Mind Over Mullis

Countdown

2012-02-02T20:47:00.001-05:00

Of all Mother Nature’s gentle and endearing creatures, I most identify with the groundhog. He waits patiently underground all year, feasting on delicacies and delights, only to appear in the gloom of a February morning while all the world waits to discover his secret. Then, in a burst of media attention, his single accomplishment of the year is over in the flash of a newsman’s camera.

For the groundhog, fate balances on the turn of a sundial. If the way is clear, we will throw open the windows and welcome in the twinkling sunbeams of spring. But if the groundhog sees his shadow, he runs to hide his face and we trudge into a tunnel of deep, dark, depressing days, trailing our winter boots and woolen scarves behind us.

I feel the same way when I try on bathing suits.

During the winter months, I while away the demi-days of the season gorging myself on cream-filled snack cakes and marking off blocks on the calendar with a tube of decorator icing. Something happens to me in between the time when the autumn leaves start falling and the spring seedlings begin to sprout. Cold weather brings the opportunity to stir up sweet snow cream and savory soups. Winter holidays that taste of cornbread dressing and pumpkin pie whip past, and before I know it I’m two Ho-Ho’s and a Ding Dong away from fitting into my stretchy pants.

And so, I dig in my closet to the bottom of the pile of Things Left to Die, past the leggings, past the belly shirts, past the sports bra, and pull out—gasp—last year’s swimsuit. It took three paramedics and the Jaws of Life to remove the thing last year, and it will probably take my weight in bacon grease to get thing wretched thing to slide on now.

And suddenly Puxatawney Phil pops up to remind me that the days of carrots and calorie counters are waiting just around the cold front.

And here I am without a recipe for groundhog pie.

Who's Birthday? No, It's Wendy's!

2012-01-27T12:42:00.002-05:00

Especially for the N.C. gang. Because today is Wendy's birthday (Happy Birthday to one of our very favorite folks!) and because “that Vernon guy; he’s funny!” (Son of humorist to his mother, who is essentially liver mush in the great buffet of life.)

Did Somebody Say Shark Week?

Last summer we vacationed at a beach house with two other families. Vacation is an old English word meaning “No, you can’t bring the jellyfish home. Because he wants to stay with his Mommy jellyfish in the ocean, that's why.”

The rooms were awash with the sights and sounds of breaking waves, sparkling sunshine, and the pitter patter of assorted feet as folks stomped about searching for sandals, swimming suits, and suntan lotion. To some people any space that is filled with sibling rivalry and random whining might be unsettling. Add kids to the mix and it can be daunting.

To me it felt like home.

I come from a family with four children, which in kid math, what with adding a Little League team, several random Girl Scouts, and carrying a neighbor’s kid, equals 642 youngsters fighting over the last Kool Pop. The children in the neighborhood where I grew up traveled in hordes, like fire ants, but with Barbies and GI Joes, tunneling through various living rooms in search of something to do. I never saw a house with empty rooms until I married twenty years later. Then I went from room to room searching.

Where have all the people gone?

So Memorial Day last year saw me up to my baggy eyes and borrowed bathing suit in little people who still think the day begins while the sky is dark and who consider the fast lane in life a bicycle path. Toss in my two guys, who will remain teenagers as long as the punchline holds out, and who could sleep six days straight without draining their Black Ops health points, and you come up with a cross between Dr. Who and reality TV: Survivor: Time Warp Narcolepsy.

When it comes right down to it and the Special K Red Berries hit the bowl, the scene at the beach house could be a present day kid invasion or a scene from 40 pre-pixel years ago when I would be awake before the dew reached the saturation point and Mom gave up hoping I would ever sleep through the night. (Imagine my surprise when I discovered years later, after the first screaming bundle of No-Doze came along, that 9PM was the new midnight.)

After a few mornings when the kids rose an hour before the sun, I found I could nap with my face in a bowl of cereal that stayed crunchy even in milk, propped up on the couch watching exciting animated adventures, or reclining in a tidal pool at the shore (Wendy, that’s us!) surrounded by tiny fishes who have no appreciation for personal space.

Turns out that napping is my superpower. So I had a wonderful vacation and discovered my superhuman strength all at once. James Bond can have his fancy gadgets; I can sleep when the tide comes in and I’m up to my neck in sand dollars and seaweed. So bring on the sunrise; I'm a kid again.

Because James Bond had one thing right. You only live twice.

Nailed It!

2012-01-19T19:31:00.000-05:00

I can't take your call right now. I'm over at Stage of Life sawing and cutting and figuring out where I went wrong. Check out my handy guide to Do It Yourself home projects. But if you're squeamish, stay right here and browse through old pictures of the Captain. See there, doesn't he clean up nicely?

Facing Off

2012-01-08T21:19:00.001-05:00

A Simple User’s Guide to Changing Your Privacy Settings on FaceBook

Step 1: Go to Account and click on Settings. This action leads to coded instructions in the form of a detailed transcript of the 1969 John Wayne movie, True Grit, written in a secret font legible only to flamboyant cuttlefish. (Luckily I am fluent in cuttlefish, having once taken a class in Oceanic Languages as an elective when demographic knitting was unavailable.)

Step 2. Click on the information you want to change.

Step 3. Click repeatedly on the same field when Facebook denies access for change.

Step 4. Place index fingers of each hand in your ears and try to make them touch.

Step 5: Put your right foot in.

Step 6: Take your right foot out.

Step 7: Put your right foot in.

Step 8. Shake it all about.

Step 6. Swear mightily and creatively in an open letter to the FaceBook founders.

Step 7. Using the big toe of your left foot, press the power button on your computer.

Step 8. Place your head on your desk and sit quietly until the teacher says you can sit up.

Following these detailed instructions will either launch a nuclear warhead or change your privacy settings. I deleted my birthday and five pages of status updates from public view, performed a magical keystroke that changed my picture to a shot of a cunning gopher lunching on a banana sandwich, and erased the child restriction settings that prevented me from viewing old Michael Jackson videos.

My homepage retaliated with an immediate status update sent to all of my relatives, the entire population of non-English speaking countries, and the Queen of England, that said, “This user is a gopher! Lock your doors! Hide your children!”

The Queen responded by immediately withdrawing as my neighbor on University Farm Zoo City Co-Ed Island, where she had previously harvested my crop of watercolor cows with impunity. All I can say is I’ve sprinkled her sugar maples for the last time.

It’s possible that I went astray in the directions. Next time perhaps I’ll put my left foot in.

And walk right out.

Sloppy Seconds Saturday

2012-01-07T10:02:00.004-05:00

Thanks to Carole at Irrational Propensity for sharing me around today on Sloppy Seconds Saturday. Join us for the fun over at Carole's where we're rediscovering that my hips don't lie. No matter how much I wish they would!

Top Tense

2012-01-05T21:59:00.003-05:00

We're in cahoots - or careening into divorce court. Join the Captain of my Canoe at An Army of Ermas where he shows why we do everything together. . .separately.

Dancing With Giants

2012-01-03T22:20:00.003-05:00

When you're eight the whole world looks big. Sometimes if you stand on the shoulders of somebody bigger, you can see far into the future. If you only knew to look. Take a look at Sasee magazine's January issue where I'm Dancing With Giants.

An Open Letter to My FaceBook Friend-To-Be

2011-12-30T13:47:00.004-05:00

Dear Friendless,

I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.

I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.

I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.

Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.

Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.

Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.

I married that guy.

I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.

But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.

I’m sitting by the cheese dip.

And eating out of the bowl.

And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.

The Man Hunt

2011-12-25T22:24:00.000-05:00

I'm hunting men this Christmas
The one I want the most
Is really most elusive
Down here so near the coast

The weatherman says eighty
So again this year you'll find
Me at the kitchen window
Building snowmen in my mind.

Best wishes for a very merry Christmas and a blessed and peaceful New Year!

Snap, Crackle, Christmas

2011-12-15T12:46:00.004-05:00

It's Snap and Crackle and Pop! Oh my! Things are getting sticky over at An Army of Ermas where I tried to mix up a little holiday cheer until things went horribly wrong.

Who knew the HazMat people made housecalls? I hope Santa calls back.

Merry Christmas, Eeyore

2011-12-12T21:48:00.006-05:00

I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas. I'm kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. However it goes, Father Christmas won't be seeing my bloomers til half past Valentine's Day.

But for the first time since the Power Ranger incident of '02, I started shopping before Christmas this year. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the Ginsu knives.

Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns on the coffee table.

I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last Christmas from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus, and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. The shepherd isn't quite as festive without his lint-free banner, but now it smells a little more like a stable and less like the Snuggle bear.

What appears to be stray tree limbs connected by lumps of fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor. If it lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, my tree would be Eeyore.

There are 1,497 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that the wood screw is not a device that is effective for this purpose.

The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation with holiday flair.

There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy Snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as the Captain tells me where he hid the batteries.

There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, and a brake job. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like "there's a front end alignment with your name on it just around the corner."

So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.

I might deck my halls with takeout boxes instead of tinsel, but I still have the hope that good will is not just a store where you can get half off every Tuesday.

Merry Christmas!

Hip Hop

2011-12-07T17:40:00.008-05:00

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie.

Even when threatened.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them inyo a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought over, and the six dozen Rudolph cupcakes intended for the third grade Christmas party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a milkshake without scraping off the whipped cream.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cookie crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance. I may have to read up on excavation techniques.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before size 10 became the new obese. My knees are still active, though. They take every opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had two get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top, just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the entire population of the tri-state area staged an intervention, and the government declared my entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme. Because hips don’t lie, but maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.

Rear View

2011-12-03T18:30:00.003-05:00

Dear Santa,

It all started when I married the Captain. I had known him for a long time, Santa; the excellent table manners and casual, maddening tidbits of knowledge on everything from Darwin to Dadaism. I expected to lose at Trivial Pursuit, get skunked at Jeopardy, and have copies of completed New York Times crossword puzzles strewn about the parlor.

The Time Lord thing, though, was a bit of a shock.

I didn’t realize I was marrying a Doctor.

Who?

Exactly.

Little did I know that an intergalactic smuggler with an itchy blaster finger, a starship captain with an overachiever complex, and a 900 year old doctor with a sonic space tazer came along with the deal. (Don’t leave me comments. I’ve lived this life for 20 years and nothing you can say hasn’t already been attempted by Vulcan mind meld. Resistance is fertile.)

I’m not holding all this against you Santa; I just wish you had given me a hint before I walked down the aisle surrounded by 30 phasers set on sugar shock.

But as long as we’re talking sci-fi, there is one thing I would like to have for Christmas. Keeping in mind that whole “bigger on the inside than on the outside” theme, all I’m asking for this year is. . .TARDIS PANTS!

Eat your heart out Kim Kardashian. You might have a butt that won’t quit, but I’ll have stretch pants that fit.

All In A Name

2011-11-27T20:39:00.004-05:00

As I was registering children for basketball recently, I encountered a tiny young lady with petite golden curls, large blue eyes, and a name with enough consonants to label an expansive European country. Fortunately she’d forgotten her last name. I was glad because I used the whole alphabet on her first one. The registration form looked like the “begat” section of the Bible. To imprint her name on the back of her jersey, we would have to use letters the size of a flea.

“What a clever name,” I beamed, mentally rearranging the letters to create the first three paragraphs of War and Peace. “How do you pronounce it?”

The girl shrugged. “Sissy.”

These days naming a child is like playing Wheel of Fortune. You call out all the letters you can think of, then take suggestions from the audience. Anybody that creates a title that the average schoolteacher can pronounce on the first try has to go to the end of the line and start over with a brand new baby.

When I was born, in the dark days before the “Buy a Vowel” era, people named their children after relatives who might leave them money. Failing a possible inheritance, they fell back on experimental methods and gave the child a name that looked like it might suit the personality of the baby.

There hasn’t been money in my family since the revenooers shut down the family business, so Mom went for the common sense method. The name Amy means “can’t read road maps,” and in some cultures can also be translated “she who hates vacuuming” or “one who fails at long division.” My sister is "Clothes Borrower" and my brother’s name is translated “burns gas like pine on a bonfire.”

I don’t envy celebrities who, even though they ooze enough cash to post bond several times yearly, are under such pressure to invent clever billing for their babies that in the end all the Heavenly Bodies and Fruit Baskets begin to sound the same.

The most clever of these is Apple. Who would have thought to name a baby after a computer that is immune to most major viruses? If the child takes after its namesake, doctor bills won’t become a problem until the teenage years, when crashes are inevitable

When my kids were born, I went the easy route. I called the first one “The Baby” and the second one “The Other Baby” and waited until someone gave them a monogrammed shirt. After that it was easy to remember the oldest boy is AC-DC and the younger one is Lynard Skynard.

Now if I could just recall my husband’s name. I don't want to get excited until I'm sure, but it looks like I’m married to either Jimmy Buffett or Eric Clapton. I guess if I hear the blender going in the kitchen, I'll know I'm moving to Margaritaville. Sounds like a good idea to me. It's almost lunchtime and I'm looking forward to a Cheeseburger In Paradise.

The Cough Drop - A Thanksgiving Miracle

2011-11-24T08:18:00.002-05:00

Bill and I were sitting in that special kind of traffic jam that comes just before the holidays and is the result of a small town growing like an overdose victim of Jack’s magic beans, leaving mundane things like convenience and city planning behind.

The roads were packed like the straw in a peach milkshake. Fruit gets stuck in the end, all movement stops, and nobody gets any relief. With a milkshake you can pull out the straw and suck out the peach pulp. With overburdened roads, the obvious answer is to block off one lane with orange cones and commit to a ten-year construction project.

We'd dropped our kids off at a mega-bookstore at what seemed like a short time earlier, doling out the last bite-sized candy bars from Halloween left in the bottom of my pocketbook to hold them until we got back and could hit a nearby buffet extravaganza. Sometimes eating out, even with two teenaged mouths to feed, is a better idea than a sound investment plan.

In the meantime, the Highway Patrol issued an all-points-bulletin to every mall-bound traveler in the area, describing our location, destination, and current state of irritability. That’s the only reasonable explanation for the fact that our car began to attract morons like a pan of biscuits attracts men named Bubba.

Traffic stalled and Christmas shoppers begin to share the joy of the season with their fellow travelers one finger at a time. I attempted to retain my normal good nature even though Bill was getting testy. He always gets that way when he misses snack time.

Bill: Do you have any more candy in your pocketbook?

Me: Why? Are you hungry?

Bill: No, I thought I would toss some out the window to lure people out of our lane.

Me: You’re being sarcastic because you’re too hungry. (Pointing across six lanes of stationary traffic.) There’s a Wendy’s. And a Chinese buffet. And a pizza place. I'll bet that gas station has candy bars.

Bill: Are you hungry?

Me: (Fumbling through my pocketbook.) No. Why do you keep bringing it up? Look--there’s that place with the wonderful barbecue ribs. I could walk there and back before you got to the red light.

(I find a cellophane-wrapped object which I pull surreptitiously from my bag. I wince as a tiny crinkling sound gives me away.)

Bill: What’s that?

Me: Nothing.

Bill: What is it?

Me: Nothing. Leave me alone, willya?

Bill: You have food.

Me: No I don’t. It’s a cough drop. (Here I wave the cough drop with a flourish. It’s of a nondescript color somewhere in between magenta and pink eye.)

Bill: I want half.

Me: It’s mine. I found it. (I fondle the cough drop like it was the One Ring.)

Bill: We can take turns licking it.

Me: (Pensively) I don’t think I’ve bought any cough drops this season. . .not since I had the flu that year we had the big snow.

Bill: You can have it.

Me: No you. I can wait.

Bill: I can wait, too.

We laughed together, the warm laughter of two people coming together over misfortune.

Under cover of laughter, I shucked the paper off the cough drop like it was a peel and eat shrimp and popped it in my mouth.

Just then, in a holiday miracle moment, traffic parted like the men’s restroom line for a father-daughter combination. Nothing clears the tracks like a man doing daddy-duty with a lace-clad toddler in tow. We picked up the boys, and wheeled into a nearby restaurant.

Bill: See, it all turned out okay because we made sacrifices and worked together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about.

We all smiled at each other like the Brady Bunch on the 29th minute of a 30 minute show. Secretly, I gave thanks for a cough drop appetizer that kept me from acting like a turkey.

Thanksgiving Spread

2011-11-23T08:20:00.001-05:00

Basking under the lights, skin as brown and buttery as a ginger snap, the star of the layout sprawled across the centerfold like she had stock in staples.

“Beautiful.”

“Perfect.”

“That’s the one I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Don’t drool on the recipe.”

It’s girls night out and we’re gathered around the table checking to see what the beautiful people are having for Thanksgiving dinner. Glossy pages are open to a shimmering feast. There’s not a fried onion ring or can of mushroom soup in sight. The turkey is as flirtatious as a '40’s pinup girl, wearing nothing but a brown sugar and paprika rub. It’s enough to make me want to be a Spice Girl.

Every diet that has ever been tested and tossed aside is represented by our group. Elizabeth is low carb. Kaitlyn is high protein. I represent the “high sugar raises your metabolism so you can eat Ho Ho’s for breakfast” school of thought. If the road to hell is paved with whole wheat good intentions, the highway to heaven is coated with brown sugar.

“I’m tempted to give this one a go,” I said, scanning the ingredients for potentially recognizable items. “I have a guy bringing me a fresh turkey and I want a fancy new recipe.”

The room got quieter than the fifth grade gym during ballroom dance week.

“You’re going to cook a fresh turkey?”

“Sure. How hard can it be?”

“Ever tried to put pantyhose on a squid?”

I pondered my history for possible matches. “I dressed a toddler as a noodle one Halloween.”

“Close enough.”

The day before Thanksgiving I stood in front of the sink. The turkey, whom I’ve named J.R. Ewing because it has the largest spread I’ve ever seen, is sprawled in the kitchen sink like a centerfold model. One drumstick is propped coyly on the hot water faucet, and the toe of the other is stuck in the spray nozzle. There are so many pin feathers left, it looks like it needs a shave.

A fresh turkey is different from a supermarket sale bird that has had its legs trussed together and frozen into shape. Left to its own devices, the bird in my sink could probably out cancan any Rockette at Radio City.

I was trying to wrestle the thing into position to tie the legs together when the Captain and his faithful companion, Bo a sleek, by which I mean obese, black dog, half Labrador and half Dalmatian sauntered into the kitchen.

“What’s up Master Chief? Can’t you get the bad guy under control?”

“I don’t know if I’m cooking this bird or doing the cha-cha with it. It could take the prize on Dancing With the Stars, drumsticks down.”

“Need a hand?”

“Sure. I’ll hogtie it and you smear on the rub.”

After a few minutes we paused for breath.

“You were supposed to smear it on the turkey.” I flicked brown sugar from an eyebrow.

“This thing fights back. Are you sure it’s a turkey and not a kangaroo with a grudge?”

We dove back into the fray, and emerged, basted in sweat, a half hour later.

If generations follow the Thanksgiving tradition we set that day, there will be Rockwellesque paintings hanging on future walls with a man, woman, and big black dog covered in brown sugar, eating snack cakes dripping with artificial flavoring.

Everybody is thankful for something. I’m grateful for a husband who doesn’t mind Ho Ho’s for holiday lunch.

Green Grows the. . .Compost?

2011-11-18T23:34:00.002-05:00

I get e-mails from The Home Depot Garden Club which is kind of like Jack the Ripper subscribing to Hooters R Us.

The newest edition to hit my inbox is offering suggestions that will enable me to annihilate plants during the winter months as well as during the balmy days of summer. I don’t need much help sending plants down the garden path anytime, but it seems like the colder months would serve as beginner level floracide. However, the experts suggest I plant winter greens at this time. Since I didn’t plant anything that stayed green in June, I’m excited to give November a try.

My Gardening Guru suggests I plant a nice patch of arugula, which sounds to me like either a choice vacation destination somewhere that serves drinks with a variety of tropical fruit garnishes, or an indication of nasal drainage.

I’m also supposed to seize the opportunity to divide my perennials. I’m not entirely sure what perennials are, but there’s talk about a root ball that I wouldn’t bring up in mixed company.

One of the sections described proper care for my power equipment. I’m not allowed to use a hair dryer without a license. I cannot imagine a situation where I would be set loose with a leaf blower without an Emergency Responder standing by for immediate action in case my Bermuda grass goes South. I did use a string trimmer once to even up the grassy fringe along the driveway. Now there’s a stone nestled beside a stand of oxymorons that resembles a first grade macramé project.

The Garden Club is adamant that now is the time to begin composting. I’ve finally found an area where I can excel. If piling trash is an avenue to luscious landscaping, I’ve been a master gardener for years.

Back Door Blessings

2011-11-16T15:42:00.004-05:00

It's Thanksgiving time. And of course, we're thankful for Sam. Bless his heart. Come share the warmth of the season--and of Sam--at Stage of Life.

Cartwheeling

2011-11-13T21:22:00.005-05:00

Just when you thought it was safe to go down the cereal aisle.

*Cue Jaws music*

Little Debbie may never be the same again. Come on over to An Army of Ermas and let me tell you how my "8 Simple Rules of Grocery Shopping" can change your life. . .just like it did for Uncle Ben.

Thanks, Dad

2011-11-11T21:14:00.002-05:00

In recognition of Veteran's Day I would like to send oceans full of thanks to the men and women who have served their country with courage and dedication, and a huge hug to my dad who chose a WWII submarine as the ideal way to ride out the war; sometimes from the top of the water, often times from the bottom, and many times with the enemy raining terror down from above. I remember every day just how fortunate I am to be here. And to have you here with me. Thanks to God above and the USS Greenling for bringing you home safely. And many, many thanks to you.

Off The Top of My Head

2011-11-07T20:06:00.002-05:00

Today while I was in the shower, I heard a noise, which with bathroom acoustics being what they are, I took either for sixteen cats purring in the bathroom or Seal Team Six landing a squadron of helicopters on the roof.

Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.

Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.

The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.

Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.

In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.

He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.

At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.

This Little Light of Mine

2011-11-02T21:30:00.006-04:00

Today, with the lofty idea that as a secretary I should successfully complete office-type stuff at least occasionally, I dabbled in Accounts Payable, Receipt Filing, and Computer-Assisted Suicide. Maybe it was homicide. I just know that by the time I was through dealing with the electric company’s website, I had decided that the Patron Saint of web design is Dr. Kevorkian.

I wanted to report a burned out light in the parking lot. How hard can it be?

Insert picture of black cloud here.

I typed in the electric company’s website. I did the same thing a month or so ago, reported the problem and got an immediate call saying they would fix the problem. Since that time, the company has hired a professional to give their website a whole new look. It’s the look of a strongbox that no safecracker can open. If there is a real person left in that company, they’re hiding like white shoes in winter.

I pulled my keyboard closer to initiate negotiations, and made false promises that I’d read and understood the terms of agreement, the use and care instructions, and the U. S. Constitution. In actuality I’m a little sketchy on the Constitution although I’m fairly certain Prohibition has been repealed, and also that I have the right to stand in line for three hours to vote for somebody I don’t really like.

Computer: For your convenience we have redesigned our website for ease of use.

(What I know now: The term “For your convenience” is code for “Snooki will give makeup tips to the Ladies Bible Class before you will find a real person to help you.”)

Computer: Enter password.

Me: Last time I didn’t need a password.

Computer: (Monotonously) Enter password.

Me: Okay, but I’m making it up.

Computer: If you forgot your password press here. If you forgot your user name press here.

Me: (Typing furiously.) I have a name for you.

Computer: Invalid user name.

Me: (In boldface type.) How about this one?

Computer: If you forgot your. . .

Me: Shut up!

Computer: . . .password, press. . .

Me: (Pressing the big black button and watching the screen go black.) Bazinga!

The light just dawned. I'm going to be in the dark for a long time.

Dear Sir:

2011-10-27T21:56:00.004-04:00

An Open Letter to the Chainsaw-Wielding Homicidal Maniac at the Haunted Trail,

You’ve just leaped unexpectedly from behind a hay bale, revving your chainsaw motor like a monster truck engine and dripping blood like a soaker hose. And admittedly, I was startled enough to swallow the last half of my fun-sized Snicker bar without chewing.

But I’ve raised two boys to adulthood and have played the “Close Your Eyes and Hold Out Your Hands” game so many times I’m never really surprised by anything. Over the years children have jumped out from behind closed doors, hidden under piles of laundry, and shadowed me down the hall on my midnight trips to the bathroom just for the chance to scream “Boo” and test my bladder control.

I have two kids with cars of their own; one of them, Speed Racer, could make you drop your weapon and go all white around your bloody eye sockets just by offering to chauffer you to the corner for milk. He learned to drive on Crazy Taxi.

My Labrador is the only one in the house who can open the childproof top on the aspirin bottle, and my cat could star in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” if he hadn’t already stalked and eaten the cuckoo. I’ve had a stray ferret follow me home, and a there’s a spider the color of hungry who likes to stop by for a bite when the weather gets cold.

So, I’m sorry if the sight of you didn’t send me into a screaming frenzy, frantically searching for another way out. I’m trying to decide how your mother is going to get those rusty bloodstains out of your best jeans and whether you asked your dad for permission to wear that shirt before you cut the bottom off in the trendy ragged design.

And if you run at me again like you’re gonna give me a permanent bad hair day, let me tell you one thing. The only tidbit I remember from my Senior Women’s Self Defense class is how to stop an attacker from taking my virtue, my purse, or my shopping bags from Discount Day at the mall. So if you’re not wearing an athletic supporter, the only thing you have to protect yourself with is that impotent chainsaw.

But don’t worry. Speed Racer will be glad to take you to the hospital. Be sure to buckle up and keep your bloody hands and feet inside the vehicle until it comes to a screeching halt. And take notes.

You’ll get some great ideas for next year’s Haunted Trail.

Take a Letter

2011-10-23T22:06:00.008-04:00

G Whiz.

That’s the word from the World Scrabble Championships in Warsaw where a player accused of hiding a tile with the letter G was on the edge of exposure. His opponent demanded he be taken to the bathroom and strip searched.

I’ve flirted with the dark side before. The side where rules are suggestions and the difference between theft and borrowing is the time it takes to consume the last chocolate chip cookie before somebody notices.

But the day I send somebody in for the TSA treatment over a missing consonant, may Vanna White herself hang up her last slinky evening gown and retire in protest. Maybe the Scrabble folks should take a tip from ole Vanna and keep their letters out in the open where there’s no place to hide. And if somebody wants to buy a vowel, the prize money can cover it.

Somehow a strip search over one G seems a little extreme. Sometimes I can’t remember whole words, and there are times when the name of my oldest child slips off the radar of my mind. One consonant isn’t going to jumpstart the memory banks all alone. These days I can’t sign a check without a hint.

Then I found out the prize for the winner of the World Championship is £12,700. I’m told there are places where people strip for a lot less than what amounts to $20,000, give or take a G String. So if 99% of the population is shucking their clothes for a heap less than that one winner gets, maybe it’s time to Occupy Game Night.

Until then, keep your shirt on.

A Watched Dog

2011-10-21T22:12:00.008-04:00

My husband cut off three fingers and gave his arms a close shave one day while mowing the grass.

“See, I told you we needed a riding lawn mower.”

Our lawn is the size of a golf ball dimple.

“What we need,” I muttered, reattaching his fingers with Gorilla Glue, “is a yard man smart enough to keep his hands out of the whirling blades of the lawn mower. Doesn’t the term ‘moving parts’ mean anything to you?”

“All I know is that it’s a good thing I was wearing my lucky hat.”

There’s always something to be thankful for.

“We could have lost Bo’s squeaky ball for good.”

Bo is the Labrador. He’s the closest thing the Captain has to a disciple. He sprawled in the grass and whiled away the time waiting for the bleeding to let up by chewing an old rag. If one man can double the time it takes to do a single chore, a man and his dog can create a time vortex that modern science can’t explain.

I can replace the dog’s squeaky ball for ninety-nine cents at the pet store. Human fingers, on the other hand, go for quite a bit more. And you can’t find them in the express lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

I don’t know what it is that make men think they’re invincible. About the time in their lives that they need to check in with headquarters to make sure their prostate isn’t the size of an orbiting planet, they’re hanging from the eaves looking for blockages in the drainage system. His own pipes are exploding from four decades of chili cheeseburgers, and the man is swinging from the roof like a chimpanzee.

Call me crazy, but this time I’m tempting fate and sending him out to finish the job.

Let’s hope he doesn’t find out what Bo did to his lucky hat.

Fascinating Facts

2011-10-18T11:51:00.006-04:00

While taking a summer break from blogging, I picked up a few new followers, which tells me something, although I'd rather not think about it. Instead, I'll credit the talent of Lisa Allen for giving folks a tidbit or two to tune in for. Thanks Lisa!

In retribution, I mean thanks, to the new folks, I decided to force you to, er TREAT you to, some tidbits about moi. (As Miss Piggy, no relation, would say.) I decided to call them "Fascinating Facts" because "Facts That Put Us To Sleep" just doesn't have that mysterious quality that draws in new readers. So set your alarm and read on.

Fascinating facts:

1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard is shorter.

2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.

4. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.

5. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.

6. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.

7. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.

8. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.

9. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.

10. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.

11. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.

12. I’ve been married twice. So far.

The Ghost of the White Masque

2011-10-12T12:43:00.002-04:00

Some things are too scary to talk about. At those times a scream will do. Join me over at An Army of Ermas to see what's worse than peeking in to the teenager's room.

Talking Turkey

2011-10-08T21:23:00.001-04:00

Two years ago, facing a diagnosis of “your internal organs are going to explode,” the Captain lost enough weight that he could send some to underdeveloped countries, such as Japan, where no one is ever overweight except Sumo wrestlers, the people who wear the least clothes.

Come to think of it, it’s that way at the beach, too. And, of course, Wal-Mart. Why is it that people with the most to show wear the least to cover it up? I’m certainly not the poster child for the “Feed the Runway Models” campaign, but I sure don’t want to have the seat behind the Sumo guy when he does his warm-up stretches.

Anyway, Cap also practically emptied his blood stream of triglycerides, a medical term that means “the fuse to the bomb that will make your internal organs explode.”

He did this all by himself. While he was very busy with the sort of advanced mathematics that deals with less than, greater than, and the sort of cholesterol level that voids whole sets of fat grams, I busied myself roasting turkeys, steaming vegetables, and skimming fat from by-products.

Eventually the Captain’s math resulted in the need for a belt to hold his pants up, and life returned to normal on the poop deck.

Until yesterday. One simple stretch and the button popped off his pants with enough force to put another hole in the ozone layer. Either his pancreas exploded or his body is rejecting artificial fasteners.

That little button also blew a hole in my holiday planning calendar for the next few months. I’m back to skimming, steaming, and roasting.

Luckily, my house is full of turkeys.

Deal or No Deal

2011-10-04T17:55:00.001-04:00

Mexico is considering instituting a two-year marriage contract. After two years if everything’s not peaceful in the Garden of Eden, everybody walks away free and clear.

I’ve had cell phone contracts that were tougher. And with them I could upgrade to a newer model.

Somehow I can’t see trying to trade the Captain for more advanced service.

“So it’s been almost two years. How ‘bout I get an Admiral with handyman functions?”

“You want to trade?”

“Yep. I’d like to request somebody that puts soiled laundry in the hamper instead of piling it up in the bedroom like the dirty underwear Eiffel Tower. Somebody who doesn’t go all white around the mouth when I kiss the dog on the lips. Somebody who doesn’t think the term “Balance the Checkbook” means the weight of the receipts he’s saved in his wallet matches the weight of the groceries.”

“That’s quite a list. Anything else?”

“Sure. I want somebody that can put things in the grocery cart without a three-point shot from half court.”

“But he always gets it in.”

“The problem is that he expects everyone in the store to applaud. When he hit the honeybun shot from frozen foods, he wanted me to retire his jersey.”

“Are you sure you want to trade? I’ve heard he cooks, does dishes, and folds towels like a champ.”

“Well, yes. But he’s slowing down. Before long I’ll have to spend a fortune in replacement parts. You can’t get spare knees on e-Bay, you know.”

“You still have ten days to go. We’ll see how you feel then.”

I put on my tri-focals and marked the calendar. My memory’s not what it used to be. It would be just my luck to lose track of time, get stuck with the original model, and realize the power supply is shot two days after the warranty expires.

Little Cat Feat

2011-10-01T08:19:00.008-04:00

While I was waiting for celebrity gossip to load over my dial-up internet connection, I whiled away the time licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper.

It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats.

This idea is known locally as Stupid.

Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Longhorns.

I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.

I was younger at the time, and when a light bulb came on in my head, I didn’t have the wisdom to shoot out the light before it could cause major damage. What a good idea it would be to use the Dachshund’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have?

Turns out that “What a good idea!” and “What objections could Justin have” are the words that drive a cat over the Cliffs of Insanity. Who knew a 10-year-old ball of mottled fur that sleeps in the sun all day had a Ninja-mode over-ride?

Justin put out my little light bulb with a power surge.

I staggered into the house with the leash wrapped around my legs like I’d been shortsheeted with mummy wrappings.

“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”

“Just one?”

“Well, make it a big one.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any spare Type O?”

After all I’ve done for that kid, he still won’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.

Today I have so many scars, I have striped skin. With my faux-tiger motif, I'm all the rage at jungle-themed costume parties.

So next time the lawmakers get together, I’d rather they do something harmless like levy a per child tax on buffet restaurants.

And leave the Kitty Bill of Rights alone.

A Letter for the Labradors

2011-09-27T16:47:00.005-04:00

Dear Dogs,

I realize you have a reputation to uphold. After all, you don’t sleep 15 hours a day just because you’ve got nothing to do. (Oh, wait; yes you do.) The spastic hyperactive crazed dog fit that comes in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive to the store for kibble, hamburger, and Pine Sol is the perfect opportunity to use all that energy you’ve stored up sleeping on my grandmother’s hand-sewn comforter.

The sound of the deadbolt slamming into place in the back door and the pathetic wheeze of my ten-year-old oil-burner valiantly attempting another run at the hill at the end of our driveway is exactly the incentive you need to leave your cozy nest and mount an assault on the trash can that leaves my kitchen resembling the remains of the Bin Laden compound after Seal Team Six came through. The only thing missing is the news team recording misinformation for the masses.

I understand that the Iditarod is run by teams of sled dogs that work with such precision that a single wrong step can throw the whole team off, but those puppies are sock puppets compared to the destruction a pair of Labradors can instigate during a fifteen minute absentee-owner break. If there are mass destruction world records to break, you can’t live with yourselves another second without sliding down the hall on your blubber-filled butts and shattering them like Lalique crystal on a brick floor.

I also realize you are trying to make a point. To the best of your tiny sesame seed-sized recollection, you’ve been nothing but good and true ever since the incident with the television remote. Since you have no sense of time, it’s hard to explain to you that the vet trip for that little snackfest ended just last night. And the one for the pantyhose ingestion drama is still front page news. So even though you’re rallying against oppression, I have to insist that you stay out of the coffee grounds, drop the banana peel, and back away from the scented soap.

And while you’re at it, stay out of the kitty litter. There’s some things that give you breath that even Irish Spring can’t erase.

Besides, a goatee made out of Fresh Step just looks silly.

Love,
Mom

Cross My Heart and Hope To Buy

2011-09-23T21:47:00.004-04:00

In a fit of social conformity and because a quick glimpse of myself in a department store mirror reminded me of the Matterhorn during spring thaw, I went bra shopping today. On the whole I’d rather have first dibs in the selection of nooses the hangman is going to use to finish me off. Or at least pick which angry nail technician is going to file my little toe down to niblet size at Naughty Nails.

First off, there’s the personality clash. Bras today are undeniably perky, padded, and prime-time ready. If the bras I saw in the lingerie section were the Tiggers on Pooh’s corner, my chest is covered in wall-to-wall Eeyores. Unless I raise my arms, you couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of Christopher Robins. Out-of-date eggs are more likely to be sunny side up.

It’s not bad enough that bras are displayed according to styles instead of arranged by sizes like hammers, condoms, and other handy household items. Overcrowded conditions cause the things jump to their deaths like lemmings whenever you approach the rack. The floor is covered with scraps of lace and spandex like the result of a bridal party-streetwalker collision. To streamline the whole process, I selected a wheelbarrow full of likely candidates and threw them on the floor.

I blame the whole thing on over-aggressive sales clerks who know that once you enter the barren land known as foundations, you’ve forsaken pleasure shopping and are not going home without an underwire that doesn’t snap in half like a fortune cookie whenever you bend over to tie your shoe.

Not only was I discouraged that everything seemed to be the wrong size, I was dismayed to find they were also the wrong shape. To me, pushups are something I had to do in gym when I refused to wear the regulation gender-neutral guerrilla togs. In Lingerie Central, it’s something that plugs your boobs into your nostrils like nose plugs. A swimmer with a push-up bra will never have to worry about water on the brain. And at my age, I’m in real danger of losing at least one over my shoulder.

I wanted something a little kinder to my body than the underwire air mattresses hanging in rows. Something feminine made from fibers that did not originate in the Space Program. I finally found a cotton and lace number that made sand castles out of parts I thought had been lost at sea long ago. Never again will I have to check my armpits to see which direction I’m facing.

I celebrated my successful shopping trip with dinner at The Egg Roll King where I finished up with a fortune cookie that was right on the money. It said, “Things are looking up.”

But just to be safe, I’m going to get someone else to tie my shoes.

This column first appeared at An Army of Ermas. Scoot over there for more than the government daily allowance of fun.

The WOW! Factor. Or Not.

2011-09-17T23:39:00.000-04:00

Many thanks to Lisa Allen for taking up my slack once again, and incidentally showing us that Europe actually does have something bigger than Bieber.

"It just didn't wow me like I expect Eurovision to."

The above was said by one of my friends that I've introduced Eurovision to. We were gathered around to watch the latest one, with everyone happily munching on snacks, while I recorded their scores for each song.

The Devil Went Down to Oslo

We had been doing Eurovision parties for a few years now, introducing them after our first time, the 2008 competition which I talked about previously. Unfortunately, 2009 was a boring year - we didn't even remember any of the entries, and there weren't any fun or silly ones. The exception was the winner, an exuburant young fiddler from Norway who bounced around the stage like a happy, enthusiatic otter.

One of these is not like the others...

The next year made up for the dullness of the previous one, and showcased one of the strengths of the show. The songs for 2010 were overall good (though very ballad-heavy), and there was even a bit of excitement when poor Spain got punked by a young man who slipped onto the stage with background singers before the security guards chased him off. Lena, Germany's winning entry, really deserved it, but it was the interim show done while the votes were being tallied that warmed the heart.

Norwegians. Really.

Believe it or not, Norway has black hip hop artists called Madcon, and they are good. They led the large audience thru a dance routine, and then through the wonders of the internet and flash mobs, all of Europe joined in. Viewers saw groups in cities across the EU gather and dance the same dance. Webcams had been mounted in homes of each of the participating countries, so you also got to see families joyfully dancing on their furniture or with their dogs.

Lithuania rocks....

There was even a lone guy standing out on a rock in the North Sea, getting his groove on. The song really energized the audience (both in the arena and around Europe) and became what my husband calls "a moment of pure joy", a snapshot in life where you can see a person, or group, doing something that makes the event the happiest moment of their lives, up to that point. Such moments are infectious to watch, and draw you into the moment to share the joy.

...and so does the population of this island.

My friend's comment about the 2011 winning song not "wowing" her was about the pretty, but banal entry from Azerbaijan. My husband reminded her that she had only seen four out of fifty-five contests, so she was kind of new to the scene for that kind of statement. But such is the impact of Eurovision, good and bad, it makes a BIG impression.

"Excuse me, darling. When does the flash mob start?"

Historical note: The first Eurovision song contest had been started back in 1956 partly to promote the wonders of television, partly as a poke in the eye to the Eastern bloc nations, kind of a way to say, "Hey! Look at all the fun we're having!". Over the years the contest has weathered denunciation from the Pope, competition from the Soviet Bloc, controversy every year over the scoring (the worst was the year Franco practically bought the win for Spain), launched a few careers (the most famous and successful being ABBA in 1974), and even started a revolution.

Perhaps the most useful knowledge the contest imparted was the desire to learn geography,like where Slovenia and Slovakia are.

Next year should be interesting, since holding Eurovision in Azerbaijan is going to be like holding the Olympics in the Sandwich Islands.

A Little Boy Gone on 9/11

2011-09-10T19:39:00.001-04:00

Sending my heartfelt thanks to Carole Conner Oldroyd for permission to reprint her post. And to little Rodney Dickens for so much more.

A Little Boy Gone on 9/11

by Carole Conner Oldroyd on Saturday, September 11, 2010 at 3:05pm

I post this every 9/11. I made a promise to myself and to this little boy's memory that I would never forget him.

This is Rodney Dickens. He was only 11 years old when he lost his life on September 11, 2001. He will forever be the face I see when I think of that terrible day.

When photos started streaming in on TV after the terrorist attack, his little face struck me. I began to wonder about him. As a mother whose kids were close to Rodney's age at that time, so many things ran through my mind.

My first thought was, "Who was with this little boy? Was he traveling alone?" My boys had flown alone several times.

My heart broke when I wondered if he knew what was about to happen; that his life was about to come to an end. Did anyone put their arms around him, or did he face the those final moments as alone as any human being could ever be? Did he cry? Was he afraid? Did anyone hold his hand? Did he pray for God to rescue him? Did he have dreams, goals, plans for his future? Was he even old enough to begin dreaming of what he would do when he was all grown up?

When I began researching to find out who little Rodney was, I learned that he was, indeed, without his parents. He was traveling with classmates. Again, parental instincts crept in and I sobbed thinking about his mother and his father. Were they watching as this all happened? How devastatingly helpless must have been the feeling, knowing that they were powerless to protect their child from the wickedness of these terrorists. I have had nightmares about Rodney crying for his parents in the seconds before his life was brutally stolen away on what should have been a day filled with joy.

And then my emotions turned to rage. Correlations between this innocent child and my own children filled me with so much anger, knowing that the terrorists would not have cared if my children were on that plane. Regard for precious human life was tossed aside like an unwanted object by those . . . I'm sorry, I cannot use the word "people". In fact, I don't have any other word for them besides terrorists. I feel that nothing appropriate even exists in the English language.

As I write this, my arms are covered in goose bumps. My eyes are filled with tears. This child. This sweet-faced little boy lost his life before he even had a chance to begin living.

Rodney, I never knew you. But I love you. With all of my heart, I love you.

As long as I live, you will never be forgotten.

BOOM!

2011-08-29T20:47:00.003-04:00

What happens when you let the Captain loose on the Ermas blog? Join us at An Army of Ermas for a great, big earth-shattering KA-BOOM!

Yoga Bare

2011-08-19T10:27:00.006-04:00

Don't look now, but the Captain's at it again. Check out my post at An Army of Ermas for a guy's version of what should be a peaceful combination of exercise and meditation. Take a peek and see what all the excitement's about. If you dare.

The Battle Hymn of the Ermas

2011-08-09T09:00:00.006-04:00

An Army of Ermas: Making you spew coffee on your monitor since ~~2009~~ ~~2010~~ what seems like a long time ago. The Ermas salute Stacey Graham, Friend, Founder, and Fearsome Leader.

The Battle Hymn of the Ermas

(Who let the doggerel out?!)

(With customary solemnity by the Captain & Mrs. Captain Mullis)

The call went forth from mountain-top
To take the mighty pen
And wield against the sadditudes
To make them laugh again

The answer came from far and wide
Across this terra firma
"We come! We come! With flashing gags!
The Army of the Erma!"

And so they came, from every land
The innocent and racy,
To answer Zombie Nature's call
Obeying General Stacey

With limericks and doggerel,
With punchlines and with giggles.
In bold italic Arial
And small handwritten squiggles.

She sent them out against the Dour
To fill the world with laughter
And out they went good willingly
Although they didn't hafter.

With jokes and japes and cheesy puns
Hilarity ensued
While much of it was family-style
Some was blushed with lewd.

So every year on August ninth
Our wine in sippy cup
We raise a toast to General Stace
And put our bottoms up!

Better than American Idol and you learn Geography Too!

2011-08-03T20:41:00.016-04:00

Why, yes, contrary to the propaganda spread by my offspring, I do have friends! Talented ones! Humongous thanks to Lisa Allen, who has taken time away from training for the Scottish games to entertain you while I’m away. What? Not training for the Scottish games? Would you believe the Olympic Games?
Would you believe a lightning round of World of Warcraft when she’s supposed to be making dinner?

Please welcome Lisa, who is patient enough to put up with my ramblings AND the Captain’s AND David’s and still manages to have a life.

When I was a horse-crazy little girl, I would always get excited when the month of May rolled around, because that was Kentucky Derby month. Now that I'm older and more sophisicated, a two-minute horse race just doesn't do it for me (no matter how pretty the horses or hats). I want something with even more color, outlandish garb, and excitement - I want Eurovision!

What is Eurovision, you say? My half-Irish husband introduced me to this continental wonder, which began as a Cold War propaganda tool. Imagine an American Idol with countries instead of hopeful wannabes, with wildly varying original songs performed over a weekend instead of a season, and rules of judging which change from year to year.

The idea is that all the countries of Europe (which they have a very broad definition of what constitutes Europe) send their best singer(s) and songs to compete on a spectacular technological marvel of a stage in whatever country won the contest the year before. The clothes would make Bob Mackie salivate, the Bjork swan outfit from the Oscars look positively pedestrian, and gays swoon across the world. The songs and singers themselves run the gamut from Eurotechno, to power ballads, to ethnic folk with rap on the side - you name it, they've got it.

The BEST way to watch Eurovision is to watch via the BBC. They usually have a snarky, funny host to put things in perspective. Think someone on the level of a British Johnny Carson, liberally apply lots of liquor. Terry Wogan had been doing hosting duties too long, as you could tell as the show went on.

The first year yours truly saw it (2008), the contest was in Belgrade, Serbia. The show always opens with the previous year's winning entry - in this case a plus-size Maria Serifovic dressed in male attire with a drop-dead voice and song, which brings up another nifty thing about Eurovision. Your weight, your age, your hair abundance, and your sexual orientation - they don't care about it! Can you sing? Do you have a good act? You're in! (OK, there might be some discussion about the “can you sing part”, meaning you may be subject to some unique song stylings and the occasional turkey. No, seriously, we mean a guy in a turkey suit.)

2008 saw a 75-year-old crotchey old man scratching a Victrola, a devil and an angel battling in

song, a Spanish Weird Al Yankovic, a Greek Britney Spears, what looked like Lucy and Desi singing by a clothsline with knitting bride backup singers, and best of all, a gaggle of Lativan pirates with rubber swords who were having more fun than it should be legal, especially as no intoxicants were invloved (on stage at least, can’t vouch for the audience).

Silly, you say? Yes, but darned if those songs don't just stick in your head, like a cheery brain slug. The Lativan pirate song, Wolves of the Sea received an enthusiatic thumbs up from the 12 and under crowd, and also every pub in England and Ireland. And while a slightly sappy Russian ballad called Believe won that year, which song do you think I most find myself humming?

(Historical aside, there is an irony to Russia winning, as until the early 80‘s a person in the USSR, and many other Eastern Block countries could go to jail just for watching Eurovision.)

Next time, I'll talk about how Eurovision does and does NOT wow some people.

Lisa Allen

Pictures: http://connect.in.com/spain-eurovision-2008/photos-1-1-1-a4553fbdbae1933a26cb72ac314003eb.html#image_button

http://www.cbc.ca/news/arts/tv/story/2008/05/23/eurovision-2ndsemi-finalists.html?ref=rss

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/celebritynews/6149407/Terry-Wogan-Profile.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/may/23/bbc.tvfakery

If Wishes Were Horses

2011-07-25T13:20:00.005-04:00

What's the difference between a horse and a motorcycle? Maybe it's the hangtime before you land in the bushes. Join the Captain of my Corral over at An Army of Ermas as he saddles up his Harley for the ride of his life.

A Pirate's Life for Me

2011-07-11T16:44:00.006-04:00

I’m under attack! Turns out that just when my ship was coming in, it was hijacked by pirates. So in spite of my best intentions to sail this blog straight and true through the summer, I find myself swept out to sea by a band of hearty brigands.

I’ve been promising this particular pirate captain that I would take some time off and devote whatever spare brain cells I have left to a longer project. I’m not promising anything, mind you, but when the Captain says he wants to see a book, I’m pretty sure he’s not thinking “Green Eggs and Ham.” And “Mutiny on the Bounty” seems kind of self defeating in this case.

So I’m going to let Mind Over Mullis drift for a month or so, while I take off on a brand new voyage. Feel free to drop by every now and then and hoist up a word of encouragement.

THANK YOU to every one of you who stop by to share life’s little “Don’t Let This Happen to You” moments.” It seems like somebody always seems to drop in just when I’ll be needing an alibi.

I expect I’ll round up a lifeboat and be back by the end of August. If not I’ll stick a note—or a lime--in a bottle, so you’ll know what I’m up to.

Until then. . .I’m gone fishin’. Lord only knows what I’ll catch.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HONEY! LET THE ADVENTURES BEGIN!

From Hair to Humidity

2011-07-07T12:35:00.006-04:00

It's been fourteen years of martial blasted, I mean Marital Bliss. Join me at An Army of Ermas for a Southern summer wedding where the accessory of the day is sweat, and reminisce with me as I relive the day the Captain took me as first mate--provided I cook biscuits and don't touch the guitar.

Red, White, & Whoops!

2011-07-04T16:43:00.003-04:00

Independence Day is here, and as expected, celebrations of picnics, cookouts, and truckloads of rednecks fueled by the Big Boy size of canned beer setting fire to things that will blow up are in full force

Nothing says Freedom like an intoxicated man named Bubba Earl flicking the long lighter and trying to set fire to a fuse the size of a tapeworm. Come dusk, hoards of folks will gather in the shadows of school parking lots to Oooh! Aaaah! and splash a pitcher of, let’s say, lemonade on the proceedings should the pyrotechnics or Bubba Earl get out of hand.

That’s what’s great about the South. It is legal to purchase fireworks in the state of South Carolina without presenting so much as an IQ score to the authorities. The people of South Carolina are perfectly within their rights to light themselves up like the space shuttle leaving home, and other people have to content themselves with following safety standards and obeying the laws of common sense.

There’s something about not know whether the next bottle rocket will explode in the night sky in a sparkling array of gemstone colored glitz or skim down the pavement toward the spectators like a heat seeking ferret on steroids to make you appreciate what went on at the battle of Bunker Hill.

My apprehension might be due to a small mishap last year when a sidewalk-skidding bottle rocket that came close to crossing my Reeboks at a steady clip and lighting up my inseam like a birthday candle. But after all, what is Independence Day for if not for celebrating with an impromptu break dance in the handicapped parking section of the local elementary school? I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say the Boston Harbor gang has nothing on me when it comes to open air tea parties.

Uncle Joe is revered around these parts as sort of an expert on the subject of fireworks, having set his leg on fire on at least one occasion in the time honored tradition and is well-respected in the backyard pyrotechnic community. If this year goes according to tradition, we’ll have quite a few stories and a modicum of minor injuries.

Not too many years ago we shunned his backyard display for small town extravaganza taking place just past the intersection in town. Luckily it was held at the fire department because when the pasture caught on fire and all the fireworks went off at once, we didn’t even get 911 dialed before Tiny and Pork Chop responded to the blaze.

So this year we’ll probably go back to Uncle Joe’s. At least he restricts the damage to his own self, as a gentleman should.

I’ll take along an extra pair of pants. And some bandaids.

50 is Not a Speed Trap - For Lisa

2011-06-30T21:53:00.003-04:00

This is the post I ran on my 50th birthday. Since then I've done some crazy things (ditched the family Thanksgiving dinner for a weekend at the beach-fabulous!), experienced some unusual events (so glad I didn't have to use that catheter on the Captain), and took off on some spur-of-the-moment adventures (Ghassan's for lunch, anyone?). This time around this post is for Lisa. There's still time to change the world. Fifty isn't fatal. It's a fantastic voyage. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.

Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.

I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.

I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can-can without throwing out a hip.

I can hunt the liniment and bandages later. And maybe I'll color my hair. WalMart stays open all night.

Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.

9-1-1 Zumba!

2011-06-28T00:07:00.003-04:00

This weekend, just because I was tired of the ordinary trauma that makes up my Saturday mornings, I decided to test the waters of the exercise craze called Zumba. Somehow in comparison, changing the litter boxes is no longer the extended torture that I thought. It was a good experience. After all, those lungs won’t explode themselves.

Zumba, which means “cardiac arrest,” in a language spoken in wheezing noises, is no more difficult than tap dancing through a crowd of snarling Weight Watchers dropouts wearing a bologna thong, scaling a mountain made of glass shards at high speed, or convincing a bride’s mother that hip-hop beer pong is the go-to game for shower parties in the church parlor.

It’s kind of a cross between auditioning as a rodeo clown and dancing a two-step over hot coals. But according to available demonstration videos, you do it wearing a midriff top, hiphugger pants, and a smile, and you do it to the charismatic beat of Latin music, which adds the same special flavor as a kick me sign taped to your crotch.

Since baring my belly would be akin to inviting navel whiplash and subjecting bystanders to sudden thrashing movements of my stomachs, I chose to wear a large T-Shirt. This also served as a container for sixteen gallons of sweat that collected in my cleavage and rained down on my bellies like a cloudburst in a rainforest.

The Zumba people urged me to “feel the beat and let loose.” I think I felt the beat, although that could have been the beginnings of spleen implosion, and upon thoughtful consideration, I felt that letting loose could result in a hefty cleaning bill for the upholstery, the living room Oriental, and possibly also for the dog.

Just as I got the hang of the thing, the draft caused by the up-tempo undulations of my love handles flailing against each other like a truck full of chickens on a downhill grade sent furballs and dustbunnies swirling together in a sort of mystic indoor whirlwind, and with with the sweat-laced currents from my thighs flapping together like an Ace of Spades in Lance Armstrong’s Tour de France bicycle spokes, I couldn’t help wonder if the weather alert people were going to slap a severe weather warning for my neighborhood on the Emergency Channel.

To be honest (I’m a coward), I started with a half hour of my usual workout, which involves rigorously snapping my fingers to the beat of my favorite Barry Manilow tunes. Then I finished up with fifteen minutes of Zumba from a video I found on You Tube.

I know now that fifteen minutes in Zumba time is equivalent to whichever era in world history killed all the dinosaurs. I’m reasonably sure that the dinosaurs died following an actual Zumba workout.

This one almost did.

Surf's Up!

2011-06-23T23:07:00.005-04:00

A five-hour car trip to the beach is tough enough to accomplish if you’re Superman and have the gift of looking great in tights and that showy flair for flight.

If you’re a family of four with at least one kid who can’t sit still long enough to blink, it’s a little more difficult. Especially if the kid inherited the fidgety gene from his mother, who is piled up in the front seat braiding the road map.

We packed the car, wedged in a couple of kids who have seen enough in the way of growth spurts to resemble the Incredible Hulk after a Breakfast of Champions, raced to the end of the driveway, and braked to a gravel-spewing stop at the mailbox.

Kid Two rose from the backseat like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He has the eerie blue glow that comes from extended exposure to computer light. This kid’s idea of unplugged is a wireless Internet connection that is so fast it has déjà vu when he turns it on.

“How much longer?”

“Five hours,” the Captain responded gleefully as he put the car in gear and plowed through two rows of daylilies by the curb. “We’re on the way!”

“Five hours! My battery pack will never last that long. I can’t believe you made me go on vacation. ”

“We’re going to the beach. It’ll be worth it.”

“The beach is three hours away.”

“That’s a different beach.”

“There’s more than one beach?”

“Yep. Check with Google. You learn something new every day.”

“I learned my parents are forcing me to go to a five-hour beach. Nobody else’s parents are that mean.”

“Keep it up and we’ll make you go out to eat, too.”

This kid thinks any restaurant that doesn’t offer chicken nuggets or pizza is a terrorist racket designed to kill us with vegetables.

“At least I can use the high speed Internet access when we get there.”

“Sorry. Vacation means we’re there to enjoy ourselves. There’s no Internet access.”

“Not even dialup?”

“No, but there are herds of wandering Triceratops out back.”

“And bar soap and rotary dial phones, too. Right. This is a museum trip, isn’t it?”

Five hours later, we unfolded ourselves and tumbled out of the car, performing the happy dance to the beat of ocean waves on the shoreline.

Kid Two stopped, sniffed the air and climbed back in the car.

“What’s the matter, Bud?”

“According to Google Maps, we’re five miles from the nearest McDonald’s. They have food and free Internet access. The way you people drive, we’d better start now if we want to get there before I lose power.”

What can I say? We might be in for sun fun at the beach, but this kid still yearns for the smell of salt on French fries and has the overpowering urge to surf the Web.

Hearth Broken - Gifting for the Ungifted

2011-06-21T21:01:00.005-04:00

I make weeping willows sob and wring their hands, so I can't imagine why I thought I could make it all the way to the party with a live geranium. Join me at Stage of Life for the worst housewarming gifts you can give. Then click the link and let Dawn Allcot show you the "7 Best Housewarming Gifts." Hmm, wonder why she's invited to more parties than I am?

Skipping a Step

2011-06-19T08:38:00.003-04:00

You married in a family
Of kids all cries and whinies
Became an ace at wiping tears
And cleaning little hinies.

You helped them read and
Tutored math, both adding and dividing
And later on to drive a car
When I went into hiding.

Knots, and rhymes, and music notes
All came along the way.
Then college, jobs, adventure quests,
Made them men today.

One little thing I’ve got to say
I’ll jump in without prep.
Happy Father’s Day my dear
It's time to skip the Step.

The Princess and the Papa

2011-06-18T22:44:00.004-04:00

The five year old in this story is now a beautiful young lady who will soon leave her teen years behind. But she still has her Papa wrapped around her little finger. It's just better manicured now.

My Dad is a tough guy. He wears Black and Decker underwear and buys pallets of toilet paper from the Army-Navy store. He watches sports on television every Sunday afternoon, even if it’s only putt-putt season, and turns the sound all the way down so that the sportscasting guys don’t ruin a beautiful play with color drivel.

He can estimate distance to an eighteenth of an inch and can tell whether a picture is half a bubble off plumb just by squeezing one eye shut and looking through his thumb. He survived the Depression on beans and biscuits; World War II on courage and luck; and 48 years of marriage on Divine Providence and guesswork. He taught four children to drive without suffering permanent neurological damage, made us wear more clothes when we were cold, and refused to let us hang on the refrigerator with the door open until we air conditioned the whole neighborhood.

So how can a five-year-old bundle of brown eyes and rosy cheeks crawl up in his lap at fourth down and goal to go and persuade him to read The Cat In The Hat for the four thousandth time, without suffering severe blood loss?

This man, who refused to allow scented soap in the shower during my childhood years, now has a cupboard stocked with curly noodle soup, sports animal stickers on his back door, and a maintains a gaggle of Barbies who loiter in his favorite recliner.

When I dropped by Dad’s house last Sunday to comfort the old man in his lonesome existence and retrieve his great-grandaughter, I tripped over three teddy bears and a stuffed cat having a tea party, stumbled on a pair of pink plastic high heeled shoes and a glittery feather boa tossed carelessly in front of a full length mirror, and turned my ankle sliding across a nest of scattered crayons and coloring books piled in the hallway.

“Dad!” I called, afraid to endanger myself by advancing further. A trip to my father’s house should not involve my health insurance. “Have you been finding new ways to entertain yourself or is there a little girl hiding in there?”

Giggles erupted from around the corner. “We’re in the kitchen,” a small, freckled voice said. I followed a line of Winnie-the-Pooh stickers posted along the wall at five-year-old eye level and entered the kitchen. Over a teetering mountain of mall-type bags, a pair of large brown eyes twinkled in my direction.

“Can you tell we’ve been shopping?” the bag-mountain asked.

Does the queen wear matching accessories?

“Papa bought me a sticker book, two kinds of bubble gum, and a Shirley Temple video.”

“Shirley Temple?”

“Yeah, she’s a new kid that can dance.”

“If Shirley Temple’s a new kid, Britney's not even in hip huggers yet.”

“Papa made me a new kind of cheese sandwich. You cook it right in the oven.”

“Sweetie, it’s time to go. Gather up your 50 most prized possessions and I’ll take you home.”

She hopped down and ran to me, clutching a battered baby doll that looked like it would be at home in Little Orphan Annie’s boarding house. “I’m ready.”

“What about all your treasures?”

“Oh, Papa bought that stuff for me to play with here. He already took my other stuff home for me.”

I glanced over at my dad, who was nestled in his recliner recovering from the shopping expedition by snoring loudly through the ballgame. He cracked one eye open and peered up at me. “Don’t forget her food. She has Little Debbie brownies, Beauty and the Beast cookies, and Barbie cupcakes. With sprinkles.”

Sure, the queen may have matching hat and shoes and the wealth of an entire nation, but the princess has designer snacks and a Papa who can’t say no.

From the Ground Up

2011-06-16T21:49:00.006-04:00

Sure I was spoiled. The youngest is supposed to be. But when Daddy tried to teach me to garden, he didn't realize that one day my picture would be up on the wall of shame in Home & Garden Stores everywhere. He gave up teaching me to garden. But he never gave up on me.
Join me at Stage of Life to see how his garden grows.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Broadband or Bust

2011-06-14T22:15:00.004-04:00

Because life isn’t exciting enough living with a pair of lively Labradors and their minions, the cast of the Jungle Book, the Captain and I decided to crawl into the Pony Express Age and install cable television and high speed Internet access in the house.

Actually the idea for the high-speed Internet came from the boys. When they offered to share the password-protected lock they installed on the bathroom door, we agreed immediately. We’re reasonable people after all.

Just now, the Captain and I are sitting in the living room. Alone, a suspicious circumstance because it's never happened before. “It’s quiet.” I can’t help remembering the “Let’s dress the Dachshund in a tutu” fiasco of ’98. “Too quiet.”

“Enjoy it.” The Captain of my Hobby Shop is a computer technician by trade. He could hack into Bill Gates Christmas decorations and install an Apple tree topper without tarnishing the angel’s halo. He has just put in a wireless router so that we can all share the broadband. This works about as well as the North and South Koreans share airspace, but he’s done his part.

Tonight for the first time since building blocks gave way to bandwidth, I haven’t had to ask permission to use my computer. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: “My turn to use the computer.”

Random Youth: “What’s for supper?”

Me: “Nothing if I don’t get a turn on the computer.”

Random Youth: Sigh. “Fine. Let me kill this guy first.”

Twenty minutes later, the guy is still alive and I’m wondering who’s going to make the sacrifice in his place. Maybe I can talk the dog into taking one for the team.

But tonight the house is so quiet I can hear dust mites tatting lace in the living room drapes.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Nothing gets to a Mom faster than “that infernal racket” or absolute silence. “What do you suppose they’re doing?”

“Holding hands and humming I’d Like To Teach the World to Sing?”

I followed the day-glo light of laptap monitors down the hall. To my bedroom. The only room in the house with matching sheets.

The boys, who can’t share the back seat of a beachbound minivan for more than a two-minute warning are piled up in neutral corners of the sleigh bed turned Internet Café, watching THE SAME You Tube videos and instant messaging one other. I tiptoed back to the living room.

I might not be happy with the details, but I’m content that all those news reports about families growing apart are wrong. As long as my guys are wireless, I don’t have to come unglued.

Picture ID

2011-06-11T23:17:00.003-04:00

Because my immediate interests leaned more toward napping than writing, I was hard at work practicing clever bio introductions one afternoon when Son Two leaned over my shoulder. He was fourteen at the time, and therefore omniscient. Also, the world revolves around him, rotating on an axis made of pizza and chocolate bars.

“Are you gonna put that?”

“What?”

“That part about your name.”

“It’s kind of an important item in a biography.”

“Oh.” Chewing noises sounded in my ear. “Aren’t you afraid somebody’s gonna find out it’s you?”

Nothing like a rousing pep talk from your own flesh to make you feel appreciated.

“That’s the idea. I want to get credit for the work I did.”

“Well, don’t use my name, okay?”

The only one left in the family willing to let me use her name in connection with mine is Lucy, the Dachshund, whom I bribe with bologna sandwiches and barbecue chips to guarantee loyalty. Ruling out family names, lame jokes, and references to obscure medical journals doesn’t leave much material. I got back to work.

“Amy Mullis wrote this piece. She lives in. . .”

“Mom! Don’t put where we live. My friends might figure out it’s us.”

I’m more familiar with the delete key than Simon Cowell is with dirty looks.

“Amy Mullis wrote this piece.”

“Can you use your last initial instead of your whole name?”

“Amy M. wrote this piece.”

“Piece of what?”

“Amy M. Wrote this.”

He rolled his eyes. If my tires worked that well I’d get a million miles on every one. “It sounds like it should be on a tombstone.”

“Okay, Smart Guy. What can I say in a three-line biography that won’t make me look dumb?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just don’t send a picture.”

Sunrise, Sunset. . .What's the Difference?

2011-06-09T22:30:00.004-04:00

I’m of the opinion that if you don’t see the sun rise over the ocean at least once in your life, you can’t get into heaven. It might not be on your bucket list, but it deserves a place on your sand pail and shovel agenda.

The Captain says today’s sunset is tomorrow’s early sunrise, so there’s no need to get up when dew is forming on the newspaper just to see one. If you’re upset about the direction, look at it in a mirror.

Our priorities are different. His are wrong.

Vacationing at the beach, I undertook to secure him a spot on the scenic side of the pearly gates when he finally goes to the big place computer techs go when they die, and although I’m uncomfortable mentioning gates and windows in that context, I don’t mean a big room with lots of windows and a high speed Internet connection and a billion users that know how to synch their own Blackberry.

It was 7:00 a.m. The sunlight streamed in the window like it was on a video loop. The Captain’s face was one with the pillow and held the relaxed, peaceful air of a summer firefly in the meadow.

Time to get up.

But how to facilitate the waking process without also calling the enemy to battle? He doesn’t always show the proper appreciation for my efforts to initiate husband-wife bonding time. After the last unpleasantness, I decided not to use the car alarm ploy again. The policeman that issued the warning seemed adamant about the possibility of a future fine.

Law enforcement officers that have gone all white around the mouth do not always make their point clear, so I’ve never been sure if the greater infraction was disturbing the peace or indecent exposure. And the fire was already out when they arrived, so that wasn't a factor.

I sat in bed, resting against the wicker headboard, celebrity magazine in hand. I try to improve my mind, even when my body is on vacation. You can’t fight too hard in the fashion battle, and this issue focused on Jessica Simpson’s shoes. Flipping pages like they were fan blades, I glanced over at the Captain. I’ve patented a look that will freeze jalepeno poppers, but to be considerate, I set my eyes to stun.

No response.

I cleared my throat meaningfully.

No response.

I repositioned myself repeatedly due to an uncomfortable wrinkle in the linens.

No response.

Inspired by the sheets, I succumbed to a previously undiscovered allergic reaction to thread count.

With a snort, he turned to face the other wall.

Somewhere on another street, possibly in another town, an unknown hand flipped a switch on a small countertop appliance, and a dark beverage began a slow drip into a pyrex pot. Nobody gives a wake up call like Mr. Coffee. Captain Caffeine sensed the change in the atmosphere immediately. If they could train him to sniff out bombs like he can track down freshly brewed coffee, he would always have a job as an airport monitor.

He sat up, sucking in air like Smokey the Bear on the trail of a forest campfire.

I padded to the kitchen and back bearing a cup filled with the drink that never sleeps.

He burst from the bedclothes like Superman from a 50’s era phone booth. “So, wanna go see the sunrise?”

“Sure, but you’d better gas up the car.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d have to travel three time zones toward the west to get a glimpse.”

He took a long drink from his mug. Some women go their whole lives without the caress that the Mickey Mouse on that cup was getting. The Captain leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a look of complete serenity.

“That’s okay. We’ll catch the next one tonight. Got a mirror?” He took a draw of coffee that made Mickey’s ears stretch and shot a boyish smile at me from across the room.

Just my luck. I have a plan to get to heaven and he finds the door right here on Earth.

Married with Sequins

2011-06-03T12:44:00.005-04:00

My cups runneth over. When you've been married for ten years, that makes a road trip to Victoria's Secret an essential part of the tour of duty. Cruise on over to An Army of Ermas and see how I justified a detour to the mall to take the sparkle out of our anniversary trip. The Captain never knew what hit him. He was blinded by love. And sequins.

Every Day

2011-05-30T21:06:00.004-04:00

Looks like I was one depth charge away from never being born. Join me at Stage of Life and find out how life on a WWII submarine wasn't just an adventure. Thanks to the men and women who sacrificed their lives in the line of duty. From me. And my Dad.

Oh Rapture!

2011-05-22T22:54:00.003-04:00

I don't pretend to know the mind of God, although I'm pretty sure He gets His laughs watching the Weather Channel. So while I watched the announced Rapture proceedings with a raised eyebrow this weekend, I couldn't help noticing that a few items around my house have gone missing. Even though I may be tempted to look suspiciously at possible suspects in my living room, I'd like to point out. . .

Ten Things at My House That May Have Been Raptured This Weekend:

1. My car keys.

2. The last two chocolate chip cookies. Also, the equivalent of a glass of milk.

3. My other shoe.

4. The dollar bill that was hidden in the junk drawer under the nail clippers.

5. The points of all my pencils.

6. The lid to the grape jelly.

7. My deposit slips.

8. My original Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas album.

9. The pliers I use to turn off the hot water.

10. The dog’s food—the bag is empty!

On second thought, cross number ten off the list. There is a suspicious trail of crumbs leading to someone's sleepy pillow beside the couch.

Pirates, Prom Gowns, and Putt Putt

2011-05-20T16:07:00.008-04:00

Buying a new bathing suit is like selecting an alias for the Witness Protection Program. You want something that fits and has flair, but that will keep all your hidden assets locked away where no one will ever find them.

In my experience, the main function of a bathing suit is to gather oceanic sand in the lining of the crotch while you’re trying to balance on the retracting grains of an outgoing wave without spilling your drink-filled coconut. With my typical lack of coordination, my coconuts take a dunking every time.

I went shopping with my sister and my niece, Knockout. This girl could wear an oven mitt and have guys follow her into deep water. I was painfully aware that my thighs had expanded to the Outer Banks and my behind had relocated to the subtropics. No wonder my temperature light keeps flashing.

We’re at Wal-Mart, browsing through the racks. It’s the only place I can get support hose, Sugar Smacks, and sinus medication without having to change parking lots. Presently my buggy is loaded with a month’s worth of Friskies and the floral pack of Hanes Her Way Full Coverage. Nothing says party like a well-fed cat and chubby sized underwear.

While Knockout was slipping on bikini tops over her clothes, I was fumbling through the racks looking for something with sleeves and a bib. I couldn’t fit a bathing suit over my clothes if I had the Jaws of Life to help me dress.

“What about something with a little sarong to cover up problem areas?” Knockout suggests, flattening an invisible wrinkle in her belly button.

I couldn’t fit a sarong over my shin with a shoe horn.

“Do they have anything with a hoop skirt instead?”

I’m headed to the seashore for a weekend away from the Labradors. All I’m going to do is pick up a few seashells, eat some fish without having to share, and play a round of beach putt putt. I shouldn’t have to use up the gross national output of latex to get a hole in one at Shipwreck Cove. Actually, the closest thing I ever got to a hole in one at putt putt golf was the time I chipped a shot into the Diet Coke of the Paris Hilton clone in the parking lot, but that’s All Star stuff and I can’t do it every time. The ensuing altercation is still a topic of conversation among local law enforcement officers. Whoever said golf is boring never saw my follow-through.

Besides, I figure if I can’t see it, it’s not a problem. I’ve played hide and seek with my navel for 35 years. Once I passed 40 and realized I’d need a topographical map and a satellite signal from NASA to find my waist, I declared myself the victor and began looking for my original chin. We might have to call in the Mars Rover for that one.

“What about a cover up? You like retro.” She held up a tye-dyed washcloth, swirling with all the colors of a bowl of breakfast cereal.

“It looks like something you used to clean up a chemical spill. Besides, I have a doily on the back of my couch that hides more than that thing.”

I wandered across the aisle to a rack of likely-looking house dresses. My idea of coverage is mountains-to-sea. I’m not interested in anything that leaves the foothills or the Great Plains out in the open. I untangled a handful of spaghetti straps and pulled out a prospect. “What about this? It’s almost long enough to cover the coast at high tide.”

“That’s a prom dress.”

“How can you tell?”

“There are sequins on the thong.”

“I thought that was an armband to hold my IPod.”

“There’s a clip on the tiara for that. See, there’s a secret compartment behind the disco ball.”

Three dozen prom gowns and I pick the one that needs John Travolta in a white suit to complete the package.

“Here’s an animal print. You’d be right in style.” Knockout whipped a bikini bedecked with pink and green peace symbols off the rack and held it up with a flourish. A trail of leopard prints the color of blush traipsed through the peace fields.

“The leopard is already embarrassed and I haven’t even tried it on.”

She flipped through a few more prospects. “There’s nothing left on the rack but old lady swimsuits.”

To this kid, Paris Hilton is ancient history.

With a sigh, I tossed the sequined thong and tiara selection into my cart. I may not be Queen of the Prom, but I’ll be the best dressed gal at the Pirate Ship Putt Putt course.

Jams and Jelly Glasses

2011-05-17T17:13:00.005-04:00

With two healthy boys in the family, the plumber and I got to be quite good friends over the years. Still, the best story of all features Fred Flintstone. Join me at Stage of Life where our plumber friend is enjoying a flush of easy money. Yabba Dabba Do!

Can You Hear Me Now?

2011-05-15T08:38:00.004-04:00

My friend Raelynn has a phone she swears will do her hair and nails, tell her what shoes to wear with all her outfits, and lie about her age.

I don’t need a little electronic box to tell me what to wear, how to organize my CDs, or when to flip the steaks over. To me, a smart phone is one that knows not to ring when I’m in the shower. And never accepts messages from discarded spouses.

Also, I don’t need a phone with a name of its own. I can’t remember the names of my children. I don’t need to try and conjure up an extra one for a device I can’t figure out how to use.

My phone has so many buttons, I feel like I’m initiating a launch code whenever I check my messages. The last time I tried to take a picture, I accidentally turned on the voice controls. I was out shopping, and I’m pretty sure Mall Security picked up my trail before I got as far as Victoria’s Secret.

“Say a command,” the phone snapped smartly.

“Shut up!” I squealed, digging in my pocket to retrieve the thing.

“Say a command,” the device insisted.

“Fold the laundry!” Humor is my defense mechanism. As with most of the other mechanisms in my life, the warranty expired the day I needed it most.

“Dialing 5-3-3”

“No, not five, FOLD, you crazy thing.”

“Calling the Captain.”

“Not Captain. Crazy!”

Other shoppers shot uneasy glances in my direction. “Talk about Captain Crazy,” an elderly woman muttered and whipped an Emergency Bat Turn with her walker right in the food court.

“Look,” I muttered discreetly to the palm of my hand. “Behave. No one will hear you scream.”

“Dialing 9-1-1”

“I said NO ONE. Not 9-1-1.”

“Emergency services” came a refreshingly human voice from my phone.

“HELLO!” I screamed frantically. “My phone has taken over. Please help me!”

Silence.

Small children hid behind the clothes racks in Lane Bryant. Passersby detoured around the hemp tattoo kiosk to avoid me.

I spoke into the phone. “You think I’m psycho, don’t you?”

“Lady,” the Emergency Responder answered. “You had me at hello.”

The Writing On the Wall

2011-05-13T15:17:00.003-04:00

Yes, I did it, and I'm sure there is a good reason why. But at four years old, I wasn't quite prepared to formulate my defense. So the writing was on the wall. It was on my arms and legs, too, if that counts for extra credit. All in bold, rich, lucsious red. . . .lipstick.

Join me at An Army of Ermas for the police report.

The Legacy

2011-05-07T21:38:00.002-04:00

Happy Mother's Day to my mom who is busy weeding Heaven's vegetable garden. Time hasn't helped much. I still miss you, Mom.

As far as legacies go, my tastes lie with something simple, like a check. Or stock. Or heirloom china. Unfortunately Mama wasn’t the heirloom china type. What I got when she departed for the peaceful place where mothers don’t have to cook, clean, or say, “If I told you once, I told you a million times,” was not the inheritance I assumed was my birthright. What she left me was the very thing I was the least qualified to handle. Wisdom.

Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.

Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.

1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.

2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.

3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.

4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.

5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.

6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.

7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.

8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.

9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.

10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.

11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.

But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.

Fire In The Hole

2011-05-06T22:42:00.004-04:00

Venture over to the Ermas blog (if you dare) where The Captain gives a whole new meaning to the term "Light My Fire."

By the way, about that lighter, Cap'n. Smokey the Bear is NOT amused.

Cracked

2011-05-05T21:40:00.007-04:00

I cannot stress enough the importance of good customer service skills. Recently a man in North Charleston, South Carolina, the state where the name Dick Harpootlian is synonymous with the term “Lock and Load” for the state Democratic Party, called 911 to report he was not given correct change when purchasing crack cocaine. The Democratic Party has nothing to do with the use of crack cocaine other than the persistent idea that Dick Harpootlian's parents must have used the substance just before naming their infant.

A monetary disagreement is an understandably frustrating situation between vendor and vendee. I had an experience similar to this once when I gave the cashier a twenty dollar bill and she gave me change for a ten. In this instance I simply appealed to the store manager, who promptly and courteously recorded my name and phone number and called me to come pick up my cash when the cashier’s drawer rang up with an overage that evening. I was a satisfied customer and have continued my business relationship with that particular pawn, er, dress shop ever since.

If the drug dealer; we’ll call him Mr. Crack, was serious about his business, he would have considered his customer, Mr. Smoke, as a potential future profit margin. By reacting selfishly, he dashed his hopes for repeat business and customer loyalty. In these days of economic hardships, he effectively slammed an out-of-business sign on the fingers of his future. His avenues for expansion are forever closed.

His only hope is to take up politics. I hear Mr. Harpootlian is looking for a running mate.

My Friend Flickr

2011-04-28T22:55:00.003-04:00

I’m all a-twitter to find out my favorite family is not available just on, well, Twitter, anymore. No, not the Hiltons; their poorer relations, Queen Elizabeth and the gang. The British branch of the family creeper vine has signed up for a Flickr account.

These days the chances are good that you can flip through the Internet like it was a trashy magazine and find a picture of Camilla ears deep in a liplock with Bonnie Prince Charlie. How’s that for a picture? Emotional Ipecac without a prescription.

But I have to wonder. How many pictures of Queen Elizabeth in Joker makeup and patent leather pocketbook does the world need? If the desire of the royals is to reach the people, they need to stock up on a few more candid shots like the ones of Diana clad in modest, but transparent, work garb that made the public fall in love with the innocence of the young girl.

Somehow a candid shot of Camilla in a see-through skirt does nothing short of making me want indulge in the use of OSHA-approved optical rinse and pop a blindfold over my mind’s eye. I’d rather see an exposé on the Queen’s Corgis.

It’s not that I’m not a fan of the Royal Family. I was up at dawn when Diana married Charles, and I followed Andrew and Fergie’s wedding like a play by play announcer at the SuperBowl.

But these days there aren’t many faces in the royal family that are photographer-friendly. So those of us around the globe who are putting our faith in the “picture is worth a thousand words” school of thought agree.

If it’s not the new princess the Royal Family is flaunting in its electronic photo album, we’d rather have a speech. So bring on Princess Catherine.

Because if all the shots are of Camilla, the Kodak Moments are going to the dogs.

Fun with Lawn Care

2011-04-27T08:34:00.006-04:00

“If I don’t come back, remember me for who I was!”

Jeffrey is on his way outside to cut the grass. He is 20 years old and displays a significant tendency toward the dramatic. Cutting the grass rates almost as high on the enjoyment of life scale as going shopping for foundations with his mother, something he has steadfastly refused to be a part of since he was four years old and I asked him publicly whether to get the T Rex or the Superman briefs.

His grass cutting clothes are cleverly designed to protect him from his arch enemy, sunlight. He is sporting sweat pants, a black T-shirt with a dashing dragon motif, and a camouflage jacket. The sun will never recognize him.

However, the fire ants who dwell in communes throughout the neighborhood think he’s a walking hors d’oeuvre, and scramble to assemble relay teams designed to bring back tender flesh for a glorious repast. These are some of nature’s most bloodthirsty creatures and should be required to post Predator signs in front of their homes and turn off their porch lights on Halloween.

The fire ants did not reckon with the maze of clothing covering Jeffrey’s body, which has not been exposed to the air since he emerged from the birth canal. They reconnoiter and launch an attack on the Captain, who, as chief officer in charge of Virginia creeper, is supervising the ordeal. His sole defense is a pair of hiking boots and the ability to swear like a seaman in several different languages.

I’ve heard that grits are to fire ants what Kryptonite is to the Man of Steel, so as Bill dances past the back door, I spring into action, flinging packet after packet of stone ground goodness at his convulsive form.

You'd think a person would be more appreciative of the help. But if I’m ever in Germany, I’ll know what to say if someone cuts me off in traffic.

Meanwhile Jeffrey has mowed the front lawn in a fairly accurate representation of legendary crop circles, and is showering—probably still wearing the camo jacket—in the guest bathroom with the fancy soap.

By the time the Captain recovers from the fire ant fox trot, Jeffrey will have left the building, borrowed the car, and forgotten the trauma of having parents.

I peer out the front door. The circles cut into the lawn resemble a peaceful rippling pattern. In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten to remind Jeffrey to feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, or clean his room.

They say in the old days families had handfuls of children to help with the planting and harvesting of crops, taking care of the livestock, and seeing to the household chores.

I don’t see how they got anything done.

Desperately Seeking Something

2011-04-24T12:19:00.001-04:00

Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I can tell it’s spring at my house when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”

About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.

I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.

I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.

But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.

When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglas, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”

Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.

The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”

That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.

Footprints

2011-04-22T11:59:00.005-04:00

It wasn’t so hard to recycle when the boys were small. It really wasn’t any trouble to toss the glass juice bottles in one bin and the pamphlets for weight loss programs I’d decided not to try in another. But now that they’re big enough to leave six month old soda cans in places I can’t reach, the job is a little tougher.

My first instinct was to don a HazMat suit and spray their room with that industrial strength foam they use to clean up chemical spills. However, I decided that this wasn’t the example I wanted to set. First of all they’d both want to be the next to wear the suit and the first to spray their brother. I decided on another tactic: put them in charge.

Son Number Two, Destructo the Younger, flattens cardboard boxes and maintains order in the mixed paper box. Each warlord, er, boy, gets to enforce rules governing his domain (By royal decree, crushed cans go in the Christmas coffee can painted like a Gingerbread Man and flattened boxes go upright in their own tall kitchen trash can--I guess vertical is the new green.)

I let the oldest, Destructo the First on the Scene, be in charge of can smashing. There’s not a piece of recyclable aluminum that’s safe when he tours the house looking for additions to fill his container.

From what I can tell, we’re doing well on the recycling, but it sure looks like we’re leaving one heckuva carbonated footprint.

Hareless

2011-04-20T21:41:00.004-04:00

ZZZZZZZZooooooooommmmm!

Peter Cottontail just whipped past, hopping at top speed down the bunny trail. The Labradors are in hot pursuit. (See action photo at left.) Somebody should tell the rapid Mr. Cottontail that he can back it out of hyperspace. Those dogs haven't caught anything yet.

And they're easily distracted. . .oh look, a caterpillar.

So, as usual, they're Hareless.

Join me at Stage of Life for our annual Easter Bunny Hunt. While you're there, seek out some of the coupon specials and writing contests that are hiding throughout the site.

Multi-Taxing

2011-04-18T22:29:00.007-04:00

“Why all the questions? I haven’t had to come up with this many answers since I broke curfew.”

“No problem. Unless you’re as creative with the government as you were with me.”

Son One is filling out tax forms with the same hearty appreciation he musters for cleaning the litter box. He was finding the two jobs alarmingly similar. I’m in the kitchen weaving bits and pieces of leftovers into something that resembles supper.

He frowned at the paper. “Tips? I don’t get tips. I found a penny on the floor once and the boss claimed it was overtime pay and made me mop the floor.”

“That reminds me. It’s your turn to do the laundry. I get half the change you find, but you can have 100% of the dog treats. No questions asked.”

“This line says Subsistence Allowance. Is that the money I lose in the school vending machines trying to get a Twinkie to hold me til lunch?”

“No. The government isn’t interested in the state of your state of being until you graduate.”

“Just as well. Whatever you’re making in there would probably count against us. Are you mixing things? You know I don’t like my food to touch.”

“Sometimes you have to have to be creative, remember?”

“What about Contributions to the College Investment Program?”

“Put zero.”

“But I paid enough in college tuition to make everyone in the county smarter than a fifth grader.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Railroad retirement?”

“Six seasons in front of Thomas the Tank Engine? No.”

“HazMat? I can sign up for HazMat?”

“You don’t get to make hazardous materials," I said, layering asparagus with eggs and cheese.”

“Why not? I’m a natural. I’m exposed to hazardous materials every day.”

“In what form?”

He sniffed the air and made the yukky face.

“Casseroles.”

Sand Hassle

2011-04-13T19:51:00.006-04:00

A good bathing suit is like a screen door. It keeps out unsavory wildlife and provides a nice view, yet allows a gentle breeze to come through and cool off the kitchen.

If the screen door doesn't work, the house fills up with smoke and somebody's biscuits are going to burn.

Join me over at An Army of Ermas. I've been frolicking in the ocean a little too long. My biscuits are in big trouble.

The Royal I in London

2011-04-09T08:14:00.010-04:00

Ten Reasons Why I Should Be the BBC Correspondent to cover the British Royal Wedding.

1. I have a hat.

2. I have a son named William.

3. I could help with the reception. The Queen should not have to go her entire life without tasting my wings. I also cut the crust off sandwiches.

4. I sometimes drink tea, and once had a crumpet, which I ate incorrectly.

5. I can use the word blimey correctly in a sentence. ("Blimey!")

6. I am an expert on royalty, having often been described as a royal pain.

7. I have seen an entire episode of Dr. Who. I can also quote appropriate lines from Monty Python and the Holy Grail and am prepared to do so in an audition. (I will provide my own coconuts.)

8. I would fit right in overseas as long as I didn’t have to eat kidneys. Or anything the British describe as “pudding.”

9. Beside Camilla, I would look like Princess Diana. A Diana that had to shop in the petite chubby section and wear stretchy pants, but princess material nonetheless.

10. I own a tiara. (Target. $5.99)

Hall of Blame

2011-03-31T22:22:00.010-04:00

To celebrate the first day of my favorite season (Baseball!), I'm reposting a tidbit created a few years ago during the height of the steroid superstories. Seems to me that it should be easy to tell who's on steroids. The Captain took them for a week to rid himself of a mysterious rash, and was meaner than a fire ant the whole time. As a lifelong Yankee fan, any reference to George Steinbrenner is respectfully meant to be taken exactly as intended.

Major league baseball is embroiled in a scandal so big that by comparison Marge Schott looks as sweet and innocent as, say George Steinbrenner, except that old Marge has gone to that great big dugout in the sky, and Steinbrenner is still hanging around trying to make the rest of Joe Torre’s hair fall out. Marge Schott was a very bad lady who gained fame by mistreating minorities, such as baseball players and her coaching staff, as opposed to George Steinbrenner who was never a lady at all.

Apparently, one baseball player, who shall remain nameless except on the cover of his best-selling book and on the front page of all the newspapers that showed the Congressional proceedings, ingested enough performance-enhancing medication throughout his baseball career to give him biceps the size of vitamin-enhanced hams. This particular baseball player claims that most of the other baseball players he knows also took performance-enhancing medication and that is why baseball players make the field look like a meat-lovers pizza when they all come out to play ball.

For the most part, the other players involved say they are innocent babes who grew extraneous body parts the size of small wildebeests through good genes. None of them mentioned who the good genes originally belonged to, or if they came in small bottles with instructions that read: Take one every four hours as needed for ginormous growth spurts.

The government took charge of the steroid scandal for two reasons: 1.Because baseball people have a notoriously difficult time discussing anything without a large man in a suit and chest protector squatting over them hollering Hiiiiiieeeeehhh!!! while pointing his finger, and 2.Because government employees don’t have anything else to do until it’s time to campaign for a Federal holiday to honor Shoeless Joe Jackson, another famous baseball player who got in trouble for not doing anything.

In a dazzling display of intelligence, the government brought several large baseball players to Washington where the government people asked them questions to trick them into giving themselves away. “Did you take steroids?” the government people asked. “No,” the baseball players responded. “And anybody who says we did is a stinky goo-head.” Here all the baseball players stared meaningfully at the book-writing baseball player. Well, they stared meaningfully in his direction, but a lot of them have bad eyesight from years of not taking steroids and weren’t sure exactly where he was sitting.

Major League Baseball, an organization so important it is nearly always written with initial caps, banned the used of steroids in the year 2002. Some baseball players thought they said stereos because they had bad hearing from years of not using steroids, and also from listening to loud stereo music with headphones on, so they were unaware that they were supposed to deny steroid use.

Therefore, Major League Baseball, who hopes to someday be written in all caps, instituted testing for steroids two years later and promised that anyone who got caught would have to sit and watch the game before cashing their paycheck. These days they’re getting really tough and the baseball powers that belong to the exclusive Baseball Rules Club considered instituting a penalty of at least $10,000 which is as much to a Major League Baseball Player as a shiny new quarter is to you and me.

This season, the average baseball fan is ready for the Government People and the Major League Baseball People and the Baseball Players with Thighs the Size of Boston Butts, no offense to the Red Sox, to stop arguing so that he can finally go to the ball bark and settle down in his seat with a nutritionally enhanced and nitrate fortified hot dog served in an enriched bun, and for one afternoon forget death, taxes, and whether it’s a crime against nature for Washington D.C to be home to a baseball team.

And if a large man in a suit and chest protector points his finger at anybody, he’d better be sure he knows his balls from his strikes.

The No Brownie Birthday

2011-03-25T10:00:00.003-04:00

Today is the Captain’s birthday and he’s not getting a brownie.

I blame it on Mrs. Williams. She was my third grade teacher. Up until third grade, I loved school. I was all about fat crayons and recess and seeing if Dougie Jenkins would really eat the prunes off of everybody’s plate during lunch.

Then in third grade we started learning things. Other things than what happens when you eat 26 prunes at a time, which would technically count as biology and not comprise a major part of my career path, which was Major League Baseball. Either that or ballet. Turns out I never took a dance lesson, but I could hit a line drive that would give Dougie Jenkins an extra navel if he didn’t hotfoot it off the pitcher’s mound in time. Dougie dropped out of school not long after that.

Anyway, I’m not sure if we ever had fractions in Mrs. Williams’s class, but it sounds like something she would get all “it’s a party” about. So, I’m pretty sure it’s her fault.

Anyway, yesterday at work a very nice man, who isn’t nice just because he can cook or because he tells me jokes that I understand, but because he's just an all-around good guy that likes chocolate, brought a brownie to me at work. It was fairly extensive as brownies go, and made from something called scratch. I’m not exactly sure what is in scratch, but it makes terrific brownies.

So, looking at the whole thing logically, I knew I should eat that brownie before someone else came along and I had to share. But I also knew it would be good to share the brownie with the Captain, because today is his birthday. (That's where the term brownie points comes from.)

I decided to eat half and take home half. Hopefully he wouldn’t want his half, so I should probably go ahead and eat part of his half and he wouldn’t mind, and it would keep the scratch that was in it from going bad.

So I took a bite.

And another bite.

And one more bite.

And a series of nibbles.

Eventually his half was a good deal smaller than my half (the technical term "smidgeon" might apply) except there wasn’t any of my half left to compare. So if there was only one half, there was really only one brownie and shouldn’t I get half? I tried to work out the mathematical equation on my napkin, but new math can get really complicated when you have to carry a one in the fudge column. So I ate the rest of the brownie.

Mrs. Williams, I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. Now I have to find out where to get some scratch to make brownies with before the Captain’s birthday is over.

I’m fairly sure you can't find it in third grade. Maybe I'll just get prunes.

Cleaning out the Rottery

2011-03-23T17:17:00.003-04:00

I can hide behind the snow cream until first thaw. After that, it's every Hungry Man for himself. I'm going to have to check out what's growing on the cheddar and surging from the sour cream. It's spring--time to (insert scary music here) clean out the refrigerator. Join me at Stage of Life as I strap on protective gear. I'm going in!

Burrito by Bullets

2011-03-21T21:28:00.003-04:00

My problem is that I’m too nice. When I was on my honeymoon and the pizza waitress served up a big ole pepperoni pizza instead of the mushroom one I ordered, and my brand new husband said, “Can’t you just eat it?” I dined on greasy pepperoni and smiled graciously.

When the movie rental place suggested I pony up $50 in late fines for movies I knew I returned on time, I smiled, handed the clerk my membership card, and walked away forever.

When the fat lady in the tight (sheer) bathing suit wanted to be friends at the local amusement park. . .well, I ran and hid behind my kids on that one, but now I AM the fat lady in the tight (not sheer) bathing suit, so you see how it works.

The movie rental place went out of business. The pizza place has become a shop for cheap souvenirs. The husband is now known as The Defendant and has been replaced with a dashing pirate captain.

So I never saw the need to go all Rambo in the face of suburban unrest.

Until now.

Out in Texas, where the bad times are bigger, Taco Bell jacked up the price on the crunchy beef burritos an additional fifty cents. And if burritos are crunchy here in South Carolina, I can just imagine the crackle they carry deep in the heart of Texas.

And the man ordered seven. SEVEN BURRITOS. I don’t let my kids eat a taco without a license, and this man wanted to wolf down seven burritos surrounded by innocent byproducts.

The price gouging would add an extra three and a half bucks to his total. Highway robbery on a grand scale! So it’s perfectly understandable that this man—we’ll call him the Burrito Bandito just because it sounds big enough for Texas—brought out the firepower when he found out about the price increase.

Now I can work up a perfectly good pout over the price of gasoline, but this is gas of another color. When he headed out to his trusty energy-efficient ride and laid out his assault rifle on the sunroof, the Taco Bell manager, who probably has never played the role of bullseye, even on TV, locked up and called the police.

After a three-hour standoff at a nearby motel that did not provide room service, not even chips and salsa, to our amigo, the affair was settled.

The tacos still cost the same, but now there’s a bigger price. And the Burrito Bandito never did get his authentic American Mexican food. Which is probably a good thing.

Because, really, seven burritos? Now that’s assault with a deadly weapon.

Monkey See, Mommy Doesn't

2011-03-18T23:09:00.005-04:00

Cuffing socks is a challenging job. Finding two that match in the mass of writhing cotton strips is not always easy. There’s always the possibility that the one you’re looking for is lost in the lint trap. Or under someone’s bed. Or on one of my feet spending the day with a mismatched partner.

I’m not sure who got sock duty this week. I’m sure it was someone who complained that they were bored and had nothing to do. Or someone who was taunting his brother. Or someone who was displaying violent behavioral turbulence when confronted with a video game he could not beat.

Not long ago we went to the county fair. There we met a little monkey, all dressed up in a fancy suit and a little hat with an elastic band that went under his chin. If you presented the monkey with a quarter, he was trained to tip his little hat and shake your hand with his tiny fingers.

I suspect that little monkey cuffed our socks this week. The little monkey had a fine suit of clothes, but, as a mother, I noticed he had no shoes. Possibly his little monkey feet were cold and he followed us home. There he found a whole room full of socks to keep his little monkey feet warm. It was like sock heaven for him and he began to cuff socks.

But there are some rules to this little game that the monkey probably doesn’t know.

Things like:

Size matters. Girls socks and boys socks are not designed to fit the same size feet. Also, boys are sometimes noticeably stressed when their friends are the first to note that they are wearing socks with Disney princesses embroidered on the side.

Color also matters. Captain Spiffy has quite the sense of humor, but even he is somewhat chagrined to find himself in a meeting with the snappily dressed people representing different departments of the largest defense contractor in the world and notice that they are peering over the company logo printed in three color art on their ceramic coffee cups at his socks, revealed when he crosses one knee over the other.

One sock is green and sports a cuddly Care Bear. The other bears a pink pony and sparkles. If we have swapped merchandise, then undoubtedly my my niece’s kids, who spent the weekend not long ago, are the hit of daycare in black nylon stretch socks.

As I sit here at my desk contemplating my one midnight blue sock and a slightly faded brown one, something is stirring in the recesses of my brain. I recall an evening spent cuffing socks behind the louvered doors of the laundry room. Who needs lights? I thought. Who needs glasses? I thought.

The monkey might not. But I do.

Charlie's Out There

2011-03-13T23:10:00.006-04:00

“What’s with the hat?”

The Captain doesn’t always trust my motives. If I were a ship, he’d stock plenty of life boats before leaving port.

“I want to run away from my job, wallow in uncontrolled substances, and wear ugly clothes.”

“Did you get the Nyquil mixed up with the mouthwash again or have you been watching Charlie Sheen on TV?”

“Charlie Sheen. He’s a zillionaire and he’s always wearing some crazy hat. I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could come up with the big bucks.”

“I don’t think a clown hat from Ringling Brothers is going to do the job. Why don’t you try a pretty floral bonnet?”

I peered out from under the brim. “It’s perfect. There’s not a better clown on TV. And he’s living the high life.”

"You want to rebel from work? Didn’t they just have Employee Appreciation Day there?"

“Yes, and a covered dish dinner. It was lovely.”

“Then why don’t you rebel from housework instead?”

I leaned back in my chair to consider. The clown hat swept the shelf behind me and sent a dusty copy of Stain Removal for Dummies crashing to the floor.

“That’s not a bad idea. There’s vacuuming. I hate to vacuum.”

“You haven’t vacuumed in 13 years. Do you know where we keep the Hoover?”

"In the Colorado River?"

“That’s a dam.”

“That’s about right.”

“And I hate to cook.”

“The closest you’ve come to cooking in the last week is pouring milk on your breakfast cereal. We have enough takeout boxes in the refrigerator to have a potluck supper for the cast of Slumdog Millionaire.”

“There’s always uncontrolled substances.”

“Uncontrolled? You mean like over-the-counter breath mints? Or nonprescription drugs? You can’t even take painkillers without walking like a circus clown. That must be why you need the hat.”

“Drugs? Who said anything about drugs? I meant Girl Scout cookies. Those Thin Mints are addictive.”

“All that’s left is ugly clothes. I’ve always been partial to your purple flannel puppy dog pajamas.”

“They don’t count. They’re my good luck pajamas.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Whenever I wear them I dream about George Clooney.”

“You'd better stick with the hat. You look like a freakin’ rock star.”

“From Mars?”

“From Pluto.”

“That doesn’t sound quite as epic.”

“Well, you’re way out in space and everybody loves you, but you don’t have what it takes to make top billing.”

"I can't believe you said that. That's cold."

"Now you're finding out what life is really like on Mars."

Reflections

2011-03-09T15:44:00.004-05:00

Today is Ash Wednesday, the period of 40 days of reflection and sacrifice leading up to Easter.

This morning I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth—an admirable action if it weren’t for a couple of small details. The first detail was that I had yet to eat breakfast. The second, and perhaps more urgent detail was that I was supposed to be taking a shower.

Perhaps it was the lack of a shower that reminded me that I was out of anti-perspirant. Sharing is a worthwhile quality to develop, so I borrowed some from the boys; my teenaged sons who are given to trusting clever commercials to influence their buying habits. Now I smelled like toothpaste and the Old Spice Guy. I’ll admit that at the time I wasn’t really interested on reflecting on the whole thing, but I’m pretty sure there was sacrifice involved.

The next hurtle of the day: getting dressed. The pants I wanted to wear were covered in animal hair, which also counts as sacrifice because I’ve given bed and breakfast to many animals wandering about in the wild searching for a Bed and Breakfast Inn that allows shedding as a form of payment.

I threw the pants in the dryer to see if that would help the problem. Turns out the dryer was full of towels. Now my pants were covered in animal hair and lint. I reflected that I was lucky because this is the season of Lent, although most people don’t spell it with an “i” or celebrate it by wearing dirty pants covered in hairballs to work.

For breakfast, I generally dish up a bowl of soggy cereal because long ago I sacrificed the teeth I need to deal with any foods of real character. However, the whole “what to wear” episode put the cereal plan right out of my head and I forgot to prepare the stuff in time to soften sufficiently. I don’t see why the Cream of Wheat people don’t institute a Meals on Wheels program for the dentally impaired.

Casting about in the kitchen for something to eat, I discovered a faded box of soft vanilla wafers that had long ago rallied past their life expectancy. Not exactly the Breakfast of Champions, but if I added a little peanut butter to the equation, all should go well.

As I replaced all the boxes of unused cereal back in the cupboard and added peanut butter to the shopping list, I reflected that hummus on cookies is probably a delicacy in some Mediterranean countries. Mediterranean countries full of aborigines with bad teeth. Perhaps that would make a suitable vacation destination some day.

Time to take the Labradors for a romp to sacrifice several ounces of surprises that I did not want to find on my carpet when I came home from work. As I watched them play, I was surprised at how self-reflective dogs can be. I was also surprised to see them greet the neighbor, who was nattily dressed for the office and was now nattily dressed in muddy paw prints. You’d think people would be more forgiving during Lent, no matter how they spelled it. The neighbor spells it S-T-U-P-I-D. There were more letters involved, but I sacrificed listening after that.

The Captain called and asked what we were having for supper. I reflected that we were going out. He likes home-cooked meals, but after all, this is the period of sacrifice. I’ve already given up my shower, my Shredded Wheat, and my sanity.

It’s his turn to suffer. He'll be a better person for it.

Virtually Unfit

2011-03-06T22:07:00.004-05:00

"You haven’t exercised in ten years," My sister, seated on the couch behind me, cracked open another chocolate bar. "A couple of downward dogs aren’t going to help you now. Besides, it looks like those puppies are on the loose. Dogfighting is illegal, immoral, and—especially in this case—exceedingly unattractive.”

Some things, such as swimming against an undertow, require a buddy. And if I’m ever in that situation, Sis is the one I want with me. She’d feel right at home with the sharks.

Today, I wish she’d find a feeding frenzy somewhere else. I gaze down where my toes should be. Perhaps Yoga isn’t the right form of exercise for me. The only thing about me that stretches is the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

With visions of myself in a flirty white skirt, I decide to try the virtual tennis competition on the boys’ video game. I attempt a saucy backhand, send the controller flying, and nail my sister so hard in the face that she has a Pause button imprinted on her forehead. I resist the urge to press the thing to see if it works.

Nobody warned me about the dangers of virtual sports. Before the day is over, I’ve got tennis elbow, swimmer’s ear, and I’m signed up for a guest shot on House as a candidate for mysterious complications from Tommy John surgery.

“Why don’t you make a video of yourself trying to zip your jeans and hold out for a part in WrestleMania?” she smirked.

I grinned, “And I’ve got a show for you too.”

“And that is. . .”

“The Biggest Loser. You're a natural.”

Supper Stalker

2011-03-01T22:54:00.006-05:00

Tonight when I went into the kitchen to start supper, my teenaged son followed me. I’m so far into menopause, hot flashes have quick-fried my brain; I thought he was there to help.

“What a nice change,” I beamed. “You can help by putting away the dishes in the dishwasher.”

“I’m here for a snack,” he answered, collarbone deep in frozen foods. Can I have a milkshake?”

“I’m starting supper right now.”

“I know,” he answered,” testing a frozen breadstick with his teeth. “I just need a little something to hold me.”

“What constitutes a little something?”

“Got any roast beef?”

“If you can hold on a second, I’ll throw a pig on the spit.”

“Gee, Mom, that’d be great. Would you make fries?”

“I was kidding. If you need a snack while I’m cooking supper, you have to make it yourself.”

You would have thought I’d said GameBoys give you cooties. That kid left the kitchen so fast, the vacuum sucked three popsicles and a corn dog with freezer burn out of cold storage.

There may be better ways to handle the situation, but this plan cleans out the refrigerator, defrosts the freezer, and rids the kitchen of unwanted pests.

Flush with Flowers

2011-02-25T23:46:00.006-05:00

Around this time of the year, when there’s still frost on the outdoor dog in the morning and air conditioners run like a spider-chased schoolgirl in the afternoon, I like to venture down to the Lawn & Garden department at the local Sow ‘em & Grow ‘em Store. People who should never own fertilizer are wandering past the bags of peat moss, clutching pots of distressed dahlias, and murmuring, “Wonder if I need manure?”

It’s like Disneyland for clueless people.

All I want is a bird feeder. Winter and fat Cardinals have not been kind to the little plastic number that hung in my yard all winter, and I need someplace to leave the offerings for the sparrows that exercise the dogs by flitting around just out of Labrador reach.

Here in the South, whimsical lawn ornaments are popular among the population. By whimsical, I mean ugly and offensive. By population, I mean my neighbor (you know who you are, Danny) who used to borrow a goat the last week of every month so that he didn’t have to cut the two square inches of grass that grew beside his cultivated kudzu patch.

My other neighbor has a patch of lawn decorated by a wishing well, two wooden farmer misses bending over to show polka dot bloomers, a bevy of plastic geese, and a charming white toilet holding a cluster of cheerful daffodils. These folks may have lawn furniture in the family room, but the porcelain in the front yard holds a place of honor.

Driving back home with my tiny plastic birdfeeder, I can’t help but think about my own yard. I won’t feel comfortable calling it a lawn until there is something growing in it that didn't spring spontaneously to life over the septic tank. Algae doesn’t count as lawn, even the easy-care kind.

I guess everybody celebrates Spring in their own fashion. In Augusta, the Masters has acres of azaleas, not far away the peach trees are beginning to bud. But in my little corner of the country--just below the Bible Belt and just above the Sweet Tea Bag; we take pride in our pottied plants.

Spring Forward, Sleeping In

2011-02-19T14:53:00.009-05:00

Winter inspires me to sport an unattractive, yet functional wardrobe of warm fuzzies. Those of you who have witnessed the extravanganza that is my purple flannel puppy dog pajamas and have not yet unfriended me on any major social networking sites are loyal and courageous people. I also sport soot like starlets sport beauty cream--a hazard of seasonal fireplace hugging.

There is a glimmer of hope around the kerosene heater, though, and it's not because that celebu-rodent with the spring prediction act is guessing that warmer weather is on the way. So how do I know that bigger and balmier things are out there?

Join me at Stage of Life to find out! And while you're there, hang around and check out the coupons and stuff and leave a comment or two. Why? I'm supposed to do it and I'm still in hibernation with the rest of the woodland creatures until the Labrador on my lap sees his shadow!

Point and Shoot

2011-02-16T10:25:00.010-05:00

It's not that I don't enjoy sharing my birthday month with a fat, naked, stalker baby.

But couldn't he spend a little less time playing Black Ops and a little more time practicing his real life aim? Join me over at An Army of Ermas to see what Cupid's up to now.

And if you missed my birthday, don't worry. There is no late fee for expensive gifts.

Or chocolate.

P.S. That flower the Captain is holding? Is DEAD.

On Fire for You

2011-02-13T17:12:00.004-05:00

“What’s this?” The Captain tossed his hat and coat by the door and picked up a folded pink paper from the table.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Cupid left it for you.”

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Maybe Cupid was having a bad day.”

“It smells like gasoline.”

“Well if Cupid didn’t have to pump her own gas, it might smell like meatloaf.”

“We’re having meatloaf? Did you put the little heart made out of catsup on the top?”

“We don’t have any catsup. I was going to the store when I ran out of gas. At the gas station the note fell out of my pocket and blew under a pickup truck. When I bent down to get it back, I spilled gas on it.”

“I’m sorry you had a bad day. Why don’t we go out?”

“Because we’re having meatloaf. It’s your favorite.”

“But we don’t have any catsup. What did you put on top?”

“Strawberry jelly.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all we had that was red.”

“Maybe I should read the note.”

“Well, I was kind of annoyed by the time I finished it.”

“I see.” He tossed the note in a bowl on the table and touched it with the lighter we keep handy for starting the grill.

Hungry flames and the smell of burning gas flared and then receded.

He grinned. “Hottest love note I ever got. Let’s go eat.”

“Can we take your car?”

“Okay,” he put his arm around me and grinned as he guided me toward the door.

“But we’ll have to stop for gas.”

Dearest Amy...

2011-02-12T11:13:00.002-05:00

We woke up this morning feeling old and sluggish and not well rested. My sinus infection, your bad back. My bum knee, your bum hips. So many things that come with age. But right now we're making soup for lunch while reading the paper and talking about how we'll probably celebrate NEXT weekend at the Dog Show, since neither one of us feels like partying today.

And that's fine.

Because we who have reached a certain point in life, if we've watched the world carefully enough, know how to make adjustments. It comes with wisdom, you know. The ability to celebrate the day, not the date. To look at a gray hair and not see age, but a battle scar.

So Happy Birthday, Baby Girl. You're still the best thing in my life, and my life has always been full of good things.

Soup's on. Let's enjoy.

Love.

The Cap'n

Locked Out and Loaded

2011-02-02T20:32:00.005-05:00

Dear Lock People,

I can see why you are very proud of your product. I, too, would aspire to make the very best lock ever to nestle in throwaway packaging if I were in your place. Keeping things safe and secure is your business.

However, I am writing because I sense a flaw in your vision. Although it is essential for the very best of products to lock, I find it can be just as important for such an item to unlock, thereby instilling a sense of calm in the person standing outside the door with several bags of groceries, who wants to come in out of the rain and deposit the bags on the kitchen counter just inside the door.

From my vantage point on the steps I can see:

1. The kitchen counter, bare of grocery bags.

2. Two large dogs and a small salami-shaped dog, who sense my presence outside the door.

3. The garbage can in the act of performing a one and a half gainer, which is due to the fact that the dogs are very excited that I am outside the door. Labradors express great joy by flinging coffee grounds throughout the house in a sort of native doggie dance of abandon.

Looking down, I can also see that the gourmet ice cream, double chocolate Moose Tracks, that I bought as a reward for cleaning out the refrigerator and starting on a new exercise regime has begun to melt and is, even now, performing a kind of scientific experiment with the bottom of the paper bag.

I now regret choosing paper instead of plastic in an attempt to throw myself in with the ecologically-minded set who have actually already abandoned paper for recyclable bags made from reconstituted shower caps.

I also regret my new exercise regime, which consists of one sit-up, performed with the aid of two inquisitive Labradors striving to certify my identity as I became one with the dust bunnies and a small, insistent splinter on the floor. Because I accomplished the sit-up and passed the canine equivalent of a TSA patdown, I now have semi-soft Moose nuggets in my shoe.

In case you have questions of user error in mind, I have already checked the key in my hand to ascertain that it does not fit:

My car
My husband’s car
My diary

I am also pleased to announce that I discovered that the reason the door wouldn’t open when I pressed the button marked “unlock” on my key fob is that the unlock button only works on the doors to the car, which is presently flashing its lights and honking its horn in a psychotic attempt to alert passersby to the fact that I'm locked out of my house with overloaded bags of food, free for those who don't mind jacking a gallon of warm milk and six thawed Lean Cuisine dinners featuring limp pasta from a hysterical woman who resembles your mother on the day you decided to move back home.

In typical fashion all this serves to accomplish is to draw the attention of the cat, who skitters toward the door and finds, to her delight, the puddle of Moose Tracks that is oozing down my leg.

So just now I am trying to shake the cat off my leg, juggle the groceries, coerce the dogs to turn the deadbolt, and ram the key far enough into the lock to solve all our problems. If I had an extra limb, I would use it to do a Google Earth search on my iPhone to find your exact location.

And do you know what I’m thinking, Lock People? I’m thinking that if I had your Quality Control guy right here in front on me, I would whittle a key out of whichever part of him was most likely to conform to the crooked little slot that is barring me from tracking melted Moose Tracks, wet kitty, and a squishy thing stuck in the treads of my hiking boots into the kitchen and through the coffee grounds and orange peels to get to my dancing dogs.

Do you know what else I’m thinking? I’m thinking that the packaging for this handy doorknob/lock combination, which the Captain tossed nonchalantly in the garbage a year ago when he was installing this product, said “Lifetime Guarantee.” And I’m wishing I had read the fine print then to see which mayfly’s lifetime you used as a basis for this guarantee, because that's exactly how long yours is going to be once we meet to assign blame.

But for now, I am going to kick the door with my shoe until my son, who is downstairs engrossed in perfecting his score on the Let’s Sweat section of Just Dance, feels the vibration and experiences the tsunami it starts in the toilet in the guest bathroom.

When he finally opens the door, I am going to call you on the telephone and invite you over for ice cream.

And coffee grounds.

And you know what? You may keep this invitation to use at any time.

It has a lifetime guarantee.

GPS or Busted

2011-01-30T20:21:00.004-05:00

Asking our GPS for a destination is sort of like writing a letter to Santa. You express your heartfelt wishes and desires and hope that you’ve been good enough to get results. My GPS makes me address it as if it were the deity in charge of merge lanes and yield signs. Forget about Rest Areas. You’re better off packing an empty coffee can and a Do Not Disturb sign.

The Captain of our compact Conestoga fired up all four cylinders at the same time recently and to celebrate, we decided to take an actual trip.

Me: Oh great GPS, would you direct us to the path that leads to the beach?

GPS: No.

Me: Please? I won’t ask for anything else. Ever.

GPS: What have you done to deserve this trip? I get no respect. You even put my batteries in upside down.

Me: Sorry. But I didn’t put hair remover in the Captain’s shampoo for April Fool’s Day this time, and I didn’t mention the ferret in the dishwasher.

Captain: There’s a ferret in the dishwasher?

GPS: There WAS a ferret in the dishwasher.

Kid One: You found my ferret!

Me: The point is, I’ve been good. Please tell me how to get to the beach.

GPS: Did you pack a towel?

Me: Yes.

GPS: And clean underwear?

Me. I can buy new ones when I get there.

GPS: Read the fine print. It’s against my Code of Ethics to take you anywhere without clean underwear.

Me: Fine. (I leave the car and return shortly, having taken a precautionary pit stop.) Now will you tell me?

GPS: You left the overnight bag in the guest bath.

Me: I also flushed the house key by accident.

GPS: Did you jiggle the handle?

Me: Yes. Can’t I just buy underwear when I get there?

GPS: Oh sure, and I guess you’re going to parade around all day in that thing you call a swimsuit. Did you pack a cover up?

Captain: You’re not taking underwear?

Kids One and Two: You’re going to wear a BATHING SUIT? We’re not going.

GPS: Don’t talk to your mother that way. That’s my job.

Captain: You’re not taking underwear?

Me: I have to take that bathing suit. It’s the only one I have.

GPS: That might have been a bathing suit in 1975. Today it is a rubber band with sand in the crotch.

Me: Fine, I’ll look for a new one when we get to the beach.

Kid One: Can we take the ferret?

GPS: That ferret won’t be going anywhere, kiddo. Not after a spin through the potscrubber cycle.

Kid One: MOM!

Me: The vet says he’s going to be just fine, honey. He said he’d never seen anybody give CPR to a ferret before.

GPS: CPR? That was more like LOL. That ferret looked like a sprinkler hose.

Kid One: MOM!

Me: He’s kidding. The vet will have him all patched up in no time. Let’s just hit the road, shall we?

Captain: You’re not taking underwear? Are we staying in the same room as the kids?

GPS: And what about that ratty bathing suit? It looks like a freeway-bound retread just before it leaves the tire.

Me: You take that back!

Captain: Sorry. I just thought separate rooms would be better.

Kid One: Can we go by the vet’s office on the way out of town?

Me: No, honey, we don’t have time.

Captain: How much time does it take to get a room?

GPS: I sure wouldn’t stay in a room with a woman in a ragged bathing suit and no underwear.

Me: He just needs a little extra care.

Captain: That’s what I’m saying.

Me: Not you. The ferret.

Kid One: How much?

Captain: That’s what I want to know.

GPS: That’s it. Find your own way to the beach. I quit!

Me: Fine! I’m giving these new batteries to the iPod.

And that’s how we ended up staying home during vacation time this year. Although we did download a vacation planner and mapping application, and bought new underwear for everyone in the family online. We also got a new GPS.

One that’s guaranteed not to talk back.

Resistance, Restraint, and Remorse

2011-01-26T17:04:00.006-05:00

I may not be smarter than a fifth grader, but I can make two growing boys toe the line. The proof may be in the pudding, or maybe the fancy shaped Coke bottles, but the secret to discipline is in the chocolate.

Also, it doesn't hurt to throw in a zombie or two.

Join me at An Army of Ermas to take part in the skirmish.

As for who let the dogs out?

Me.

And then I let 'em back in.

And out.

And in.

Repeat as necessary.

Ready. Set. Roast!

2011-01-25T21:09:00.006-05:00

Stand clear! It's Survivor: Suppertime.

Slide on over to Stage of Life and see what happens when the kitchen clock turns to TIME TO EAT in the Mullis house.

And feel free to let us know what sort of snack sets your stomach on SMILE when the weather turns sulky.

Toxic Baby Poop

2011-01-23T15:34:00.005-05:00

I've had a request to run this column again. I can't think why. Once you've waded into biological warfare this intense, you don't usually choose to re-enter the battlefield. Somebody must have lost a bet.

Nothing brings Moms together like a discussion of dirty diapers of the dynamic kind. When it comes to Toxic Baby Poop, We Are Family. No matter what gruesome tales are told, we all feel that our own baby would capture the prize in a diaper-runneth-over derby.

One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.

When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.

All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.

Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.

That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.

And we know the plumber by first name.

Be My Guest

2011-01-20T12:59:00.004-05:00

Is that bird hungry or is he going all Chuck Norris at the birdfeeder buffet? Be my guest over at Stage of Life and see how things are going outside in the snow.

Zip It

2011-01-15T00:09:00.004-05:00

All in all, I’d rather polish my nails with a power sander than go shopping for blue jeans. You think that the old pair would take pity and hold out at least until President’s Day, but apparently old blue jeans don’t make New Year’s resolutions. (Old Jeans: I resolve to band my fibers together to uphold truth, justice, and ten pounds of pumpkin pie.)

The stroke of midnight saw the Old Year pull one last trick and jam the zipper on my trusty blues like the door of Cheesecake Heaven on Weight Watchers graduation day.

I want to be like Michelle Obama. I can tell just by looking that she can walk into a department store and pull on a pair of jeans like Batman with a new set of pointy ears; no wrinkles, gaps, or gathers, everything fits where it’s supposed to, and you can sit down without accidently blowing your nose.

The last time I tried on jeans, the seat grabbed my thighs like a ravenous Koala clutching a pair of chubby bamboo stalks and tried to chew through to freedom. I still have a nasty zipper tattoo inside my knee, and ugly memories of an unfortunate incident with a reinforced seam.

Fastening your jeans shouldn’t be like arm wrestling a wolverine. The first time I tried to put on my jeans after the holidays I think I invented a new Yoga position, Downward Moon Salutations, followed by a new jump for figure skaters, the triple klutz. These days when I pull the wretched things out of the drawer, the dogs take up strategic positions under the coffee table. I saw one using the fruit bowl as a crash helmet.

It’s not that I don’t have admirable intentions for the fate of my physical condition in the coming year. I intend to commit acts of exercise that will make a profound difference on the shape of my horizons. This is the year I will see my knees without the aid of a three-way mirror and a headband with a periscope attached.

But if all else fails I may need reflective safety tape, a video camera, and a trusted comrade who can keep a secret.

Wonder if the dog can handle that camera.

Snowman's Land

2011-01-11T21:43:00.005-05:00

In South Carolina this week the snow fell up to our shoetops. That’s counting our high-top sneakers and the weather-proof hiking boots we bought to wear wading in the puddles last spring.

Rare occurrences such as snow that doesn’t melt on impact or a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. We don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer, but in a section of the country where people remember snowfalls by how many children they had at the time, that means only one thing.

Everybody stops to take part in the miracle.

The miracle of how to keep feet dry that skip out to play in the snow 72 times in one day with changes of gear in between. (Turns out kids’ tootsies need extra looking after as well as Captains and dogs.)

The miracle of the Replenishing Cup of Hot Chocolate. No matter how many sets of cold fingers come through the back door, there is always a steaming cup of hot chocolate for them to wrap around.

The miracle of the birds and the. . .other birds. At the Mullis birdfeeder buffet, the larger birds sling enough food off their plates that the smaller birds on the ground have plenty to eat. On Wednesdays chickadees eat free.

The miracle of how to keep the dogs from eating the snowman’s eyes. Although the snowman at our house boasts walnuts for eyes, rendering him slightly nearsighted and unable to react quickly to danger, this has not been an impossible miracle to experience. Dalmador Labmations like to lick walnuts, not eat them. This also results in an admirably smooth complexion for the snowman.

The miracle of finding the Dachshund in the snow drift before she becomes an ice statue. This miracle is documented on digital media, although the expression on the Dachshund’s face does not lend to flashing such evidence around as if it were clever baby pictures.

The miracle of an entire county buying enough bread to keep America’s Breadbasket in business. I am two peanut butter sandwiches away from financing secondary education for every person in Kansas.

And the miracle of how to make one roll of toilet paper last a week. (Even though I personally witnessed a Wal-Mart shopper hurrying toward the register with a 72 pack. I don’t know what other provisions he stocked, but I do NOT want to be snowed in at his house.)

In a few days, the snow will fade away and our lives will be filled once again with red mud and kudzu. Until then, we believe in miracles.

And even after. Because the Dachshund will never let us forget.

Drip Dry

2011-01-08T21:50:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what happens to my towels. There are times I think the door to my bathroom leads to some sort of lavatorial Bermuda triangle where terrycloth goes to die.

Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.

“Have you washed towels lately?”

“Have you shaved your legs lately?”

“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”

“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you.”

“That’s not terry cloth.”

“Well it’s certainly not made of anything that Mother Nature has to offer.”

The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.

“What’s the matter?”

“All that’s left is the hooded froggie towel from when the kids were little, and the pink velour with the floral design.”

“Go for the flowers. The frog repels moisture. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”

Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the rose buds. I tossed them all in the laundry.

It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terry cloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up quicker than Bernie Madoff’s revenue streams the day the subpoena surfaced.

But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would have been envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.

The day that the Captain of my oil pan kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was checking my fluids, the festive holiday guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the living room shag, the blue velour towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.

There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys.

First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll hang the froggie on the towel rack year round and let ‘em drip dry. The living room shag will thank me for it.

Oops Boop Ba Doop

2011-01-04T21:09:00.008-05:00

We have had our Wii system for over a year and in that time I have failed spectacularly at table tennis, bowling, baseball, and golf.

Next, by simply shelling out the amount of cash normally required for extensive plastic surgery, I was able to purchase another game pack that gave me the chance to fail at jogging, bicycling, yoga, and an island treasure hunt.

I also bombed at piloting an airplane around the resort island, but that’s championship stuff and I don’t like to brag. Who would have thought airplanes were resistant to extreme heights? Or the ocean.

Judging from the number of comments on a certain FaceBook page, this display of inadequacy brought happiness and joy to my children. It's the least I can do as a mother.

Recently, in the midst of cleaning a glacier of grape jelly off the game controller, I came across a new threat. An accidental click of a button brought up the dreaded. . .hula hoop. It shimmered onscreen like a beefcake vampire and waggled enticingly in my direction.

I remember the toy fondly. As a ten year old with the incredible figure of a vertical blind, I could keep a hula hoop in action long enough to juggle a pair of peanut butter sandwiches, a strawberry milkshake, and two fun-sized Snicker bars into their desired position inside my bottomless belly.

I gazed at the onscreen figure twirling the hula hoop on her virtual hips with a motion as fluid as gravy over mashed potatoes.

How hard could it be?

“How hard could it be” are the words most likely to result in an untimely You Tube video; the kind that becomes traditional viewing at family reunions and is shown as a training video at the Ringling Brothers School for Clowns.

I was about to commit an act of physical fitness. I swore the dog to secrecy, hitched up my Betty Boop sweat pants and gave it a whirl.

Turns out gravity works.

I’m not sure what Betty Boop’s original talent was, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve flapping around the pudgy knees of an aerobics class dropout like a pirate flag in a hurricane. For me, bending over is a full body sport. Trying to stop was like asking a Nascar driver to turn right. I attempted an emergency exit and ended up in a position that caused the dog to blush and put the goldfish in peril. The lovely Betty popped her garters and the curl came out of her hair.

When the Captain came through the door, I was undulating like a caught catfish, clutching at Betty Boop with one hand as she slid down my legs like an eight ounce soda in a six ounce glass, and singing Proud Mary at the top of my range, which is unfortunately one that humans can hear.

That was the day Betty Boop retired to an assisted living center in Miami.

And the Captain docked his dinghy for good.

Out the Window

2011-01-01T15:06:00.003-05:00

The Captain strolled into the living room. I’m sure he has a targeting sensor that alerts him when I’m busy and don’t want to be disturbed. He wears it on his belt in a holster. Like his multipurpose tool, his phone, and his app-heavy iPod. Batman designed his utility belt after a chance meeting with my husband.

The Captain plunged his hands into his pockets and commented.

“What’s that?”

Figures. I’ve waited twenty years for him to start a conversation and he picks this moment for inspirational dialogue.

“It’s a list. I’m making your New Year’s resolutions.”

“Um, shouldn’t I be in charge of that?”

“You never put the right things.”

“I don’t put the right things on my own list?”

“No, you put things you can’t accomplish. Then you get discouraged. I’m making it easier for you.”

“So you’re helping me out by making my New Year’s resolutions?”

“Exactly.”

“You take that whole helpmate thing to heart, don’t you?”

“I’m glad you finally noticed.”

“So what are my resolutions?”

“Well, you know how you always want to get the windows washed? I’m putting that on your list.”

“My New Year’s Resolution is to wash windows?”

“Yep. And so it won’t be overwhelming, I’ve figured out an easy way. One window every day!”

“So, all I’m going to accomplish next year is washing windows?”

“Every day.”

“Right. I get to wash windows every day.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

“I can’t think why.”

“Very funny. This is a fool-proof plan. So to speak.”

“No so far.”

“Don’t you see. By breaking down the chore into small bits, it’s manageable.”

“So instead of getting them all done in one day, it will take me all year to do it.”

“Right.”

“So there’s no need to put anything else on my To Do list.”

“This isn’t your To Do list. It’s your resolutions. Your To Do list is on an Excel spreadsheet in the computer.”

“Why can’t I make my own resolutions?”

“Because your only resolution is to end up stranded on The Island of Morally Bankrupt Actresses with Penelope Cruz who is wearing nothing but a grass skirt and a pair of coconuts, drinking rum like it was cherry Kool-Aid and singing “Shake Your Bad Thing” while shimmying like a loose shingle in a strong wind.”

“Would you put that on the list?”

“Sure. There’s a spot on November 31st right after you finish the attic windows.”

“November doesn’t have 31 days.”

“And we don’t have an attic.”

“Got it.”

“Nothing slow about you.”

“Could we go see the movie where she plays the pirate captain?”

“That’s not until May. Let’s see how you do with your resolutions.”

“I have a resolution.”

“Oh?”

“It involves Penelope Cruz doing windows.”

“I have a resolution, too.”

“What is it?”

“It involves driving you to the Emergency Room where they can pick safety glass out of the seat of your cargo pants with the Jaws of Life.”

“I’m not sure I like this list.”

“Don’t you see the beauty of it?”

“I think the beauty just went out the window.”

“Don’t worry. If the window is clean enough you can look through and see it waving from the other side.”

“Yeah, from over in the neighbor’s yard. Where the grass is greener.”

“Look at the bright side. At least you’re not Bill Gates.”

“Okay, I agree with that. But why?”

“Because halfway through the window, it would close by itself and there would be parts that were irrecoverable. The resulting crash would trash the supports, frighten the dogs, and result in you spending the rest of the day cleaning up the mess.

“So either way I’m doing windows.”

“Yes, but with my way you get to see the pirate movie.”

“Okay, but if Penelope blue-screens on me, I’m going in as technical support.”

I fired up the shredder and let it suck up the resolutions like a Lincoln Navigator drinking fossil fuel. He scratched his head.

“What about my resolutions?”

“That window of opportunity just slammed shut.”