-level with him. "But, you know, we don't paint furniture. Why don't you paint that pretty rainbow on paper, then give it to Granny as a gift?" Robert's face had fallen when he was told he couldn't create masterpieces on the couch, but his enthusiasm returned at the prospect of giving Granny a gift. Great, now I have to add "steam clean the couch" to my list, I thought tiredly, getting manilla paper out of the craft drawer for Robert's creation.
By Thursday night, the chaos was under control, or so I thought. Friday morning I cleaned furiously, as if my life depended upon it; in a way, it did. My mama, the "neat freak", was coming with the remainder of the family, so everything had to be perfect. In the past, when she came to my house, inevitably, she'd find a wayward toy under the coffee table, or peaking from beneath the couch. This led to a five minute lecture from her on the "tripping hazards". Not this time though, this time my house would be perfect. My house isn't filthy; I guess, in a sense, I'm a "neat freak" as well.
At noon, Robert and I stopped cleaning long enough to pick up a couple more gifts Christmas in town--would you believe nothing happened--and grab a bite to eat. I finished up the house when we got back. Later that afternoon, I became a mother again, six times over. John came home with Seth's 4H project, five baby bunnies and their mother. We had just put the bunnies in their hutch when my family pulled into the driveway.
Noisy, heartfelt greetings were exchanged, and we all trooped into the house. I held my breath as Mama coolly glanced around the house. "The house looks and smells wonderful," she said finally. Everything past inspection, and I was relieved.
"But dear," she continued, looking me up and down disapprovingly, "you're not going to go out to eat with us looking like that, are you?"
I felt, and knew I looked like crap. My hair was windblown, and waving in different directions; glancing down at my dirty, rabbit pee smelling shorts, I had an evil thought. "Of course I am Mama, and I'm going to stand up and announce to the restaurant what your name is, that you never let me have nice clothes as a child, and this is the only way I know how to dress," I retorted mischievously.
"Funny girl," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
I showered--rabbit pee isn't my perfume of choice--changed, then we all ate at Texas Red's, an old cotton gin converted into a restaurant. You're served peanuts as an appetizer, and since the floor is hardwood, you're asked to throw the peanut shells onto the floor, so that it can absorb the peanut oil when the shells are stepped on.
Mama didn't understand the philosophy behind the discarded shells at first. "Debra, didn't I raise you not to throw trash on the floor?" she scolded. I tried to explain, but it was in vain, she was convinced I was making excuses. I grabbed a passing waitress, and made her explain it.
"Well, I'm not going to do it," Mama whispered to me huffily. "I think it's rude."
I sighed and slumped in my chair. Mama was a lot of fun to be around, but she was so proper, sometimes too proper. The dinner went great, the only exception when Mama got into the habit of throwing her shells, and accidentally hit my cousin in the face.
The next day, we celebrated Christmas together, and after the cars were loaded with their gifts, we bid the family a tearful good-bye. The house whose walls rang with laughter, now sat quiet, too quiet. The dust had not yet settled in the driveway, and already we missed our family members.
Our sadness was short-lived when a family friend (a surrogate grandfather) arrived a few hours later, gifting us with a slightly used golf cart. Way cool!
Hmm. . .golf cart + me= adventure and possible disaster, don't you think?
What did you do this weekend?
I waited until Thursday to do my major cleaning, and paid dearly for my procrastination. The house looked worse than it did before I started; cleaned window treatments were draped over the back of couches--which were pulled away from the living room walls so I could sweep behind them--cookie sheets and empty mixing bowls filled the kitchen sink, and remnants of Christmas wrapping paper littered my bedroom floor.
"There's no way I can get all this done by tomorrow," I muttered, rubbing my forehead as I walked from room to room, surveying the damage. In addition to the cleaning, I still had to finish cooking, Christmas shop, and finish stringing up the rest of the outside lights I had bought a few days earlier.
"Hey Mommy," Robert called from the living room. "I'm helping you clean."
That bodes no good, I thought, my "mommy-sense" tingling as I hurried to the living room. I pressed my fist hard against my lips, fighting the scream that was building inside of me because of what I saw.
There, standing by the antique off-white couch my mother-in-law gave me before her death, watercolors and paint brush in hand, was Robert. "See, I made it pretty," he announced proudly, pointing to the large, rainbow-colored streaks on the cushions. As dismayed as I was, I couldn't remain angry; after all, he did think he was helping.
"Umm. . .yeah. . .that's pretty," I said, kneeling down until I was eye-level with him. "But, you know, we don't paint furniture. Why don't you paint that pretty rainbow on paper, then give it to Granny as a gift?" Robert's face had fallen when he was told he couldn't create masterpieces on the couch, but his enthusiasm returned at the prospect of giving Granny a gift. Great, now I have to add "steam clean the couch" to my list, I thought tiredly, getting manilla paper out of the craft drawer for Robert's creation.
By Thursday night, the chaos was under control, or so I thought. Friday morning I cleaned furiously, as if my life depended upon it; in a way, it did. My mama, the "neat freak", was coming with the remainder of the family, so everything had to be perfect. In the past, when she came to my house, inevitably, she'd find a wayward toy under the coffee table, or peaking from beneath the couch. This led to a five minute lecture from her on the "tripping hazards". Not this time though, this time my house would be perfect. My house isn't filthy; I guess, in a sense, I'm a "neat freak" as well.
At noon, Robert and I stopped cleaning long enough to pick up a couple more gifts Christmas in town--would you believe nothing happened--and grab a bite to eat. I finished up the house when we got back. Later that afternoon, I became a mother again, six times over. John came home with Seth's 4H project, five baby bunnies and their mother. We had just put the bunnies in their hutch when my family pulled into the driveway.
Noisy, heartfelt greetings were exchanged, and we all trooped into the house. I held my breath as Mama coolly glanced around the house. "The house looks and smells wonderful," she said finally. Everything past inspection, and I was relieved.
"But dear," she continued, looking me up and down disapprovingly, "you're not going to go out to eat with us looking like that, are you?"
I felt, and knew I looked like crap. My hair was windblown, and waving in different directions; glancing down at my dirty, rabbit pee smelling shorts, I had an evil thought. "Of course I am Mama, and I'm going to stand up and announce to the restaurant what your name is, that you never let me have nice clothes as a child, and this is the only way I know how to dress," I retorted mischievously.
"Funny girl," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
I showered--rabbit pee isn't my perfume of choice--changed, then we all ate at Texas Red's, an old cotton gin converted into a restaurant. You're served peanuts as an appetizer, and since the floor is hardwood, you're asked to throw the peanut shells onto the floor, so that it can absorb the peanut oil when the shells are stepped on.
Mama didn't understand the philosophy behind the discarded shells at first. "Debra, didn't I raise you not to throw trash on the floor?" she scolded. I tried to explain, but it was in vain, she was convinced I was making excuses. I grabbed a passing waitress, and made her explain it.
"Well, I'm not going to do it," Mama whispered to me huffily. "I think it's rude."
I sighed and slumped in my chair. Mama was a lot of fun to be around, but she was so proper, sometimes too proper. The dinner went great, the only exception when Mama got into the habit of throwing her shells, and accidentally hit my cousin in the face.
The next day, we celebrated Christmas together, and after the cars were loaded with their gifts, we bid the family a tearful good-bye. The house whose walls rang with laughter, now sat quiet, too quiet. The dust had not yet settled in the driveway, and already we missed our family members.
Our sadness was short-lived when a family friend (a surrogate grandfather) arrived a few hours later, gifting us with a slightly used golf cart. Way cool!
Hmm. . .golf cart + me= adventure and possible disaster, don't you think?
What did you do this weekend?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The soccer experience
Eagerly, I scrambled out of the Ford Bronco; inhaling the fresh, clean scent of the morning, as Seth—four at the time—tugged on my arm like frisky colt. Dew sparkled like polished glass on the grasses, while the sun, a glowing yellow orb in the pale blue autumn sky, warmed the Earth.
“C’mon Mommy. Let’s go, everybody is there,” he urged, pulling me toward the soccer field.
“We have plenty of time,” I replied, “we need to wait for Daddy.”
My calmness was a façade. I had been involved in sports for as long as I could remember, and now I was fluctuating between wanting to play the entire soccer game by myself, and looking for a quiet place to puke. Neither was an option; I had to coach my son’s team in our final game. We were a young and inexperienced team, and despite all our efforts that season, we were playing for the bragging rights of fourth place in a six-team division.
“Gee, thanks,” John quipped, grunting as he lifted a cooler from the rear of the vehicle. “You could help me carry this.”
“I’m watching our child,” I said, “and besides, you’re so much stronger than I am,” I replied, batting my eyelashes and lapsing into my “I’m just a poor helpless girl” routine.
“Good call, Coach,” a soccer parent chuckled, patting my back as she walked past.
“Yeah, right,” her husband retorted, rolling his eyes. “Here, I’ll help ya,” he told John, grabbing the other end of the loaded cooler.
“Come on Seth, let’s go,” their son and Seth’s teammate, Dexter, chimed. We let the boys run ahead to the fields, and walking at a more leisurely pace, we joined them a couple of minutes later.
My teams’ shin guards were too big, almost reaching their knobby knees, but donned in their uniforms, they looked like shrunken versions of the soccer players seen on TV. My heart soared as I watched them skillfully pass the ball to each other; they had come so far in the short amount of time we had.
“Hey, who do we play?” Dexter’s mom asked.
“The Angels,” John replied.
Just the mention of that team brought a hush over the parents standing on the sidelines. We had played them twice that season, and each time they trounced us soundly. “More like “Hell’s Angels,” one dad said, causing a ripple of laughter.
“Maybe they’ll forget and not show up,” another offered.
“Oh no, they’ll show up. They’re playing for first place.” I said. I shook my head, still not understanding how it could be fair to get first place by beating a weaker team; but the Angels were almost undefeated, and if their nemesis, The Raccoons lost, the Angels won the division.
A few minutes before game time, the opposing team arrived; clad in sky-blue colored uniforms, they were the pictures of confidence. “Ready to get beaten again?” My stomach lurched at the sound of the obnoxious voice behind me. Turning, I faced Brandi, a mountain of a woman, and who, perhaps if I could have found a ladder, would have received a swift kick in the kneecaps from me. A sharp glance from John reminded me there were children present, and a normal smart remark from me would not be a good idea.
Instead, I gathered my team around me. “They’ve beaten us every time, and they think this will be easy,” I remember saying, fire in my every word. “But they’re not gonna score one goal are they?”
“No!” retorted the team.
“What? I can’t hear you!”
“No!” screamed the kids, boiling out onto the field as the whistle to begin play sounded.
All through the first half, I walked the sidelines, yelling instructions and encouragement to my players. “Stay with them! NO ONE GETS PAST!”
“Gee, Coach,” said the ref, pausing a couple of seconds beside me. “Why don’t you just give ‘em helmets and pads and let ‘em go after it.”
‘If you think it’ll help,” I retorted with mock innocence. My tiny players were determined, and not one goal was scored on them the first half. During the juice break, I raved to them on how well they were playing; it was obvious they were tired, but they still has “the eye of the tiger.”
In the last few minutes of the game, our opponents had the ball and were driving to our goal. Suddenly their player lost control of the ball, and there was a mad flurry of legs as both teams sought possession. Then, out of the dust, emerged Seth, my baby, driving toward the opponent’s goal, the ball well under his control, no one in front of him.
I felt like I was in a dream as I raced down the sidelines, hurdling coolers and chairs, while calling to encouragement to my son. Not only were we going to win, but also my baby was going to score the winning goal!
Then it happened. I watched in dismay as Seth stopped abruptly and bent over. Was it an injury, a cramp? I couldn’t believe what I saw next. Plucking a flower from the field, he abandoned the ball, and trotted over to the sidelines towards me, the plant clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. I felt like a deflating balloon as I watched the other team kick take the ball back down the field and score.
That’s the game,” the ref called, glancing at his watch. I couldn’t block out the jubilant cries of the Angels, and I hate to say it, I felt ill. It’s not so much we lost; it was the fact we lost to Brandi.
“Mooommmmy,” Seth yelled, pulling at my sleeve. I picked this flower just for you ‘cause I love you. It’s so pretty, don’t you think?”
I took the slightly smashed dandelion he offered me, thankful I had such a loving, considerate child. The other team may have taken home the trophy, but I, I had the real prize.
“C’mon Mommy. Let’s go, everybody is there,” he urged, pulling me toward the soccer field.
“We have plenty of time,” I replied, “we need to wait for Daddy.”
My calmness was a façade. I had been involved in sports for as long as I could remember, and now I was fluctuating between wanting to play the entire soccer game by myself, and looking for a quiet place to puke. Neither was an option; I had to coach my son’s team in our final game. We were a young and inexperienced team, and despite all our efforts that season, we were playing for the bragging rights of fourth place in a six-team division.
“Gee, thanks,” John quipped, grunting as he lifted a cooler from the rear of the vehicle. “You could help me carry this.”
“I’m watching our child,” I said, “and besides, you’re so much stronger than I am,” I replied, batting my eyelashes and lapsing into my “I’m just a poor helpless girl” routine.
“Good call, Coach,” a soccer parent chuckled, patting my back as she walked past.
“Yeah, right,” her husband retorted, rolling his eyes. “Here, I’ll help ya,” he told John, grabbing the other end of the loaded cooler.
“Come on Seth, let’s go,” their son and Seth’s teammate, Dexter, chimed. We let the boys run ahead to the fields, and walking at a more leisurely pace, we joined them a couple of minutes later.
My teams’ shin guards were too big, almost reaching their knobby knees, but donned in their uniforms, they looked like shrunken versions of the soccer players seen on TV. My heart soared as I watched them skillfully pass the ball to each other; they had come so far in the short amount of time we had.
“Hey, who do we play?” Dexter’s mom asked.
“The Angels,” John replied.
Just the mention of that team brought a hush over the parents standing on the sidelines. We had played them twice that season, and each time they trounced us soundly. “More like “Hell’s Angels,” one dad said, causing a ripple of laughter.
“Maybe they’ll forget and not show up,” another offered.
“Oh no, they’ll show up. They’re playing for first place.” I said. I shook my head, still not understanding how it could be fair to get first place by beating a weaker team; but the Angels were almost undefeated, and if their nemesis, The Raccoons lost, the Angels won the division.
A few minutes before game time, the opposing team arrived; clad in sky-blue colored uniforms, they were the pictures of confidence. “Ready to get beaten again?” My stomach lurched at the sound of the obnoxious voice behind me. Turning, I faced Brandi, a mountain of a woman, and who, perhaps if I could have found a ladder, would have received a swift kick in the kneecaps from me. A sharp glance from John reminded me there were children present, and a normal smart remark from me would not be a good idea.
Instead, I gathered my team around me. “They’ve beaten us every time, and they think this will be easy,” I remember saying, fire in my every word. “But they’re not gonna score one goal are they?”
“No!” retorted the team.
“What? I can’t hear you!”
“No!” screamed the kids, boiling out onto the field as the whistle to begin play sounded.
All through the first half, I walked the sidelines, yelling instructions and encouragement to my players. “Stay with them! NO ONE GETS PAST!”
“Gee, Coach,” said the ref, pausing a couple of seconds beside me. “Why don’t you just give ‘em helmets and pads and let ‘em go after it.”
‘If you think it’ll help,” I retorted with mock innocence. My tiny players were determined, and not one goal was scored on them the first half. During the juice break, I raved to them on how well they were playing; it was obvious they were tired, but they still has “the eye of the tiger.”
In the last few minutes of the game, our opponents had the ball and were driving to our goal. Suddenly their player lost control of the ball, and there was a mad flurry of legs as both teams sought possession. Then, out of the dust, emerged Seth, my baby, driving toward the opponent’s goal, the ball well under his control, no one in front of him.
I felt like I was in a dream as I raced down the sidelines, hurdling coolers and chairs, while calling to encouragement to my son. Not only were we going to win, but also my baby was going to score the winning goal!
Then it happened. I watched in dismay as Seth stopped abruptly and bent over. Was it an injury, a cramp? I couldn’t believe what I saw next. Plucking a flower from the field, he abandoned the ball, and trotted over to the sidelines towards me, the plant clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. I felt like a deflating balloon as I watched the other team kick take the ball back down the field and score.
That’s the game,” the ref called, glancing at his watch. I couldn’t block out the jubilant cries of the Angels, and I hate to say it, I felt ill. It’s not so much we lost; it was the fact we lost to Brandi.
“Mooommmmy,” Seth yelled, pulling at my sleeve. I picked this flower just for you ‘cause I love you. It’s so pretty, don’t you think?”
I took the slightly smashed dandelion he offered me, thankful I had such a loving, considerate child. The other team may have taken home the trophy, but I, I had the real prize.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Made My Day!
Much More than a Mom, presented me with this:
for my post entitled, " New Concept on Scratch and Sniff Packaging".
She's so sweet to think of me, and I'm flattered!
for my post entitled, " New Concept on Scratch and Sniff Packaging".
She's so sweet to think of me, and I'm flattered!
Sunday, December 10, 2006
An Urgent Warning
If you have a space heater, or are thinking of getting one, please read this.
In the wintertime, where I reside, the temperature rarely dips below 40 degrees Fahrenheit, either in the day or night, making the use of Central Heat unnecessary. Instead, we use RIVAL floor heaters. When we bought the heaters a couple of years ago, the smiling sales associate pointed out that this brand of heater came with a safety mechanism; it cuts off if tipped over. We never had any trouble with them until a few nights ago.
This Thursday, after my usual nightly walk, I collapsed on the couch with the remote. Everyone else was asleep, and I intended on having some much needed “me time” with the TV.
I can’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew, I was awakened by the sound of an extremely loud commercial. Yawning, I turned off the TV, and rolled over on the couch. “Might as well bunk here tonight; don’t wanna disturb John,” I muttered to myself.”
I closed my eyes, only to open them with a start. It’s unexplainable, but something didn’t seem right. As if led by an unseen force, I got off the couch and walked down the hallway, pausing in front of my oldest son’s room. Just outside the door, my nostrils were assaulted by a foul acid smell.
To my horror, the floor heater in his room was laying face down on the floor, the motor running full blast. As I said earlier, the darn thing is SUPPOSED to have an automatic cut-off switch, but it didn’t cut off.
It what seemed to me like slow motion, I jerked the heater off the floor, turned it off, and unplugged it. My heart caught in my throat when I saw the damage. The heater had burned a palm-sized spot into my wooden floor. The spot was as hot as a stove burner. I felt sick when I thought about what could have happened if I hadn’t awakened; we all would have perished in a house fire.
Therefore, I beg of you—no matter how the manufacture guarantees the safety of their product, if you can, please refrain from using floor heaters. It is literally, a matter of life or death.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Finally, a solution
It's that time of year when "visions" of cheesecakes, and chocolate "dance in [my] head"; however, an abundance of leftover turkey is my nightmare.
At the party, we had pans of homemade baked ziti, lasagna, sausage and peppers, baked ham, and roasted turkey. Everything had been demolished with gusto, except for that cursed yard bird. There it sat, mocking me at the end of the table, the new giant "albatross around my neck." Thanksgiving had just barely faded into the past, and everyone, like me, was sick of turkey.
"Wouldn't you like to take some yummy turkey home?" I begged my 3 year-old great niece who was "helping" me in the kitchen.
"Ew, no!" she said swiping her hand over her mouth. "I tired of turkey."
"You and me both sis," I said tiredly, starting to wrap up the left over bird. Then it occurred to me that the internet would probably have a wealth of turkey recipes. I froze half the bird, and put the other half in the fridge.
After the last tearful good-bye was made, I went in search online for a good recipe. I wasn't disappointed. Here's a couple of recipes I found, one on the net, one I found on my recipe CD.
The one off the Easy Chef version 4.5 CD:
Leftover Thanksgiving Turkey Enchiladas
Leftover cooked turkey (white or dark
meat pieces)
1 or 2 cans cream of celery soup or
cream of chicken, cream of
mushroom (whichever suits your
taste)
1 can diced green chilies (I eliminated the chilies and used chopped bell peppers which I sauteed with the onions)
1 reg. size pkg. plain tortilla
chips, crumbled
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Cheddar cheese, grated
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Monterey Jack cheese,
grated
1 sm. onion, chopped
1 jar jalapenos (optional)
Saute onions in butter or margarine in medium skillet until golden brown. Add green chilies, soup, and 1 soup can of water. Stir and simmer until heated. Crush tortilla chips, using 1/2 of package. Spread a layer in bottom of baking dish. Evenly place a layer of cooked turkey on top of chips. Spoon a layer of 1/2 of soup mixture over chips. Add jalapenos, if desired. Sprinkle with 1/3 of both grated cheeses. Repeat chips, turkey, and soup mixture; top with grated cheese. Quantity is determined by the amount of turkey available. For larger amounts, simply continue to layer ingredients. Conventional Oven: Bake in oven at 350 degrees until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly.
Microwave Oven: Heat at medium high power until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly. Note: This dish is great during holidays after everyone is tired of turkey and dressing. Cooked chicken also works great. This recipe reheats well and tastes even better as a leftover!
Click here for the internet recipe
At the party, we had pans of homemade baked ziti, lasagna, sausage and peppers, baked ham, and roasted turkey. Everything had been demolished with gusto, except for that cursed yard bird. There it sat, mocking me at the end of the table, the new giant "albatross around my neck." Thanksgiving had just barely faded into the past, and everyone, like me, was sick of turkey.
"Wouldn't you like to take some yummy turkey home?" I begged my 3 year-old great niece who was "helping" me in the kitchen.
"Ew, no!" she said swiping her hand over her mouth. "I tired of turkey."
"You and me both sis," I said tiredly, starting to wrap up the left over bird. Then it occurred to me that the internet would probably have a wealth of turkey recipes. I froze half the bird, and put the other half in the fridge.
After the last tearful good-bye was made, I went in search online for a good recipe. I wasn't disappointed. Here's a couple of recipes I found, one on the net, one I found on my recipe CD.
The one off the Easy Chef version 4.5 CD:
Leftover Thanksgiving Turkey Enchiladas
Leftover cooked turkey (white or dark
meat pieces)
1 or 2 cans cream of celery soup or
cream of chicken, cream of
mushroom (whichever suits your
taste)
1 can diced green chilies (I eliminated the chilies and used chopped bell peppers which I sauteed with the onions)
1 reg. size pkg. plain tortilla
chips, crumbled
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Cheddar cheese, grated
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Monterey Jack cheese,
grated
1 sm. onion, chopped
1 jar jalapenos (optional)
Saute onions in butter or margarine in medium skillet until golden brown. Add green chilies, soup, and 1 soup can of water. Stir and simmer until heated. Crush tortilla chips, using 1/2 of package. Spread a layer in bottom of baking dish. Evenly place a layer of cooked turkey on top of chips. Spoon a layer of 1/2 of soup mixture over chips. Add jalapenos, if desired. Sprinkle with 1/3 of both grated cheeses. Repeat chips, turkey, and soup mixture; top with grated cheese. Quantity is determined by the amount of turkey available. For larger amounts, simply continue to layer ingredients. Conventional Oven: Bake in oven at 350 degrees until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly.
Microwave Oven: Heat at medium high power until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly. Note: This dish is great during holidays after everyone is tired of turkey and dressing. Cooked chicken also works great. This recipe reheats well and tastes even better as a leftover!
Click here for the internet recipe
Monday, December 04, 2006
Last minute torture. . .er. . .trip
I'm sorry I haven't been around lately; I've been extremely busy with this family get-together. It was wonderful!
“Darling, let me take you away from all of this,” Rhett Butler said, pointing at the clutter in my kitchen. Globs of cookie batter sat hardening on cookie sheets, while rivers of turkey gravy poured off the counters and congealed on the floor.
John stood by the stove, wearing a Chef Boyardee hat. “How many minutes per pound do I cook the turkey?” he inquired, waving a baseball bat sized thermometer.
“Just ignore everything, and come with me,” Rhett demanded, sweeping me into his powerful arms.
“I-I can’t,” I whispered “my family needs me,”
“Then kiss me once and I’ll be off,” he mumbled.
I watched him through my eyelashes as he lowered his head to kiss me.
“Mama, wake up,” an obnoxious voice screeched, interrupting my dream.
Opening one eye, I saw my oldest regarding me grouchily. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Sick?”
“No.”
“What time is it?”
“Six o’ clock”
“Already?” I asked, yawning. It seemed like I had just crawled into the bed a few minutes earlier. I stayed up until 3 AM, every night that week preparing for the family party, and now, on Friday morning, the lack of sleep was catching up to me.
Wearily, I slunk out of bed and shuffled off to the kitchen, where my savior, the coffee pot, was awaiting. Leaning against the counter, I sipped my coffee and made a mental “to-do” for that day. Suddenly, a feeling of uneasiness enshrouded me, tying my stomach in knots.
“Something awful is going happen today,” I announced, to Seth and John, kissing them on the cheek as they left for work and school, “so be careful.”
“I’m not worried, I don’t have the history you do with mishaps. It’s all in your head; if you think something bad will happen, it will. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.” I watched as he drove away, almost running over my black cat, Midnight, as it scampered toward the porch.
“He’s right,” I told the purring cat as I scratched the white spot under his chin. “Nothing will happen.” Famous last words.
After kitchen was cleaned—my dream of the dirty kitchen was still very fresh in my mind—Robert and I set off to town. We had just entered the interstate, when I heard A LOT of road noise; glancing in the mirror, to my dismay I saw the back window of the Jimmy had come open. Behind the backseat was a whirlwind of empty trash bags I used to line the carpet when the dog rode with us.
Pulling over, I stopped on the shoulder. Mama always told me not to play in traffic, yet here I was, on one of the busiest roads in Texas, jumping out of the truck to close the window, and praying I didn’t become a hood ornament for some inattentive drive.
“Was that fun?” Robert asked after I got back in the truck.
“Yeah, loads.” I replied wryly.
“Can I do it?”
“NO!” I replied quickly, mentally kicking myself for being sarcastic. I should have known my daredevil son would have taken me seriously. “Never play in traffic; it’s very dangerous, and I don’t wanna lose you. I was just trying to be funny when I said getting out in traffic was fun.”
Soon, we arrived at the grocery store. Oh great, I pouted, glancing at my watch as we scampered across the parking lot. I’m running behind schedule; there’s no way I can get everything done in time. I still had two more stops, plus cook; clean the house, and steam clean the rug and furniture.
I plopped Robert into the shopping cart, and faster than a miner can spit, we zipped up and down the aisles. Then we encountered IT. . .every harried shopper’s worst nightmare. . .the unattended cart in the middle of the aisle. “Mama will just move this and we’ll be on our way,” I told my son as I gave the cart a push. It didn’t go the way I wanted, and instead rammed a display of Q-tips, causing them to rain down on my head and scatter everywhere.
The people in the aisle stared at me, some hiding smiles behind their hands as I stared at them. Either I can be indignant, or I can play this off as humor. “Why does this always happen to me?” I asked jovially. Everyone chuckled with me.
“Don’t worry honey,” an older woman said patting me on the back. “It happened to a store employee just a few minutes ago.”
“My next trick will be getting out of the store unscathed,” I joked as I picked up the Q-tips.
Our next stop was the Dollar Tree, where I planned to get a few table runners. I saw them a few days earlier; they were very ornate, polyester, and a dollar. I couldn’t beat that deal with a stick. Evidently, other people thought the same thing. When we walked in, there were no shopping carts.
Standing near the door, I held a wriggling Robert, waiting for someone to return a cart. An older woman appeared by my side evidently waiting for a cart too, but I thought nothing of it. As a shopper was returning the basket, the lady stepped in front of me and yanked the cart away. “I need it more,” she told us.
Fighting the urge to “deck her halls,” but not with “boughs of holly,” I excused her rudeness by calling, “I hope you find what you need; don’t worry about me, I’ll just stand here and wait for another cart.” A sympathetic customer hastily unloaded their purchases on the counter, and smiling, wheeled the cart over to me. There were only five runners left, the amount I needed; I felt a sense of triumph as I was checking out and heard the rude woman tell ask a clerk if there were any more runners left.
Our last stop was Wal-Mart. Robert eagerly climbed into one of the electric kiddy carts as I paid the dollar. He sang to the Barney tunes as we started shopping, then, as suddenly as it began, the cart stopped. Once it stops there’s no way you can push it, the wheel lock up. Luckily, an employee saw it stall. “Go tell them at customer service, and I’ll wheel this out to the lobby for you,” he said.
I extracted a screaming, red-faced Robert from the cart, and half dragged/ half walked him to customer service.
“Can you help me?” I asked a gum- popping, fingernail painting, employee at the desk.
“I guess,” she sighed, blowing on her nails.
“Look lady,” I said, plopping Robert on the counter. “I’ve had a very stressful day, and I could probably bite steel nails right now. I’m SO SORRY I’m bothering you, but I was told to come up here and tell you my kiddy cart broke down.
“And what do you want me to do?” she retorted.
“Was it CART 6?” another desk employee asked me.
“Yes.”
“That’s the same cart that broke down on me last night,” the second employee said.
“And, again, what am I supposed to do about it?” the first employee asked.
“Give her the dollar back,” her co-worker replied coldly. “I’m so sorry madam,” the co-worker told me.
Grudgingly, the first employee handed me a dollar from the register. Robert was forced to ride in a regular cart, which he hated and didn’t mind telling me.
Oh well, lately most of the shopping trips went smoothly; I guess I was due for drama.
“Darling, let me take you away from all of this,” Rhett Butler said, pointing at the clutter in my kitchen. Globs of cookie batter sat hardening on cookie sheets, while rivers of turkey gravy poured off the counters and congealed on the floor.
John stood by the stove, wearing a Chef Boyardee hat. “How many minutes per pound do I cook the turkey?” he inquired, waving a baseball bat sized thermometer.
“Just ignore everything, and come with me,” Rhett demanded, sweeping me into his powerful arms.
“I-I can’t,” I whispered “my family needs me,”
“Then kiss me once and I’ll be off,” he mumbled.
I watched him through my eyelashes as he lowered his head to kiss me.
“Mama, wake up,” an obnoxious voice screeched, interrupting my dream.
Opening one eye, I saw my oldest regarding me grouchily. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Sick?”
“No.”
“What time is it?”
“Six o’ clock”
“Already?” I asked, yawning. It seemed like I had just crawled into the bed a few minutes earlier. I stayed up until 3 AM, every night that week preparing for the family party, and now, on Friday morning, the lack of sleep was catching up to me.
Wearily, I slunk out of bed and shuffled off to the kitchen, where my savior, the coffee pot, was awaiting. Leaning against the counter, I sipped my coffee and made a mental “to-do” for that day. Suddenly, a feeling of uneasiness enshrouded me, tying my stomach in knots.
“Something awful is going happen today,” I announced, to Seth and John, kissing them on the cheek as they left for work and school, “so be careful.”
“I’m not worried, I don’t have the history you do with mishaps. It’s all in your head; if you think something bad will happen, it will. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.” I watched as he drove away, almost running over my black cat, Midnight, as it scampered toward the porch.
“He’s right,” I told the purring cat as I scratched the white spot under his chin. “Nothing will happen.” Famous last words.
After kitchen was cleaned—my dream of the dirty kitchen was still very fresh in my mind—Robert and I set off to town. We had just entered the interstate, when I heard A LOT of road noise; glancing in the mirror, to my dismay I saw the back window of the Jimmy had come open. Behind the backseat was a whirlwind of empty trash bags I used to line the carpet when the dog rode with us.
Pulling over, I stopped on the shoulder. Mama always told me not to play in traffic, yet here I was, on one of the busiest roads in Texas, jumping out of the truck to close the window, and praying I didn’t become a hood ornament for some inattentive drive.
“Was that fun?” Robert asked after I got back in the truck.
“Yeah, loads.” I replied wryly.
“Can I do it?”
“NO!” I replied quickly, mentally kicking myself for being sarcastic. I should have known my daredevil son would have taken me seriously. “Never play in traffic; it’s very dangerous, and I don’t wanna lose you. I was just trying to be funny when I said getting out in traffic was fun.”
Soon, we arrived at the grocery store. Oh great, I pouted, glancing at my watch as we scampered across the parking lot. I’m running behind schedule; there’s no way I can get everything done in time. I still had two more stops, plus cook; clean the house, and steam clean the rug and furniture.
I plopped Robert into the shopping cart, and faster than a miner can spit, we zipped up and down the aisles. Then we encountered IT. . .every harried shopper’s worst nightmare. . .the unattended cart in the middle of the aisle. “Mama will just move this and we’ll be on our way,” I told my son as I gave the cart a push. It didn’t go the way I wanted, and instead rammed a display of Q-tips, causing them to rain down on my head and scatter everywhere.
The people in the aisle stared at me, some hiding smiles behind their hands as I stared at them. Either I can be indignant, or I can play this off as humor. “Why does this always happen to me?” I asked jovially. Everyone chuckled with me.
“Don’t worry honey,” an older woman said patting me on the back. “It happened to a store employee just a few minutes ago.”
“My next trick will be getting out of the store unscathed,” I joked as I picked up the Q-tips.
Our next stop was the Dollar Tree, where I planned to get a few table runners. I saw them a few days earlier; they were very ornate, polyester, and a dollar. I couldn’t beat that deal with a stick. Evidently, other people thought the same thing. When we walked in, there were no shopping carts.
Standing near the door, I held a wriggling Robert, waiting for someone to return a cart. An older woman appeared by my side evidently waiting for a cart too, but I thought nothing of it. As a shopper was returning the basket, the lady stepped in front of me and yanked the cart away. “I need it more,” she told us.
Fighting the urge to “deck her halls,” but not with “boughs of holly,” I excused her rudeness by calling, “I hope you find what you need; don’t worry about me, I’ll just stand here and wait for another cart.” A sympathetic customer hastily unloaded their purchases on the counter, and smiling, wheeled the cart over to me. There were only five runners left, the amount I needed; I felt a sense of triumph as I was checking out and heard the rude woman tell ask a clerk if there were any more runners left.
Our last stop was Wal-Mart. Robert eagerly climbed into one of the electric kiddy carts as I paid the dollar. He sang to the Barney tunes as we started shopping, then, as suddenly as it began, the cart stopped. Once it stops there’s no way you can push it, the wheel lock up. Luckily, an employee saw it stall. “Go tell them at customer service, and I’ll wheel this out to the lobby for you,” he said.
I extracted a screaming, red-faced Robert from the cart, and half dragged/ half walked him to customer service.
“Can you help me?” I asked a gum- popping, fingernail painting, employee at the desk.
“I guess,” she sighed, blowing on her nails.
“Look lady,” I said, plopping Robert on the counter. “I’ve had a very stressful day, and I could probably bite steel nails right now. I’m SO SORRY I’m bothering you, but I was told to come up here and tell you my kiddy cart broke down.
“And what do you want me to do?” she retorted.
“Was it CART 6?” another desk employee asked me.
“Yes.”
“That’s the same cart that broke down on me last night,” the second employee said.
“And, again, what am I supposed to do about it?” the first employee asked.
“Give her the dollar back,” her co-worker replied coldly. “I’m so sorry madam,” the co-worker told me.
Grudgingly, the first employee handed me a dollar from the register. Robert was forced to ride in a regular cart, which he hated and didn’t mind telling me.
Oh well, lately most of the shopping trips went smoothly; I guess I was due for drama.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I grabbed this from Big Blueberry Eyes website.
Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Ooo. . .tough choice. . .I have to choose hot chocolate.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? He's flexible; some are wrapped, some unwrapped.
3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? White lights on the house and trees; colored lights on the Christmas tree.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? I used to, when I was little. I think I enjoyed getting it because it was a good excuse to climb a tree.
5. When do you put up your decorations? Thanksgiving day usually, but this year they went up before Thanksgiving.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? ham, lasagna (I must be related to Garfield)
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? Drop by Queen of Cute Shoes's blog and find out; I'm the guest blogger today. (Thanks again Stephanie!)
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Santa's still here at our house. I'm a student of the story, "Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Of course!
10. What kind of decorations are on your Christmas Tree? A collection of things I've made and been given over the years.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread? I love it, but haven't seen any since the mid-80's.
12. Can you ice skate? Yep! But it's been so long since I've been on skates, most of the skating would be while I'm on my backside.
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? The two Welsh ponies Dady gave me when I was 8.
14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? family, friends, traditions.
15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? cheesecake
16 What is your favorite holiday tradition? Giving gifts of cookies we made to friends and neighbors.
17. What tops your tree? A star (It was my MIL's)
18. Which do you prefer giving or Receiving? Giving, of course. You can't beat that feeling you get whe you see the receipiant's face face light up with joy.
19. What is your favorite Christmas Song? I love all of them, but I love Oh Holy Night, and Christmas at Our House the best.
20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yummy? Y-U-M-M-Y!
Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Ooo. . .tough choice. . .I have to choose hot chocolate.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? He's flexible; some are wrapped, some unwrapped.
3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? White lights on the house and trees; colored lights on the Christmas tree.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? I used to, when I was little. I think I enjoyed getting it because it was a good excuse to climb a tree.
5. When do you put up your decorations? Thanksgiving day usually, but this year they went up before Thanksgiving.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? ham, lasagna (I must be related to Garfield)
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? Drop by Queen of Cute Shoes's blog and find out; I'm the guest blogger today. (Thanks again Stephanie!)
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Santa's still here at our house. I'm a student of the story, "Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Of course!
10. What kind of decorations are on your Christmas Tree? A collection of things I've made and been given over the years.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread? I love it, but haven't seen any since the mid-80's.
12. Can you ice skate? Yep! But it's been so long since I've been on skates, most of the skating would be while I'm on my backside.
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? The two Welsh ponies Dady gave me when I was 8.
14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? family, friends, traditions.
15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? cheesecake
16 What is your favorite holiday tradition? Giving gifts of cookies we made to friends and neighbors.
17. What tops your tree? A star (It was my MIL's)
18. Which do you prefer giving or Receiving? Giving, of course. You can't beat that feeling you get whe you see the receipiant's face face light up with joy.
19. What is your favorite Christmas Song? I love all of them, but I love Oh Holy Night, and Christmas at Our House the best.
20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yummy? Y-U-M-M-Y!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
If you're curious. . .
I hope everyone had a great holiday! I over-ate, as usual, and now I feel like I'm related to the Goodyear blimp.
I've tried all day to put a montage I've made on this site, but Blogger is being a booger head and isn't co-operating. If you want to see the face behind the screen, you can see the video here.
The dream
See ya'll tomorrow!
I've tried all day to put a montage I've made on this site, but Blogger is being a booger head and isn't co-operating. If you want to see the face behind the screen, you can see the video here.
The dream
See ya'll tomorrow!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
New concept on scratch and sniff packaging
You all will never believe this. . .
Saturday, the family and I where running around like chickens with our heads cut off, trying to gather supplies for Christmas.
Saturday, the family and I where running around like chickens with our heads cut off, trying to gather supplies for Christmas.
We have a superstore Wal-Mart in my town, but on a whim, we went to the new one in a town just a few miles north of us.
I will say, I was impressed; this store seemed cleaner and better organized than ours. Everything was going great until I met the associate from the netherworld.
Sent by John, Seth and I embarked on a quest to find honey. After five minutes of running up and down the aisles, we remained empty-handed.
"Hey, there's someone who can help," Seth proclaimed, pointing at the blue vest clad employee, who was stocking shelves.
"Excuse me madam, but can you tell me where the honey is?" The associate gave me leave-me-alone look, before turning back to her shelf stocking. Normally, to be ignored like this would have irritated the crap out of me, but I was in a mischievous mood because of the wonderful time the family was having together.
"Honey, can you tell me were you keep the honey?" I asked. Seth fought to keep his giggles under control as we approached her; still, she ignored us.
"Madam, could you PLEASE tell me WHERE YOU KEEP THE HONEY? I all but bellowed.
Again the associate turned to look at us, a package of instant potatoes in her hand. "Is there something you need help with?" she asked, a mystified look in her eye.
"Yes," I began patiently, "I need to know where the honey is."
"Umm, gee. . .I don't know," the woman said, scratching her butt crack with the package of potatoes.
Oh please let me be wrong about what she's doing,I thought, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying not to gross out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seth, staring open-mouthed at the woman.
The more the woman thought, the harder she scratched her butt with the potatoes. "I don't usually handle the food department."
Gee, I wonder why, I thought sarcastically, feeling a little sickened by what I had just witnessed. She put a whole new meaning to the term scratch and sniff packaging. LOL
Friday, November 17, 2006
The Demise of Mr. Zucca
“So we’re in agreement then,” I said calmly, gazing over the rim of my coffee mug at my husband. “Today is the day we get rid of Mr. Zucca.”
“Yeah, I guess,” John mumbled distractedly as he read the sports section of the newspaper.
“So, when are you going to do it?” I asked, rising from my seat and clearing the breakfast dishes off the table.
“Sorry, can’t help you there. I’ll be at work all day. If I were you, I’d wait until Seth left for school; the less witnesses, the better.”
Did you honestly think he would do that kind of job for you? This has happened before; you’ve taken the heat, and he’s come out smelling like a rose, my inner voice nagged.
My anger fueled my cleaning efforts, and within minutes, the kitchen was cleaner than the kitchen on the Mr. Clean commercial.
Now to take care of Zucca. Ugh, just the mere thought of him made my stomach churn like a clothes washer. He had arrived with celebrity status fanfare the week of Halloween, and in my opinion, had long overstayed his welcome. He was trouble from the very beginning; he showed up at the most inopportune times, always getting in the way.
Quickly, I took the knife from my pocket, unsheathed it, pausing momentarily to admire the way the sunlight glinted off the steel blade. It's over for you, I thought as plunged the blade deep into Zucca A wave of grim satisfaction washed over me as I rocked the knife back and forth, embedding it deeper.
After the cuts were made, I reached in, and pulling out a handful of guts, threw them on the ground. I knew I should have put them in a trash bag, but who would want the festering stench in their garbage can. This way, I was giving back to the Earth.
I sliced Zucca into pieces, then carried him back into the house, where I dumped him into a galvanized pot, covered the pieces with water, and brought it all to a boil on top of the stove.
The way I see it, Zucca will taste wonderful in a pie this Thanksgiving.
Umm. . .you did know I was talking about an uncut pumpkin, didn’t you? A pumpkin with a painted on face?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
All I want for Christmas
This weekend, as I sat on our overstuffed green sofa, engrossed in an old episode of the Sopranos, reality jumped up and took a bite out of my backside. In less than a month, there will be sixty of your family members here for Christmas; and what have you done to prepare, nothing. What prompted me to think of it at that moment, I don't know; perhaps the sight of Tony Soprano beating someone senseless brought back some deep seeded memory of my cousins and I wrestling over toys when we were children. I sighed as I ran my hand through my short, wavy hair. Unless you counted the half-eaten peppermint on the stereo, there was not a shred of Christmas cheer to be seen.
I knew the next few weekends would be filled with cooking and cleaning. Better decorate now; this'll be the only weekend free.
"Where are you going?" John demanded as I struggled to get off the couch. We had watched two episodes, back-to-back, and needless to say, my rear was quite numb.
"I'm gonna start decorating for Christmas."
"Now? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Hey, I know, we'll start calling you Wal-Mart." John quipped.
And I could call you Ace Bandages, cause you might need them, I thought nastily as I tugged and pulled on the Christmas boxes by myself. With the kids' help, I had the Christmas tree branches placed in record time. In a late show of gallantry, John offered to clean the storage room.
"Hey Mommy, let's hope you don't fall into the tree this year." Seth said , chuckling.
Maybe it was just being paranoid, or maybe the swift hand of Fate, but after my son's comment, everything started going wrong. A small curio fell off the wall and hit me in the back; later , Seth smashed the door into my face as I was walking in from outside, almost breaking my nose, AGAIN.
The tree was finished, and stood there majestically, bathing us in the glow of the twinkling lights. "Let's write letters to Santa," Seth suggested. Even though he no longer believes, it's a tradition we still carry out for Robert's sake.
I sank to my knees at the coffee table, my nose feeling like I'd been three rounds with a prizefighter, and the back of my head throbbing. In my neatest handwriting, I wrote: Dear Santa. All I want for Christmas is to stay in one piece, or a free upgrade on my medical insurance.
I knew the next few weekends would be filled with cooking and cleaning. Better decorate now; this'll be the only weekend free.
"Where are you going?" John demanded as I struggled to get off the couch. We had watched two episodes, back-to-back, and needless to say, my rear was quite numb.
"I'm gonna start decorating for Christmas."
"Now? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Hey, I know, we'll start calling you Wal-Mart." John quipped.
And I could call you Ace Bandages, cause you might need them, I thought nastily as I tugged and pulled on the Christmas boxes by myself. With the kids' help, I had the Christmas tree branches placed in record time. In a late show of gallantry, John offered to clean the storage room.
"Hey Mommy, let's hope you don't fall into the tree this year." Seth said , chuckling.
Maybe it was just being paranoid, or maybe the swift hand of Fate, but after my son's comment, everything started going wrong. A small curio fell off the wall and hit me in the back; later , Seth smashed the door into my face as I was walking in from outside, almost breaking my nose, AGAIN.
The tree was finished, and stood there majestically, bathing us in the glow of the twinkling lights. "Let's write letters to Santa," Seth suggested. Even though he no longer believes, it's a tradition we still carry out for Robert's sake.
I sank to my knees at the coffee table, my nose feeling like I'd been three rounds with a prizefighter, and the back of my head throbbing. In my neatest handwriting, I wrote: Dear Santa. All I want for Christmas is to stay in one piece, or a free upgrade on my medical insurance.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
You make the call
I'm seriously thinking of moving this blog to another server. Blogger has not let me post or comment for days.
The hype and fanfare that accompanies election day in my state has been over since Tuesday, but I still feel flatter than a head of hair on a rainy day. Though retired from politics, hubby spent a lot of time away from home assisting friends with their campaigns, and it's good to have him home on the weekends again.
Thankfully, a friend of our family will resume his position as state representative; some other political acquaintances did not fare as well. I don't miss the political scene; in fact, I hated it. We had to live our lives under the scrutiny of the public, and it was emotionally, mentally, and physically tiring. One day, during hubby campaign, I went to town while my oldest was in school to run a few errands.
At each place I stopped, the same woman appeared there also. When she followed me to a friend's boutique, that was the final straw. My hands shaking with barely contained rage, I eyed her coolly, then told her, "Take out a pencil and paper and take notes, honey."
"Why?" she asked, a fox in the hen house grin on her face.
"Because, if you lose me in traffic, this way you'll know every place I'm going to be." She left in a tiff, and I didn't see her the rest of the day.
Society believes that if you are in politics or are a celebrity, invasion of privacy is the price you pay, and I can "buy" that, to some extent. But where do we need to draw the line?
I wanna know what you think. You don't have to sign your name, just please tell me your opinion.
The hype and fanfare that accompanies election day in my state has been over since Tuesday, but I still feel flatter than a head of hair on a rainy day. Though retired from politics, hubby spent a lot of time away from home assisting friends with their campaigns, and it's good to have him home on the weekends again.
Thankfully, a friend of our family will resume his position as state representative; some other political acquaintances did not fare as well. I don't miss the political scene; in fact, I hated it. We had to live our lives under the scrutiny of the public, and it was emotionally, mentally, and physically tiring. One day, during hubby campaign, I went to town while my oldest was in school to run a few errands.
At each place I stopped, the same woman appeared there also. When she followed me to a friend's boutique, that was the final straw. My hands shaking with barely contained rage, I eyed her coolly, then told her, "Take out a pencil and paper and take notes, honey."
"Why?" she asked, a fox in the hen house grin on her face.
"Because, if you lose me in traffic, this way you'll know every place I'm going to be." She left in a tiff, and I didn't see her the rest of the day.
Society believes that if you are in politics or are a celebrity, invasion of privacy is the price you pay, and I can "buy" that, to some extent. But where do we need to draw the line?
I wanna know what you think. You don't have to sign your name, just please tell me your opinion.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Sunbeam dancin'
I'm trying to keep my mind off the elections tonight, so I think I'll take a trip down memory lane.
When I was a young child, every afternoon I grabbed as many toys as I could in my chubby, sticky hands and toddled off to the kitchen, depositing my bounty and myself in the middle of the floor. Mama became a contortionist as she reached over and around me to retrieve things out of the fridge for supper.
“Can’t you find a better place to play, honey?” she always asked.
Stubbornly I shook my head. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Engrossed in the adventures my plastic toy horses and I were having on the wooden floor, I lost track of time until the faint strains Andy Griffith Show playing in the living room reached my ears, and the kitchen was filled with the soothing smell of supper bubbling in covered pots on the stove.
I knew it was almost time; slowly I stood, forgetting everything, and faced the kitchen window. As if on cue, a large beam of sunlight shone through the window, bathing the dandelion-colored kitchen in an almost celestial glow.
Dust particles danced in beam, as if they were tiny kitchen imps. With the innocence of a child, I too danced in the sunbeam. “Look Mama, I’m getting sprinkled with fairy dust,” I squealed, resembling a small windmill as I whirled. “Make a wish!” I shrieked, pausing long enough to wish, then resumed my dancing
“Don’t spin until you get sick,” she said, looking away from the stove and smiling.
As I grew older, I stopped the crazed dancing; but that time of day remained magical. I still stood in the sunbeam, soaking up its warmth, as I closed my eyes and “made a wish”.
My attitude changed after Daddy’s death. On day, several months after the funeral, in desperation I ventured into the kitchen in the late afternoon hours. I was emotionally numb; I longed to feel something, anything, some resemblance of my former self. Like an old friend, the sunbeam shone through the window, and as in years past, wrapped me in its’ embrace. It didn’t help; nothing cold warm the dark recesses of my heart.
“Make a wish,” a voice whispered in my ear. Turning, I saw my mother, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, standing behind me. “You once told me it was fairy dust, remember?”
“It’s just dust. . .plain old dust, that’s all.” I remarked acidly. I pushed past her, turning my back on my childish beliefs for what seemed forever.
I never again thought about those fun, mystical times until recently. A few days ago, I was folding clothes in the living room, watching my favorite late afternoon shows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my toddler dancing joyously in a sunbeam shining through the living room window. Childish, girly giggles of the past echoed inside my head as I watched him slap happily at the dust particles in the light.
“Hey Robert, know what that is? That’s fairy dust. Now quick, make a wish,” I said hoarsely.
The magic of the sunbeam has now been passed down to another generation; may it live forever.
When I was a young child, every afternoon I grabbed as many toys as I could in my chubby, sticky hands and toddled off to the kitchen, depositing my bounty and myself in the middle of the floor. Mama became a contortionist as she reached over and around me to retrieve things out of the fridge for supper.
“Can’t you find a better place to play, honey?” she always asked.
Stubbornly I shook my head. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Engrossed in the adventures my plastic toy horses and I were having on the wooden floor, I lost track of time until the faint strains Andy Griffith Show playing in the living room reached my ears, and the kitchen was filled with the soothing smell of supper bubbling in covered pots on the stove.
I knew it was almost time; slowly I stood, forgetting everything, and faced the kitchen window. As if on cue, a large beam of sunlight shone through the window, bathing the dandelion-colored kitchen in an almost celestial glow.
Dust particles danced in beam, as if they were tiny kitchen imps. With the innocence of a child, I too danced in the sunbeam. “Look Mama, I’m getting sprinkled with fairy dust,” I squealed, resembling a small windmill as I whirled. “Make a wish!” I shrieked, pausing long enough to wish, then resumed my dancing
“Don’t spin until you get sick,” she said, looking away from the stove and smiling.
As I grew older, I stopped the crazed dancing; but that time of day remained magical. I still stood in the sunbeam, soaking up its warmth, as I closed my eyes and “made a wish”.
My attitude changed after Daddy’s death. On day, several months after the funeral, in desperation I ventured into the kitchen in the late afternoon hours. I was emotionally numb; I longed to feel something, anything, some resemblance of my former self. Like an old friend, the sunbeam shone through the window, and as in years past, wrapped me in its’ embrace. It didn’t help; nothing cold warm the dark recesses of my heart.
“Make a wish,” a voice whispered in my ear. Turning, I saw my mother, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, standing behind me. “You once told me it was fairy dust, remember?”
“It’s just dust. . .plain old dust, that’s all.” I remarked acidly. I pushed past her, turning my back on my childish beliefs for what seemed forever.
I never again thought about those fun, mystical times until recently. A few days ago, I was folding clothes in the living room, watching my favorite late afternoon shows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my toddler dancing joyously in a sunbeam shining through the living room window. Childish, girly giggles of the past echoed inside my head as I watched him slap happily at the dust particles in the light.
“Hey Robert, know what that is? That’s fairy dust. Now quick, make a wish,” I said hoarsely.
The magic of the sunbeam has now been passed down to another generation; may it live forever.
Friday, November 03, 2006
The aftermath
Halloween morning I "hit the floor running" and didn't stop until bedtime that night. That morning I raced around like a dog with it's tail on fire, cleaning the house and occasionally barking reprimands such as: "No Robert, the kitty will not look good wearing Mommy’s lipstick" and "The dresser is not a mountain, so stop climbing it."
Of all the mornings, my house picked this one to look like a disaster area. I had just done the last load of laundry when I noticed the house was quiet, too quiet. What is that child into? I wondered. I didn’t have to puzzle over it too long; as I walked down the hall, the sweet aroma of bananas greeted my nostrils. I walked into his bedroom, and was sickened by what I saw. Globs of banana, resembling mounds of snot were everywhere, on the television, all over the stuffed animals. As I stood there, a glob of banana fell off the ceiling and onto my shoulder; I still don’t know how he managed to get banana on the ceiling.
“Hi Mommy! I’m eating the bananas.” Robert chirped, patting a piece of the fruit into the hardwood floor. He sat on his large stuffed horse, looking like the little girl rescued in the movie Poltergeist. It’s these moments you will look back on years later and laugh your fanny off; however, at that moment I contemplated selling my child to the zoo so he could be with the other monkeys.
“Umm. Well, you did something with them, that’s for sure,” I said evenly. This must be what Mama means when she says I’m ‘getting my raising,’I thought as I cleaned the mess. Next, I plopped a protesting Robert into the tub, scrubbed the banana out of his hair, and dug it out of his ears.
By the time Robert was dressed and fed a snack, it was almost noon when we left. “Foolish mere mortal,” the imaginary voice of Fate boomed in my ear as I zoomed down the road, “did you think I could let you get through this day unscathed?”
As anyone could have predicted, Wal-Mart was packed tighter than sardines in a can. The Halloween aisle was a scene of mass chaos as candy-grabbing monsters, in the form of adults, clawed frantically for those last precious bags of candy.
Robert and I got our groceries and got the “heck outta Dodge.” Oh crap, its already three o’clock, I thought, glancing at my watch. I had the market cornered on stress; trick-or-treating was at five at the mall, and I had very little done.
I picked Seth up early from school, and faster than a scalded cat can run, we headed home with the groceries. Hmm. . .maybe it was the crazed look in my eye--a look that said I could knock over a 7-11 for a chocolate bar and not feel bad--or a sudden prick of gallantry, but Seth unloaded the Jimmy and put everything away. I was a human tornado as I fed Robert a late lunch, made a cake, fed myself, and started making the food for our traditional family party.
At four, everything grounded to a halt in the kitchen, and we got dressed. Seth borrowed my costume idea from last year and dressed as a morning person; he wore his robe, I gelled and messed up his hair, and he carried a coffee cup.
Robert was a tourist. I left him in the shorts and shirt he wore to the store, put a white cap that had PADRE ISLAND emblazoned across the front on his head, and hung a pair of binoculars around his neck.
Being stressed actually served a purpose. I took off my clothes, and put them back on inside out. Then I took address labels, wrote the words, MORTGAGE, KIDS, JOB, MONEY, HUSBAND, and stuck them on my shorts and shirt. My costume: a person turned inside out by stress.
At the mall, Seth and Robert scored about 5 pounds of candy by trick-or-treating at the different stores. Seth’s costume was a hit. There were several at the mall who asked him what he was, and when he told them, they almost busted a gut laughing. They complimented his on his originality, and his face lit up.
John had just gotten home as we pulled up. In the soft glow of the porch light he looked me up and down, taking in my inside out clothes and labels. “Please tell me you didn’t buy groceries like that,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. My mean streak flared up, and I was tempted to say sweetly, “Of course I did; and I told every person I saw I was married to you.” Instead, I said, rather huffily, “Of course not. Are you nuts?”
I embedded myself in the kitchen, and here's what we had:
Scarecrow noses and phlegm-- carrot sticks and Vidalia onion dressing
Witches' blood--guacamole dip mixed with sour cream and served with corn chips
Devil's eyeballs--deviled eggs sporting one black olive slice each for a pupil
Witches' fingers--fried green beans
Blood-- Hi-C fruit punch
A bloody hand— bread shaped into the form of a hand. I placed string cheese inside the finger portions. After the hand was done, I stabbed a plastic knife in the top and drizzled marinara sauce around it
We had a wonderful night, but I’m still trying to play catch up, and the coffee pot beckons. How was your Halloween?
Of all the mornings, my house picked this one to look like a disaster area. I had just done the last load of laundry when I noticed the house was quiet, too quiet. What is that child into? I wondered. I didn’t have to puzzle over it too long; as I walked down the hall, the sweet aroma of bananas greeted my nostrils. I walked into his bedroom, and was sickened by what I saw. Globs of banana, resembling mounds of snot were everywhere, on the television, all over the stuffed animals. As I stood there, a glob of banana fell off the ceiling and onto my shoulder; I still don’t know how he managed to get banana on the ceiling.
“Hi Mommy! I’m eating the bananas.” Robert chirped, patting a piece of the fruit into the hardwood floor. He sat on his large stuffed horse, looking like the little girl rescued in the movie Poltergeist. It’s these moments you will look back on years later and laugh your fanny off; however, at that moment I contemplated selling my child to the zoo so he could be with the other monkeys.
“Umm. Well, you did something with them, that’s for sure,” I said evenly. This must be what Mama means when she says I’m ‘getting my raising,’I thought as I cleaned the mess. Next, I plopped a protesting Robert into the tub, scrubbed the banana out of his hair, and dug it out of his ears.
By the time Robert was dressed and fed a snack, it was almost noon when we left. “Foolish mere mortal,” the imaginary voice of Fate boomed in my ear as I zoomed down the road, “did you think I could let you get through this day unscathed?”
As anyone could have predicted, Wal-Mart was packed tighter than sardines in a can. The Halloween aisle was a scene of mass chaos as candy-grabbing monsters, in the form of adults, clawed frantically for those last precious bags of candy.
Robert and I got our groceries and got the “heck outta Dodge.” Oh crap, its already three o’clock, I thought, glancing at my watch. I had the market cornered on stress; trick-or-treating was at five at the mall, and I had very little done.
I picked Seth up early from school, and faster than a scalded cat can run, we headed home with the groceries. Hmm. . .maybe it was the crazed look in my eye--a look that said I could knock over a 7-11 for a chocolate bar and not feel bad--or a sudden prick of gallantry, but Seth unloaded the Jimmy and put everything away. I was a human tornado as I fed Robert a late lunch, made a cake, fed myself, and started making the food for our traditional family party.
At four, everything grounded to a halt in the kitchen, and we got dressed. Seth borrowed my costume idea from last year and dressed as a morning person; he wore his robe, I gelled and messed up his hair, and he carried a coffee cup.
Robert was a tourist. I left him in the shorts and shirt he wore to the store, put a white cap that had PADRE ISLAND emblazoned across the front on his head, and hung a pair of binoculars around his neck.
Being stressed actually served a purpose. I took off my clothes, and put them back on inside out. Then I took address labels, wrote the words, MORTGAGE, KIDS, JOB, MONEY, HUSBAND, and stuck them on my shorts and shirt. My costume: a person turned inside out by stress.
At the mall, Seth and Robert scored about 5 pounds of candy by trick-or-treating at the different stores. Seth’s costume was a hit. There were several at the mall who asked him what he was, and when he told them, they almost busted a gut laughing. They complimented his on his originality, and his face lit up.
John had just gotten home as we pulled up. In the soft glow of the porch light he looked me up and down, taking in my inside out clothes and labels. “Please tell me you didn’t buy groceries like that,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. My mean streak flared up, and I was tempted to say sweetly, “Of course I did; and I told every person I saw I was married to you.” Instead, I said, rather huffily, “Of course not. Are you nuts?”
I embedded myself in the kitchen, and here's what we had:
Scarecrow noses and phlegm-- carrot sticks and Vidalia onion dressing
Witches' blood--guacamole dip mixed with sour cream and served with corn chips
Devil's eyeballs--deviled eggs sporting one black olive slice each for a pupil
Witches' fingers--fried green beans
Blood-- Hi-C fruit punch
A bloody hand— bread shaped into the form of a hand. I placed string cheese inside the finger portions. After the hand was done, I stabbed a plastic knife in the top and drizzled marinara sauce around it
We had a wonderful night, but I’m still trying to play catch up, and the coffee pot beckons. How was your Halloween?
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
"Howling Good Time"
Happy Halloween everyone! Candid Housewife--sweet lady--is hosting me as a guest blogger on her site. Swing on over and check out the wonderful recipe she posted, and take a peek at the story I have there.
I'm off to Wally-World for some last minute party items, and who knows, I might hurl a few cans of cream corn if the mood strikes. LOL.
See ya over at Candid Housewife's!
I'm off to Wally-World for some last minute party items, and who knows, I might hurl a few cans of cream corn if the mood strikes. LOL.
See ya over at Candid Housewife's!
Friday, October 27, 2006
I had a whole different post typed out, but it got erased. Ahhhhh. Calgon take me away!!!!!
I borrowed this from Much More Than a Mom.
A is for age: Which is a state of mind. In my mind, I'm still a kid, but in real life, I'm 36.
B is for beer of choice: I don't touch the stuff. I'm snobby with what I drink, I drink wine.
C is for career right now: writer
D is for your dog’s name(s): Blue
E is for essential item you use everyday: toilet, computer, and shower, but never at the same time.
F is for favorite tv show at the moment: Bridezillas For the record, I'd like someone to invent a show called Writers Gone Wild. It would feature overly-stressed people, like me, standing on top of the cream corn display in Wal-Mart, and hurling cans at other shoppers. No, I don't do that.
G is for favorite game: Play: Soccer Watch: Football
H is for Hometown:
I is for instruments you play: clarinet, oboe, tenor sax, alto sax
J is for favorite juice: Grape
K is for whose butt you’d like to kick: My own for erasing that story. Hey, that'd be pretty interesting to watch someone kick their own butt.
L is for last place you ate: Sitting on the couch
M is for marriage: Aw, that's awfully sweet for you to ask, but I'm already happily married.
N is for your name: Debbie
O is for overnight hospital stay: Two C-sections, and a car accident
P is for people you were with today: My family
Q is for quote: Live Like You Were Dying from the song performed by Tim McGraw. I know it's not a quote, but I like the philosophy.
R is for biggest regret: Not telling Dad I loved him for the last time.
.S is for sport: Football
T is for time you woke up today: 4 AM
U is for current underwear: White. Pretty darned boring, huh?
V is for vegetable you love: Eggplant
W is for worst habit: Sarcasm and stubborness
X is for x-rays you have had: Wrists and knees. C-SCAN when I had my car accident
Y is for yummy food you ate today: Homemade veggie chili
Z is for zodiac: Virgo.
I borrowed this from Much More Than a Mom.
A is for age: Which is a state of mind. In my mind, I'm still a kid, but in real life, I'm 36.
B is for beer of choice: I don't touch the stuff. I'm snobby with what I drink, I drink wine.
C is for career right now: writer
D is for your dog’s name(s): Blue
E is for essential item you use everyday: toilet, computer, and shower, but never at the same time.
F is for favorite tv show at the moment: Bridezillas For the record, I'd like someone to invent a show called Writers Gone Wild. It would feature overly-stressed people, like me, standing on top of the cream corn display in Wal-Mart, and hurling cans at other shoppers. No, I don't do that.
G is for favorite game: Play: Soccer Watch: Football
H is for Hometown:
I is for instruments you play: clarinet, oboe, tenor sax, alto sax
J is for favorite juice: Grape
K is for whose butt you’d like to kick: My own for erasing that story. Hey, that'd be pretty interesting to watch someone kick their own butt.
L is for last place you ate: Sitting on the couch
M is for marriage: Aw, that's awfully sweet for you to ask, but I'm already happily married.
N is for your name: Debbie
O is for overnight hospital stay: Two C-sections, and a car accident
P is for people you were with today: My family
Q is for quote: Live Like You Were Dying from the song performed by Tim McGraw. I know it's not a quote, but I like the philosophy.
R is for biggest regret: Not telling Dad I loved him for the last time.
.S is for sport: Football
T is for time you woke up today: 4 AM
U is for current underwear: White. Pretty darned boring, huh?
V is for vegetable you love: Eggplant
W is for worst habit: Sarcasm and stubborness
X is for x-rays you have had: Wrists and knees. C-SCAN when I had my car accident
Y is for yummy food you ate today: Homemade veggie chili
Z is for zodiac: Virgo.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Aiming high and tripping over my tongue
This afternoon, GoofyJ wrote about misplacing things. I think I can "one-up" her; you see, a few days ago, I lost my brain.
Last week, I decided I was stuck "in a rut" with my writing. Sure, I've gotten a few things published, and I love what I do; but I deduced, if I want to "go anywhere" in this career, I'll have to start going for the bigger markets. Highlights magazine was my first target.
I read Highlights when I was a small child, and just the thought of submitting something to them made my heart race faster than a herd of spooked wild horses. Everything has to be perfect, I thought. I went over my favorite children's manuscript with a "fine tooth comb," making sure every " 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed". When it got to the point I was so sick of the story, I wished an ill fate for my main character, I tortured my hubby by making him read it. He really wasn't interested in helping; but his mind changed when I threatened to hide the cheesecake brownies I had just removed from the oven. Chocolate, in the right hands, is a very powerful weapon. Finally, I felt the manuscript was ready.
I double-checked the submission guidelines on the website, and wonder upon wonders, saw that they took phone queries, meaning you could pitch your story to them over the phone. There was a lump in my stomach the size of Houston as I dialed the editorial number; to my surprise, the phone was answered on the first ring.
"Highlights," chirped a sunny female voice, "can I help you?"
I drew a blank; my mind was a blank slate. I couldn't remember the pitch I had rehearsed, and for one panic stricken moment, I couldn't even remember my name. .
"Highlights magazine. Can I HELP you?" the editor repeated, obviously agitated.
I couldn't speak, couldn't ever whisper. The only thing I could do was breathe heavy into the receiver, like some sicko. "Umm. . .yes sir. . .I mean madam. I-I wanna pitch a phone query." What the heck is wrong with me? I wondered. I had given speeches before, acted, and was never a loss for words. Now I was doing good to remember who I was.
"Okay. What's the title of your book."
"I'll tell you when I remember," I answered glibly. "I think my coffee has worn off and it's affecting my brain."
"I hear that," Editor replied, laughing softly. "Just take your time."
The floodgates to my brain opened, and sounding like a chimpmunk on a caffeine rush, I spouted off my query. Well, I botched that up. "I honestly write better than I talk." I babbled.
"You did great; wonderful for your first phone query," Editor replied soothingly. "I like your story idea. Send it in and we'll consider it."
I couldn't believe my luck. The next day the entire manuscript was on its way. Haven't heard anything yet, but I'm thinking positive.
After a weekend of vegging out, my brain is back to normal, or what I consider to be normal.
Last week, I decided I was stuck "in a rut" with my writing. Sure, I've gotten a few things published, and I love what I do; but I deduced, if I want to "go anywhere" in this career, I'll have to start going for the bigger markets. Highlights magazine was my first target.
I read Highlights when I was a small child, and just the thought of submitting something to them made my heart race faster than a herd of spooked wild horses. Everything has to be perfect, I thought. I went over my favorite children's manuscript with a "fine tooth comb," making sure every " 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed". When it got to the point I was so sick of the story, I wished an ill fate for my main character, I tortured my hubby by making him read it. He really wasn't interested in helping; but his mind changed when I threatened to hide the cheesecake brownies I had just removed from the oven. Chocolate, in the right hands, is a very powerful weapon. Finally, I felt the manuscript was ready.
I double-checked the submission guidelines on the website, and wonder upon wonders, saw that they took phone queries, meaning you could pitch your story to them over the phone. There was a lump in my stomach the size of Houston as I dialed the editorial number; to my surprise, the phone was answered on the first ring.
"Highlights," chirped a sunny female voice, "can I help you?"
I drew a blank; my mind was a blank slate. I couldn't remember the pitch I had rehearsed, and for one panic stricken moment, I couldn't even remember my name. .
"Highlights magazine. Can I HELP you?" the editor repeated, obviously agitated.
I couldn't speak, couldn't ever whisper. The only thing I could do was breathe heavy into the receiver, like some sicko. "Umm. . .yes sir. . .I mean madam. I-I wanna pitch a phone query." What the heck is wrong with me? I wondered. I had given speeches before, acted, and was never a loss for words. Now I was doing good to remember who I was.
"Okay. What's the title of your book."
"I'll tell you when I remember," I answered glibly. "I think my coffee has worn off and it's affecting my brain."
"I hear that," Editor replied, laughing softly. "Just take your time."
The floodgates to my brain opened, and sounding like a chimpmunk on a caffeine rush, I spouted off my query. Well, I botched that up. "I honestly write better than I talk." I babbled.
"You did great; wonderful for your first phone query," Editor replied soothingly. "I like your story idea. Send it in and we'll consider it."
I couldn't believe my luck. The next day the entire manuscript was on its way. Haven't heard anything yet, but I'm thinking positive.
After a weekend of vegging out, my brain is back to normal, or what I consider to be normal.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Tail end of the weekend
I have numerous reasons to be happy this weekend:
1. I had my coffee this morning. Yay for me and for everyone within a ten mile radius around me.
1a. Hubby just stopped by to pick up his baked ziti for an office party, and surprised me with a pumpkin pie spice latte from Starbucks.
2. There's an invigorating chill in the air this morning, signaling the arrival of Fall (we rarely get cold here) and of the holiday season. In just two glorious months, my house will be flooded with family and friends, all who will be here to celebrate Christmas.
3. I thank God every morning my sweet toddler wakes up without an ear infection. He's had a history of ear infections in the past, and it breaks my heart to see him in so much pain; not to mention I worry myself sick about potential hearing loss.
4. We went to the Fall festival at Seth's school last night. Ever the escape artist, I dodged getting thrown in the pretend jail. Hmm. . . If they ever need a female to play the role of "The Fugitive", I'm their gal.
There was a "hair salon" booth there, and giving Seth an argument a used car dealer would be proud of, I convinced him neon-colored hairspray would not show up well in my dark hair. Thank goodness he didn't see the dark neon blue spray. Ever try to wash that stuff out of your hair? Almost impossible. Last time I did that, I sprayed my hair green, it took several washing to get that dye out. I'm really surprised a cow didn't try to graze on my head.
5. Tomorrow I'll be so busy I won't have time to think. Early in the morning, we'll be participating in a fun run for Drug Free week; later in the morning, I'll be in a parade; in the afternoon, I'll be at a Pet Festival. At all three places, my Malamute/Husky, Blue, will be with me. This will be interesting to say the least, because he's never been in the truck. Cross your fingers for me.
6. I'm happy to be alive, period. As they say, "Yesterday was the past, tomorrow is the future, today is the present." Every second of every day is precious; enjoy it and live it responsibly as if it were your last one.
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For my coffee drinking friends:
Coffee-Mate creamer has released new flavors for the holiday season. They are: Peppermint Mocha, Pumpkin Pie Spice, Eggnog, and Gingerbread. I've tried all but the Eggnog.
Peppermint Mocha-- Refreshing, pepperminty
Pumpkin Pie Spice-- The spices are a bit overpowering at first, but the flavor grows on you and is comforting
Gingerbread-- A toned-done version of the PPS; a little too sweet.
The website has interesting articles, recipes, and most important, coupons! The special go for around $1.58 at Wal-Mart here, and with the $1 coupon, that makes the total price just $.58!
Have a wonderful weekend
1. I had my coffee this morning. Yay for me and for everyone within a ten mile radius around me.
1a. Hubby just stopped by to pick up his baked ziti for an office party, and surprised me with a pumpkin pie spice latte from Starbucks.
2. There's an invigorating chill in the air this morning, signaling the arrival of Fall (we rarely get cold here) and of the holiday season. In just two glorious months, my house will be flooded with family and friends, all who will be here to celebrate Christmas.
3. I thank God every morning my sweet toddler wakes up without an ear infection. He's had a history of ear infections in the past, and it breaks my heart to see him in so much pain; not to mention I worry myself sick about potential hearing loss.
4. We went to the Fall festival at Seth's school last night. Ever the escape artist, I dodged getting thrown in the pretend jail. Hmm. . . If they ever need a female to play the role of "The Fugitive", I'm their gal.
There was a "hair salon" booth there, and giving Seth an argument a used car dealer would be proud of, I convinced him neon-colored hairspray would not show up well in my dark hair. Thank goodness he didn't see the dark neon blue spray. Ever try to wash that stuff out of your hair? Almost impossible. Last time I did that, I sprayed my hair green, it took several washing to get that dye out. I'm really surprised a cow didn't try to graze on my head.
5. Tomorrow I'll be so busy I won't have time to think. Early in the morning, we'll be participating in a fun run for Drug Free week; later in the morning, I'll be in a parade; in the afternoon, I'll be at a Pet Festival. At all three places, my Malamute/Husky, Blue, will be with me. This will be interesting to say the least, because he's never been in the truck. Cross your fingers for me.
6. I'm happy to be alive, period. As they say, "Yesterday was the past, tomorrow is the future, today is the present." Every second of every day is precious; enjoy it and live it responsibly as if it were your last one.
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For my coffee drinking friends:
Coffee-Mate creamer has released new flavors for the holiday season. They are: Peppermint Mocha, Pumpkin Pie Spice, Eggnog, and Gingerbread. I've tried all but the Eggnog.
Peppermint Mocha-- Refreshing, pepperminty
Pumpkin Pie Spice-- The spices are a bit overpowering at first, but the flavor grows on you and is comforting
Gingerbread-- A toned-done version of the PPS; a little too sweet.
The website has interesting articles, recipes, and most important, coupons! The special go for around $1.58 at Wal-Mart here, and with the $1 coupon, that makes the total price just $.58!
Have a wonderful weekend
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Quick Trip
Saturday morning, on the spur of the moment, we decided to attend the Italian Festival in Houston. With visions of chicken Marsala and canoli dancing in our heads, we eagerly wedged ourselves into the Jimmy. Always the obstinate one, the truck refused to start.
"Well, so much for that idea, unless," John said, "Enterprise has a car we can rent."
Luck was in our favor, and we rented a Dodge Magnum for the weekend. Let me be the first to tell you, this is NOT your classic station wagon. To begin with, this fire-engine colored creation had a Hemi engine, which John was extremely excited; very patiently John explained a Hemi was an ultra-powerful engine, very seldom seen in a car. With a "that's nice dear" expression plastered on my face, I "oohed" and "ah ed" in all the right places as he went on about pistons and cylinders. I do well if I can change a tire, check the fluid levels, pump the gas and find the radiator; anything else about cars is over my head and is completely uninteresting to me. The front end resembled the muscle car, the Dodge Charger, and the rear end looked like the George Jetson version of a space age station wagon..
John took me for a spin before we left on the trip. Needless to say, I haven't been in anything so powerful since my younger, single days when I had a sports car.
As soon as we reached the festival, we were greeted by the mouth-watering aromas, and joyous live Italian music. I wanted to see the arts and crafts first, but being a minority in this family, I was out-voted and we looked at the car exhibit instead. The were Lamborghini and Ferrari of all different colors; I have to admit, it was kind of exciting to see a car that costs more than my house. I didn't dare even breath on them, for fear a drop of saliva might escape my quivering lips and drop on a hood marring the finish in some way.
I was relieved when we entered the pavilion, and visited the food booths. I was just sitting down with a mouth-watering bowl of chicken Marsala, when , onstage, the MC announced a Trivia Contest. The winner would receive a CD of Italian Festival songs. Too bad I can't win that. I never win anything.
They gave the question, and wonders upon wonders, I called out the right answer and won. I felt like I was walking through oatmeal as I walked past numerous sets of curious eyes on my way to the stage. I still couldn't believe my good fortune until the MC handed me the CD, still tightly wrapped in cellophane.
"Hey, that was almost too easy for you," a man sitting by our table joked. "Maybe they should've had you sing for it."
"Oh hell no!," John blurted.
Jerk, I thought as everyone around us burst out laughing.
The rest of the afternoon was filled with carnival rides for the kids, and grape stomping, which we watched, and more wonderful music. Finally, as the sun began to bid farewell for the day, we loaded up and came home. We hated to leave, but after the long trip, it was good to be back home.
"Well, so much for that idea, unless," John said, "Enterprise has a car we can rent."
Luck was in our favor, and we rented a Dodge Magnum for the weekend. Let me be the first to tell you, this is NOT your classic station wagon. To begin with, this fire-engine colored creation had a Hemi engine, which John was extremely excited; very patiently John explained a Hemi was an ultra-powerful engine, very seldom seen in a car. With a "that's nice dear" expression plastered on my face, I "oohed" and "ah ed" in all the right places as he went on about pistons and cylinders. I do well if I can change a tire, check the fluid levels, pump the gas and find the radiator; anything else about cars is over my head and is completely uninteresting to me. The front end resembled the muscle car, the Dodge Charger, and the rear end looked like the George Jetson version of a space age station wagon..
John took me for a spin before we left on the trip. Needless to say, I haven't been in anything so powerful since my younger, single days when I had a sports car.
As soon as we reached the festival, we were greeted by the mouth-watering aromas, and joyous live Italian music. I wanted to see the arts and crafts first, but being a minority in this family, I was out-voted and we looked at the car exhibit instead. The were Lamborghini and Ferrari of all different colors; I have to admit, it was kind of exciting to see a car that costs more than my house. I didn't dare even breath on them, for fear a drop of saliva might escape my quivering lips and drop on a hood marring the finish in some way.
I was relieved when we entered the pavilion, and visited the food booths. I was just sitting down with a mouth-watering bowl of chicken Marsala, when , onstage, the MC announced a Trivia Contest. The winner would receive a CD of Italian Festival songs. Too bad I can't win that. I never win anything.
They gave the question, and wonders upon wonders, I called out the right answer and won. I felt like I was walking through oatmeal as I walked past numerous sets of curious eyes on my way to the stage. I still couldn't believe my good fortune until the MC handed me the CD, still tightly wrapped in cellophane.
"Hey, that was almost too easy for you," a man sitting by our table joked. "Maybe they should've had you sing for it."
"Oh hell no!," John blurted.
Jerk, I thought as everyone around us burst out laughing.
The rest of the afternoon was filled with carnival rides for the kids, and grape stomping, which we watched, and more wonderful music. Finally, as the sun began to bid farewell for the day, we loaded up and came home. We hated to leave, but after the long trip, it was good to be back home.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Something to warm you up
The cold is beginning to nip at your nose and "Old Man Winter" looms just around the corner. Here's a recipe to warm your tummy.
Minestrone Soup
6 1/2 c. marinara sauce
2 c. beef broth
1 c. red wine
1 med. onion, chopped
1/4 c. celery leaves, chopped
1 c. chopped celery
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
1 medium zucchini, sliced
1 1/2 c. chopped cabbage
1 (14-16 oz.) can kidney or great northern beans (drained)
Pepper
Combine the sauce and broth and heat until it reaches a low boil. Add veggies, cover the pot, and simmer for 25 minutes or until all veggies are tender. Add the beans and simmer for 1-2 hours. Serve over pasta and top with Parmesan cheese if desired.
Wonderful with garlic bread.
I had a wonderful weekend, and will try to post about tomorrow. How was your weekend?
Minestrone Soup
6 1/2 c. marinara sauce
2 c. beef broth
1 c. red wine
1 med. onion, chopped
1/4 c. celery leaves, chopped
1 c. chopped celery
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
1 medium zucchini, sliced
1 1/2 c. chopped cabbage
1 (14-16 oz.) can kidney or great northern beans (drained)
Pepper
Combine the sauce and broth and heat until it reaches a low boil. Add veggies, cover the pot, and simmer for 25 minutes or until all veggies are tender. Add the beans and simmer for 1-2 hours. Serve over pasta and top with Parmesan cheese if desired.
Wonderful with garlic bread.
I had a wonderful weekend, and will try to post about tomorrow. How was your weekend?
Friday, October 13, 2006
Eye exams can be dangerous for my mental health
My boys. . .my heartHere's a picture of the culprits. . .er. . .I mean my boys. The little one looks like me, the big one looks like his Dad.
Most people can go to the eye doctor without incident, not me. Maybe it’s the soft fluorescent lighting, or the soul-soothing music; whatever it is, the moment I step into the office and catch a whiff of the vanilla-scented air, my mind becomes a bowl of Jell-O.
“Oh, that’s an interesting last name, a new front desk attendant chirped as I signed in. “Are you Roman?”
I was only listening with half my mind, the other half was intent on watching Robert, and making sure he didn’t indulge himself by breaking a pair of designer glasses on a rack. “Huh? Oh no, I’m not roaming. I’ve lived here for almost fifteen years,” I replied absently as I grabbed Robert’s inquisitive hands.
There was silence after my statement, then the receptionist burst into giggles. “That’s a good one,” she chuckled.
“Umm. . .thanks. Did I say something funny?” I asked, giving her a blank look.
“You, you weren’t trying to be funny?” she stuttered, turning as red as a tomato.
“No. You asked me if I was roaming, and I told you I’d been living here for fifteen years.”
The receptionist burst into laughter. “No sweetie; I saw your last name and asked if you were Roman.”
It was my turn to blush. “Oh,” I laughed uncomfortably. “Well, the last name is Italian, but its origin is more Sicilian.” Why’d she ask me that anyway? No one has ever been that specific.
During the rest of our conversation, the reception revealed she had just returned from her honeymoon trip to Rome; she thought I looked Roman.
After the receptionist regaled me with her honeymoon adventures, I sunk into one of the comfy chairs and Robert played happily with an office toy. In a few minutes, a handsome young eye tech game to the door and called my name. “Is it okay if we take the toy into the exam room?” I asked, glancing anxiously at my son playing on the floor. “Cause if we don’t, there’s going to be a flood of tears.”
“I don’t see why not,” the tech replied.
I MEANT to say, “Come on baby,” to Robert; instead, I looked at the tech and said “Thanks baby.” The young man gave me a strange look as he ushered me into the room.
Before I leave here, they’re going to think I’m a blathering idiot.
In a short time, Dr. “H” breezed into the room. “It wonderful to see you again,” he said, patting my on the shoulder.
Yeah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew what I thought the last time I was here. Thankfully, the exam was completed without incident. I hope that by the time I return next year, they’ll have forgotten everything that happened this visit. Hopefully. . .but I doubt it.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
It pays to GOOGLE yourself
If you remember, a few years ago, people were illegally downloading and distributing popular music. Many of the musicians sued and won against the violators; I, like many others, thought the "pirating" was wrong, but didn't think it was any big deal. Funny how my attitutude changed shortly thereafter.
One lazy afternoon, about this same time last year, I was happily sitting at my computer, sipping on a glass sweet, and surfing the web. On a whim, I ran a search on myself using GOOGLE. I almost choked on my tea because of what I saw; my name was linked to an undesirable website. No way, there's no damn way I could be on this website. Yeah right, like there's just tons of people running around with my name.
Morbid curosity got the better of me, and I clicked on the link. As it turns out, someone had taken an earlier story of mine from an ezine I submitted to, and posted the story without my permission. I couldn't email that webmaster fast enough. Bless him, he responded immediately, apologizing profusly for what the person posting the story had done, and removed the post.
Two months later, ran another search, same guy stole another one of my stories and posted it on the same forum. Again I emailed the webmaster, again he apologized, removed the post, and sent me a copy of the email he sent to the member, threatening to terminate his membership.
Here's where it just gets to funny for words (I'm being sarcastic). The creep who infringed on my copyright, emailed me and said I should be honored he liked my story and I should stop picking on him. He violated me, and I'm picking on him?
A few weeks ago, I ran a search on myself. There, on another undesirable (when I say undesirable I mean very undesirable) website was the same story taken a year ago, posted by the same guy. Once again, I donned the "armor of self-justice," and contacted the webmaster of that site, politely asking him to remove my story from his. Weeks past, and he ignored my numerous requests; finally, I contact the US copyright office and the Texas Attorney General.
I sent one last email to the webmaster, telling him of my actions. This morning I got a very explosive email from him. Basically, --I'm cleaning up the language--he said he didn't give a rat's behind, and didn't see what the big deal is; that even though my story was under copyright protection, it wasn't violated because he made no money. He grudgingly agreed to take it down though.
He couldn't be more wrong.
According to the Copyright Office, from the very first second you put words on paper, your work is copyrighted. Reguardless if you pay a fee or not, it belongs solely to you, and no one may use it without your permissio; it is protected. However, you cannot sue an individual unless the work is registered with the Copyright Office.
I honestly didn't want any money, it was for the moral principal. Over reacting? Maybe; but I know now exactly how those musicians felt; violated.
One lazy afternoon, about this same time last year, I was happily sitting at my computer, sipping on a glass sweet, and surfing the web. On a whim, I ran a search on myself using GOOGLE. I almost choked on my tea because of what I saw; my name was linked to an undesirable website. No way, there's no damn way I could be on this website. Yeah right, like there's just tons of people running around with my name.
Morbid curosity got the better of me, and I clicked on the link. As it turns out, someone had taken an earlier story of mine from an ezine I submitted to, and posted the story without my permission. I couldn't email that webmaster fast enough. Bless him, he responded immediately, apologizing profusly for what the person posting the story had done, and removed the post.
Two months later, ran another search, same guy stole another one of my stories and posted it on the same forum. Again I emailed the webmaster, again he apologized, removed the post, and sent me a copy of the email he sent to the member, threatening to terminate his membership.
Here's where it just gets to funny for words (I'm being sarcastic). The creep who infringed on my copyright, emailed me and said I should be honored he liked my story and I should stop picking on him. He violated me, and I'm picking on him?
A few weeks ago, I ran a search on myself. There, on another undesirable (when I say undesirable I mean very undesirable) website was the same story taken a year ago, posted by the same guy. Once again, I donned the "armor of self-justice," and contacted the webmaster of that site, politely asking him to remove my story from his. Weeks past, and he ignored my numerous requests; finally, I contact the US copyright office and the Texas Attorney General.
I sent one last email to the webmaster, telling him of my actions. This morning I got a very explosive email from him. Basically, --I'm cleaning up the language--he said he didn't give a rat's behind, and didn't see what the big deal is; that even though my story was under copyright protection, it wasn't violated because he made no money. He grudgingly agreed to take it down though.
He couldn't be more wrong.
According to the Copyright Office, from the very first second you put words on paper, your work is copyrighted. Reguardless if you pay a fee or not, it belongs solely to you, and no one may use it without your permissio; it is protected. However, you cannot sue an individual unless the work is registered with the Copyright Office.
I honestly didn't want any money, it was for the moral principal. Over reacting? Maybe; but I know now exactly how those musicians felt; violated.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Halloween Ideas
Thanks to everyone for your warm wishes. My back is tons better and once again I'm searching for adventure.
Autumn has arrived for most of you, but here. . .well. . .we're as dry as a forgotten raisin in a backpack. We need rain, badly. Anyway. . .Halloween is lurking around the corner. Have you decided what you're going to do? Here are a few suggestions for an enjoyable and memorable Halloween..
Costumes
"What can I be for Halloween?" Ah yes, the "million dollar question"; unfortunately, there's not a "million dollar" answer to go with it. Scores of expensive costumes line the racks in department stores, but they all look the same, they have no "voice" of their own. Here are a few original costume ideas I hope you find useful.
Puppies for sale (toddler)(quick and easy)
1 cheap DALMATIAN or any other puppy costume (Yeah, I know I'm being a hypocrite, but you can usually find these very cheaply either at a thrift store or a dollar store)
1 cardboard box (big enough for the child to sit comfortably in, and the sides low enough so the child can be seen )
I children's wagon
Assorted stuffed toy puppies
Double stick tape
On the sides of the box, write the words PUPPIES FOR SALE, then place the box in the wagon. Put the child in the box, then using the tape affix the puppies to the inside of the box so that the heads and the front paws of the puppies are dangling just over the rim.
Basketball goal
This took me about 5 minutes to put together, and it won Seth "most original" at the city costume contest.
I large circular clothes basket
pair of white warm ups
1 pair of suspenders
1 or 2 nerf basketballs, depending on the size of the child or the basket. Also you can vary the size of the balls
face paint
Dress the child in white warm ups.
Paint the child's face with black face paint. Using any other color, put an H on one cheek, the score beneath it, a V on the other cheek, and a score beneath it.
Carefully, cut the bottom out of the clothes basket, making sure there are no sharp edges. Slip the basket over the child, and secure with the suspenders. Put the balls between the rim of the basket, and the child's body.
*This costume is awkward if riding in a car.
Morning Person (adult)
This was my costume one year and I loved it.
robe
coffee cup
newspaper
fuzzy slippers
PJ's
Just put all the above clothes on, mess up your hair, and go have fun!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the kids are trick-or-treated out, we huddle together on the couch and watch our favorite classic horror movies and pig out on snacks. Here are a few recipe links we use.
Kitty Litter cake
Brain Surgery Salad
Putrid Punch
Ants on a log
Peanut butter
8 celery stalks (leaves removed)
raisins
Cut each stalk into two pieces and fill with peanut butter. Top with raisins
Bloody hands
Frozen bread dough (thawed)
spaghetti sauce
Form the dough into the shape of a hand, and bake according to package directions. Cool slightly and drizzle with spaghetti sauce. For added creepiness you could stick a plastic knife into the bread once the bread is baked.
Rabbit's Treasure (carrot sticks)
Tuna Spook Sandwiches
Have a "howling" good time!
Autumn has arrived for most of you, but here. . .well. . .we're as dry as a forgotten raisin in a backpack. We need rain, badly. Anyway. . .Halloween is lurking around the corner. Have you decided what you're going to do? Here are a few suggestions for an enjoyable and memorable Halloween..
Costumes
"What can I be for Halloween?" Ah yes, the "million dollar question"; unfortunately, there's not a "million dollar" answer to go with it. Scores of expensive costumes line the racks in department stores, but they all look the same, they have no "voice" of their own. Here are a few original costume ideas I hope you find useful.
Puppies for sale (toddler)(quick and easy)
1 cheap DALMATIAN or any other puppy costume (Yeah, I know I'm being a hypocrite, but you can usually find these very cheaply either at a thrift store or a dollar store)
1 cardboard box (big enough for the child to sit comfortably in, and the sides low enough so the child can be seen )
I children's wagon
Assorted stuffed toy puppies
Double stick tape
On the sides of the box, write the words PUPPIES FOR SALE, then place the box in the wagon. Put the child in the box, then using the tape affix the puppies to the inside of the box so that the heads and the front paws of the puppies are dangling just over the rim.
Basketball goal
This took me about 5 minutes to put together, and it won Seth "most original" at the city costume contest.
I large circular clothes basket
pair of white warm ups
1 pair of suspenders
1 or 2 nerf basketballs, depending on the size of the child or the basket. Also you can vary the size of the balls
face paint
Dress the child in white warm ups.
Paint the child's face with black face paint. Using any other color, put an H on one cheek, the score beneath it, a V on the other cheek, and a score beneath it.
Carefully, cut the bottom out of the clothes basket, making sure there are no sharp edges. Slip the basket over the child, and secure with the suspenders. Put the balls between the rim of the basket, and the child's body.
*This costume is awkward if riding in a car.
Morning Person (adult)
This was my costume one year and I loved it.
robe
coffee cup
newspaper
fuzzy slippers
PJ's
Just put all the above clothes on, mess up your hair, and go have fun!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the kids are trick-or-treated out, we huddle together on the couch and watch our favorite classic horror movies and pig out on snacks. Here are a few recipe links we use.
Kitty Litter cake
Brain Surgery Salad
Putrid Punch
Ants on a log
Peanut butter
8 celery stalks (leaves removed)
raisins
Cut each stalk into two pieces and fill with peanut butter. Top with raisins
Bloody hands
Frozen bread dough (thawed)
spaghetti sauce
Form the dough into the shape of a hand, and bake according to package directions. Cool slightly and drizzle with spaghetti sauce. For added creepiness you could stick a plastic knife into the bread once the bread is baked.
Rabbit's Treasure (carrot sticks)
Tuna Spook Sandwiches
Have a "howling" good time!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Take Two Hemorrhoids and Call me in the Morning
Sunday, the Fall Cleaning bug bit me, and in a moment of weakness, I decided to clean Seth's room.
"Need any help, babe?" John asked, never taking his eyes off the football game on television.
If I say yes, he'll just keep peeping around the corner into the living room at the game; he won't be focused on what we're doing, I thought. "No that's fine. I got it covered." Armed with an arsenal of cleaning supplies, I journeyed into Seth's bedroom and prepared to attack my first enemy, the bed. There are stories of brave peanut butter sandwiches and school papers journeying into the void underneath the bed, never seen again.
I dropped to my knees, and as cautious as a cat, lifted the royal-blue colored dust ruffle and stared at the hodge podge of cars, blocks, and other toys strewn recklessly about. Looks like a toy factory exploded under here.
The only way to really get rid of all the junk under here is to move the bed. Yeah right; famous last words of a fool. As I lifted the heavy oak frame, an excruciating pain, almost as bad as labor pains, shot through my lower back, taking my breath away.
As gently as I could, given the circumstances, I lowered the bed and hobbled to the couch in the living room. "Are you in pain?" John asked innocently.
"No, I just walk this way naturally, of course I'm in pain!" I spent the rest of the day propped up by pillows on the couch while my sweet hubby took care of me.
That was two days ago, and this morning I was still so sore I could hardly move. "Hey Mom," Seth asked, looking in the fridge, "could you find the butter in the fridge for me?"
Grumbling, I sat my coffee cup down on the kitchen counter and knelt, my knees popping like a bowl of Rice Krispies, in front of the fridge. "Oh crap, my back hurts," I moaned.
"Why don't you get a doctor to give you a couple of hemorrhoids to take so you'll feel better?" Seth asked.
Surely he didn't say what I think he said. "What? "Repeat that again."
"Hemorrhoids; you know, what the body builders use." Seth repeated impatiently.
"No baby, that's steroids, not hemorrhoids!" I sat on the floor and laughed till tears poured out of my eyes and my sides ached. As Seth helped me up, I noticed my back was feeling better. I guess the old saying is right, "laughter is the best medicine."
"Need any help, babe?" John asked, never taking his eyes off the football game on television.
If I say yes, he'll just keep peeping around the corner into the living room at the game; he won't be focused on what we're doing, I thought. "No that's fine. I got it covered." Armed with an arsenal of cleaning supplies, I journeyed into Seth's bedroom and prepared to attack my first enemy, the bed. There are stories of brave peanut butter sandwiches and school papers journeying into the void underneath the bed, never seen again.
I dropped to my knees, and as cautious as a cat, lifted the royal-blue colored dust ruffle and stared at the hodge podge of cars, blocks, and other toys strewn recklessly about. Looks like a toy factory exploded under here.
The only way to really get rid of all the junk under here is to move the bed. Yeah right; famous last words of a fool. As I lifted the heavy oak frame, an excruciating pain, almost as bad as labor pains, shot through my lower back, taking my breath away.
As gently as I could, given the circumstances, I lowered the bed and hobbled to the couch in the living room. "Are you in pain?" John asked innocently.
"No, I just walk this way naturally, of course I'm in pain!" I spent the rest of the day propped up by pillows on the couch while my sweet hubby took care of me.
That was two days ago, and this morning I was still so sore I could hardly move. "Hey Mom," Seth asked, looking in the fridge, "could you find the butter in the fridge for me?"
Grumbling, I sat my coffee cup down on the kitchen counter and knelt, my knees popping like a bowl of Rice Krispies, in front of the fridge. "Oh crap, my back hurts," I moaned.
"Why don't you get a doctor to give you a couple of hemorrhoids to take so you'll feel better?" Seth asked.
Surely he didn't say what I think he said. "What? "Repeat that again."
"Hemorrhoids; you know, what the body builders use." Seth repeated impatiently.
"No baby, that's steroids, not hemorrhoids!" I sat on the floor and laughed till tears poured out of my eyes and my sides ached. As Seth helped me up, I noticed my back was feeling better. I guess the old saying is right, "laughter is the best medicine."
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Madness Continues
After the hair salon incident on Tuesday, that same day I journeyed back into town. A glutton for punishment, I brought along Robert. "I'm going to get another balloon?" he asked hopefully as we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot.
"They don't give balloons away here." Thank goodness for that too. Just the mere thought of a balloon anywhere around me made me as jumpy as a cricket in a hot skillet.
Walking into the lobby, we soon found Wal-Mart had something much worse; automated shopping carts. These carts were geared toward the children, and were actually play cars with the shopping built in on the outside. The child sat inside the vehicle while the car entertained them with blinking lights, stories and songs. The only drawback is that it requires a dollar deposit. A dollar to use a shopping cart? No way. I thought huffily.
Robert had only to bat his big blue eyes at me and say "Please Mommy," to make my resolve melt like butter.
It is only a dollar, I argued with myself, and besides, just a dollar for your sanity? It's worth it. I paid the money into the machine as Robert happily climbed into a car decorated in Barney motif.
I was in heaven as I browsed luxiously through the store. There was no whining, no "Mommy I want out." Instead, Robert sat smiling like a Cheshire cat in his car. I encountered a snag in the trip when I checked out. There, in big letters, was a sign stating the cars would shut off once we left the check-out area. Just great, get ready for the water works, I thought grimly as I put the groceries on the conveyer belt. I asked a cashier for an empty regular cart, and true to form, Robert threw a fit to end all fits. He was the only thing on my mind as I wrestled him into the seat portion of the plain cart.
I was halfway across the parking lot, with Robert howling like a wounded coyote pup, when I realized I didn't have my change. It's only three dollars, but still!
Robert held onto the sides of the cart for dear life as I whipped around and raced back to the store with speed a NASCAR driver would be envious of. I barreled in through the doors like a raging maniac, pushing my cart toward the surprised elderly door greeter. "I left my change at the register. Can I leave my kid and cart with you?" I asked breathlessly before darting away.
"U-um yeah, that will be fine." the greeter stuttered. I wove through shoppers, who were checking out, with the agility of a running back. I made it to my register just as a young mom was pulling her groceries out of the cart.
"Excuse me, this is mine," I explained hastily, grabbing the money out of the change slot. My heart still racing, I stumbled back toward the door greeter who was guarding my groceries and Robert like a hawk. "That was some running," he joked,"Seriously hon, I'm glad you got your change before someone else did."
I thanked him, took Robert and started to the truck. Completely spent, I gasped like a fish out of water. "That was fun, Mommy. Do it again," Robert cheered, clapping his graham cracker encrusted hands. Yeah right, that will happen again REAL soon, I thought tiredly. Right after Barney the Dinosaur enters politics.
"They don't give balloons away here." Thank goodness for that too. Just the mere thought of a balloon anywhere around me made me as jumpy as a cricket in a hot skillet.
Walking into the lobby, we soon found Wal-Mart had something much worse; automated shopping carts. These carts were geared toward the children, and were actually play cars with the shopping built in on the outside. The child sat inside the vehicle while the car entertained them with blinking lights, stories and songs. The only drawback is that it requires a dollar deposit. A dollar to use a shopping cart? No way. I thought huffily.
Robert had only to bat his big blue eyes at me and say "Please Mommy," to make my resolve melt like butter.
It is only a dollar, I argued with myself, and besides, just a dollar for your sanity? It's worth it. I paid the money into the machine as Robert happily climbed into a car decorated in Barney motif.
I was in heaven as I browsed luxiously through the store. There was no whining, no "Mommy I want out." Instead, Robert sat smiling like a Cheshire cat in his car. I encountered a snag in the trip when I checked out. There, in big letters, was a sign stating the cars would shut off once we left the check-out area. Just great, get ready for the water works, I thought grimly as I put the groceries on the conveyer belt. I asked a cashier for an empty regular cart, and true to form, Robert threw a fit to end all fits. He was the only thing on my mind as I wrestled him into the seat portion of the plain cart.
I was halfway across the parking lot, with Robert howling like a wounded coyote pup, when I realized I didn't have my change. It's only three dollars, but still!
Robert held onto the sides of the cart for dear life as I whipped around and raced back to the store with speed a NASCAR driver would be envious of. I barreled in through the doors like a raging maniac, pushing my cart toward the surprised elderly door greeter. "I left my change at the register. Can I leave my kid and cart with you?" I asked breathlessly before darting away.
"U-um yeah, that will be fine." the greeter stuttered. I wove through shoppers, who were checking out, with the agility of a running back. I made it to my register just as a young mom was pulling her groceries out of the cart.
"Excuse me, this is mine," I explained hastily, grabbing the money out of the change slot. My heart still racing, I stumbled back toward the door greeter who was guarding my groceries and Robert like a hawk. "That was some running," he joked,"Seriously hon, I'm glad you got your change before someone else did."
I thanked him, took Robert and started to the truck. Completely spent, I gasped like a fish out of water. "That was fun, Mommy. Do it again," Robert cheered, clapping his graham cracker encrusted hands. Yeah right, that will happen again REAL soon, I thought tiredly. Right after Barney the Dinosaur enters politics.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
All Because of a Balloon
I thought Tuesday was going to be a normal day; instead, it was filled with surprises. At the supermarket, one of the assistant managers gave Robert a helium-filled balloon weighed down by a sucker on the end of a string.
Happily, my four year-old clutched the string to his balloon as I put him and the non-perishable groceries in the car. As I shut the door, I never noticed the balloon wasn't inside the car; not until we were zooming down the interstate, and the sunshine yellow colored orb passed me with a thwat before sailing toward the heavens.
"I'm sorry baby," I apologized, glancing in the rearview mirror at Robert's shocked expression. He didn't say a word as we pulled into the parking lot of Fantastic Sam's. I helped him out of the car seat, and as we walked toward the hair salon, I wondered why he was bringing the grimy string, now absent a balloon. I soon found out.
I was signing the waiting list when Robert, his body rigid with indignation, pointed his finger at me at yelled, "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer."
I felt as if the room was spinning out of control, and I grabbed the counter for support. Time seemed to freeze as everyone stared at me with a deer-in-the-headlight look. "Why do you say that honey?" my hairdresser, Vonnie asked, eyeing me warily.
"Do you see this?" Robert demanded, holding up the grimy string. "There used to a balloon on here, but Mommy killed it."
Everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh as they realized what Robert meant; everyone relaxed, but me. "Relax sweetheart, we all know what he meant," Vonnie chuckled as she washed my hair. Yeah, it's easy for you to relax, you're not me, I thought as my over-active imagination spun out of control.
The door is open. What is someone was passing by and only heard the "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer." part and called the police. What if there was a murder, and now I'm a suspect? I imagined the FBI hiding in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and yelling "Swarm! Swarm!" knocking me to the ground as I walked out of the store with my purchases, cuffing me, shoving me in the car and driving away as Robert, still sitting in the basket, waved a tearful good-bye. How will John introduce me after I finished my prison term? Would he say "my wife the convict," instead of "my wife the writer"?
"You know," Vonnie said as she dried my hair and led my to a chair, "all of us here have kids. No one took him seriously."
"You sure?"
"Positive." she smiled.
I sighed and relaxed, as Vonnie, a Picasso with scissors, finished my hair. After I paid, I led a still brooding Robert out into the parking lot. "Hey mister," he called to a man walking past. "My mommy is a--"
Faster than a hummingbird can fly, I jerked open the truck door, belted Robert into his seat, and drove away, hopefully avoiding being on America's Most Wanted for a little while longer.
Happily, my four year-old clutched the string to his balloon as I put him and the non-perishable groceries in the car. As I shut the door, I never noticed the balloon wasn't inside the car; not until we were zooming down the interstate, and the sunshine yellow colored orb passed me with a thwat before sailing toward the heavens.
"I'm sorry baby," I apologized, glancing in the rearview mirror at Robert's shocked expression. He didn't say a word as we pulled into the parking lot of Fantastic Sam's. I helped him out of the car seat, and as we walked toward the hair salon, I wondered why he was bringing the grimy string, now absent a balloon. I soon found out.
I was signing the waiting list when Robert, his body rigid with indignation, pointed his finger at me at yelled, "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer."
I felt as if the room was spinning out of control, and I grabbed the counter for support. Time seemed to freeze as everyone stared at me with a deer-in-the-headlight look. "Why do you say that honey?" my hairdresser, Vonnie asked, eyeing me warily.
"Do you see this?" Robert demanded, holding up the grimy string. "There used to a balloon on here, but Mommy killed it."
Everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh as they realized what Robert meant; everyone relaxed, but me. "Relax sweetheart, we all know what he meant," Vonnie chuckled as she washed my hair. Yeah, it's easy for you to relax, you're not me, I thought as my over-active imagination spun out of control.
The door is open. What is someone was passing by and only heard the "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer." part and called the police. What if there was a murder, and now I'm a suspect? I imagined the FBI hiding in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and yelling "Swarm! Swarm!" knocking me to the ground as I walked out of the store with my purchases, cuffing me, shoving me in the car and driving away as Robert, still sitting in the basket, waved a tearful good-bye. How will John introduce me after I finished my prison term? Would he say "my wife the convict," instead of "my wife the writer"?
"You know," Vonnie said as she dried my hair and led my to a chair, "all of us here have kids. No one took him seriously."
"You sure?"
"Positive." she smiled.
I sighed and relaxed, as Vonnie, a Picasso with scissors, finished my hair. After I paid, I led a still brooding Robert out into the parking lot. "Hey mister," he called to a man walking past. "My mommy is a--"
Faster than a hummingbird can fly, I jerked open the truck door, belted Robert into his seat, and drove away, hopefully avoiding being on America's Most Wanted for a little while longer.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Ricotta cheesecake recipe and more
Hope everyone is having a great weekend. Here's the recipe I promised and a couple of other things.
Ricotta Cheesecake
Crust
Filling
1 lb. ricotta cheese, room temp.
2 (8 oz.) pkgs. cream cheese, room temp.
2 c. sour cream
1 1/2 c. sugar
4 eggs
2 1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. vanilla
3 tbsp. cornstarch
3 tbsp. flour
1/4 c. butter, softened
Directions for crust
Combine the crust ingredients. Mix well and press evenly (1/4 to 1/2 inch thick) over bottom of a 9 inch springform pan. Smooth the extra mixture up the sides of pan
Directions for filling
Blend cream cheese, sour cream and ricotta together. Mix in sugar and eggs.
Mix in remaining ingredients and beat until smooth. Into a generously buttered 9 inch springform pan pour batter. Put in oven at 325 degrees. Bake 1 hour. DO NOT open oven door. Turn off oven, leave cake in for 2 more hours. Do not open oven door. Cool in pan. You can use fruit pie filling as the topping, and I find the cherry works the best.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I found this meme over at GoofyJ's, and I couldn't pass it up.
What is the first music you remember hearing?
I remember listening to and watching my mother perform gospel music with her group in different places. At the time, I never understood why some people were crying as she sang, or why they all congratulated her at the end of every performance
Did you come from a musical family?
Oh yeah! My mother was a country music/ gospel singer who, a couple of times performed with Johnny Gimble. She was offered a chance to sing in Nashville on the "Grand Ol' Opery," but she was deeply in love with my father. She had to make a choice, family or a fast-paced musical career in the spotlight. Of course she chose family. I couldn't comprehend why she would make such a sacrifice until I met my hubby.
In a sense, I was a musical failure to some; they thought I would be as vocally talented as my mother, and was disappointed when I wasn't.
Instead, instruments were my "cup of tea." In high school, I played the clarinet in marching and concert band, and tenor sax in jazz band.
.Do you remember a lullaby from your childhood? If so, what is it?
I can't remember all the words, or the name of the song, but the chorus went:
I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck and a hug aound the neck.
Hug around the neck and a barrel in a heap.
Barrel in a heap and I'm talking in my sleep about you
What song(s) changed your life?
Oh wow, there's a bunch. Here's 3 off the top of my head.
1. I believe by Fantasia Barino
2. Live Like You Were Dying
3. Let Them be Little
If you could have dinner with three dead musicians which three would you choose and why?
Eh, I like to live life in the present, so, being the rebel I am--after all I use tomato soap--I'll list the ones living.
1. Kenny G--His music puts me in such a mellow state of mind, and I'd love to know how he created his instrument.
2. Fantasia--I like her music, and she seems to be a very "grounded" person. I'd love to hear what all she went through before she "made it."
3. Bon Jovi--I listened to him during my wild child days, and he's a great humanitarian.
You are stranded on a deserted island. You are allowed the complete musical works of one band and its members. Which band or musician would you choose?
Kenny G.
Can music truly soothe the savage beast? If so, what music soothes your beast?
I love all kinds of music, but jazz takes the edge off if I'm ticked. If I'm extremely mad--which is rare--I listen to something like "Eye of the Tiger" as I do karate kicks on my son's punching bag.
Speaking of soothing sounds, here's a link that will take the edge off.
Ricotta Cheesecake
Crust
2 c. graham cracker crumbs
1/4 c. sugar
1/3 c. melted butter
Filling
1 lb. ricotta cheese, room temp.
2 (8 oz.) pkgs. cream cheese, room temp.
2 c. sour cream
1 1/2 c. sugar
4 eggs
2 1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. vanilla
3 tbsp. cornstarch
3 tbsp. flour
1/4 c. butter, softened
Directions for crust
Combine the crust ingredients. Mix well and press evenly (1/4 to 1/2 inch thick) over bottom of a 9 inch springform pan. Smooth the extra mixture up the sides of pan
Directions for filling
Blend cream cheese, sour cream and ricotta together. Mix in sugar and eggs.
Mix in remaining ingredients and beat until smooth. Into a generously buttered 9 inch springform pan pour batter. Put in oven at 325 degrees. Bake 1 hour. DO NOT open oven door. Turn off oven, leave cake in for 2 more hours. Do not open oven door. Cool in pan. You can use fruit pie filling as the topping, and I find the cherry works the best.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I found this meme over at GoofyJ's, and I couldn't pass it up.
What is the first music you remember hearing?
I remember listening to and watching my mother perform gospel music with her group in different places. At the time, I never understood why some people were crying as she sang, or why they all congratulated her at the end of every performance
Did you come from a musical family?
Oh yeah! My mother was a country music/ gospel singer who, a couple of times performed with Johnny Gimble. She was offered a chance to sing in Nashville on the "Grand Ol' Opery," but she was deeply in love with my father. She had to make a choice, family or a fast-paced musical career in the spotlight. Of course she chose family. I couldn't comprehend why she would make such a sacrifice until I met my hubby.
In a sense, I was a musical failure to some; they thought I would be as vocally talented as my mother, and was disappointed when I wasn't.
Instead, instruments were my "cup of tea." In high school, I played the clarinet in marching and concert band, and tenor sax in jazz band.
.Do you remember a lullaby from your childhood? If so, what is it?
I can't remember all the words, or the name of the song, but the chorus went:
I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck and a hug aound the neck.
Hug around the neck and a barrel in a heap.
Barrel in a heap and I'm talking in my sleep about you
What song(s) changed your life?
Oh wow, there's a bunch. Here's 3 off the top of my head.
1. I believe by Fantasia Barino
2. Live Like You Were Dying
3. Let Them be Little
If you could have dinner with three dead musicians which three would you choose and why?
Eh, I like to live life in the present, so, being the rebel I am--after all I use tomato soap--I'll list the ones living.
1. Kenny G--His music puts me in such a mellow state of mind, and I'd love to know how he created his instrument.
2. Fantasia--I like her music, and she seems to be a very "grounded" person. I'd love to hear what all she went through before she "made it."
3. Bon Jovi--I listened to him during my wild child days, and he's a great humanitarian.
You are stranded on a deserted island. You are allowed the complete musical works of one band and its members. Which band or musician would you choose?
Kenny G.
Can music truly soothe the savage beast? If so, what music soothes your beast?
I love all kinds of music, but jazz takes the edge off if I'm ticked. If I'm extremely mad--which is rare--I listen to something like "Eye of the Tiger" as I do karate kicks on my son's punching bag.
Speaking of soothing sounds, here's a link that will take the edge off.
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