Craftless

I make up for my lack of gardening skills with an amazing ability to annihilate craft projects.  You would think the Author of the Universe in his unbounded wisdom would have given me the glue gun talents of a sharpshooter.  This is not the case.

One sister tried to teach me to crochet. She said she never saw anybody crochet backwards.

My other sister tried to help me make a banner for Son One’s soccer team.  I sewed the thing to the leg of my pants.  Gold craft felt stitched into the inseam of extra-large stretchy pants in a series of festive darts and puckers is not a desirable fashion statement.

When I was in high school, my mother took pity on me (GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!) and finished my home economics project.  Who would have thought zippers would be so hard to install?  I had more trouble than a presidential candidate trying to get the thing to stay closed.

My niece has a businesses creating hand-painted jewelry that people pay actual money for.  I painted the South Carolina crescent and palmetto tree on a pendant. It looked like a banana bush.

My relatives began to meet secretly to have crafting parties.  I happened to visit one Friday evening, and at my knock heard muffled voices and the sound of heavy furniture being shoved in front of the door.

“Hello?!”

The blinds shifted slightly. Whispering followed.

“I know you’re in there!”

The door opened a crack.  “We can’t come out.  We’re quarantined.”

“I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”

“Could you leave a pizza by the door?”

“What sort of disease do you have that you’re quarantined but want pizza?”

Silence.  Then, “Acrophobia?”

“You’re in quarantine because you’re afraid of heights?”

“Leave the pizza down low.”

“You people are making crafts in there, aren’t you? Let me in or I’m coming back armed with tacky glue and pinking shears!”

Furtive dialing.

“And no calling 9-1-1!”

I went around to the back door, entered through the kitchen and came up behind a group of my closest friends and relatives wielding cotton balls and tiny paintbrushes like they were heavy artillery.

“Can I at least water your plants?”

A mad scramble ensued, leading to a tangle of arms, legs, and cotton balls.  It looked like an Easter Bunny gangland rumble.  A glitter haze filled the air.  A paintbrush stuck through my sister's pony tail like a hairpin.

The good news is that the plants are going to be fine.  But the crafting group cemented themselves into a freeform sculpture.  They’ll be okay once we find an antidote for Gorilla Glue.

Meanwhile I’ve taken up scrapbooking.  Has anybody got a nail gun I can borrow? 

 

Creature Discomforts

When it comes time to ring the dinner bell, having two Labradors in the kitchen is a lot like standing in front of an out-of-control locomotive speeding down a mountain pass headed toward a village of unsuspecting lemmings.

As I picked myself up off the floor and pried random bits of dog chow-type shrapnel from under my fingernails, I realized two things. The first was that the Labs’ Pop was coming up the back steps, and their keen doggie superpowers had alerted them to the fact that he was laden with a cheeseburger plate and a side order of crinkle-cut fries.  And slaw.

Second, the sloshing sound of the tide going out, and a certain uncomfortable dampness in the seat of my pants alerted my keen superhuman powers that I had landed in their water dish.

I want to trade superpowers.

Sensing personal discomfort is over-rated. I’d rather clue in to the breaking cheeseburger news and leave the waterlogged underpants for the Scene at Eleven.

There’s nothing like a brace of dogs to remind you to watch your step as you go about your daily chores.  No task is too small to escape supervision.  After all, there is the possibility that at any second the broom will transform into a pillar of potato chips or the dirty laundry into basket of biscuits. I once tripped over a Dachshund while vacuuming because she detected a six week old Cheerio in the hose and was trying her paw at spelunking into canister.

Not long enough after my evening water bowl plunge, I woke one morning and ricocheted gently down the hall and off the kitchen appliances in a destination set for Coffee Pot.  With one eye open at half-mast to guide me, and that keen intelligence that comes when Daylight Savings time has just kicked in, but the body’s internal clock is still on snooze, it took several shuffled steps before I realized my course was plotted straight through the Little Friskies zone where Danger Cat was flinging salmon pate like monkeys fling poop.   There’s nothing like unidentified ooze between your toes to bring you to full alert status.

From uncomfortable experience, I’ve found that any unscheduled activity in the kitchen sends off a hint of impending snacktime that brings an avalanche of furry bodies barreling along a treacherous course to the refrigerator.  So, while swimming out of the water dish, scouting the floor for stray Cheerios, and computing the likelihood of the whole thing recurring like a coconut radio invention on Gilligan’s Island, I made an important life decision.

My next pet will be a garden gnome.   

It's What's for Dinner

I have a friend who, when faced with a diet full of special needs and a family of reclusive palettes, whips up something elegant, tasty, and beautiful to behold.  We would be better friends if she wasn’t so good at it.

Tonight, in keeping with the “Everything is Edible by Somebody” platform, I ventured into the kitchen with a random menu plan for some type of meat, and chipped open the freezer.  The hamburger glistened under a layer of permafrost and the pork chops resembled the ammunition for some type of sporting event that involves a target and long range planning, so tonight for dinner I prepared a special dish I like to call, “Chicken with Something on It so It Won’t Be Plain.”

The ingredients are: 

Chicken
Other stuff

My method of preparation is simple.  It’s sort of like the children’s card game Match, which my older sister always won when we were kids, probably because she kept enough extra cards in her lap to set up a blackjack table.

I hung from the pantry doors, pulling out two random items until I found a couple that looked as if they might go together.  When the going got tough, I settled on two cans of things that had similarly colored labels.  The Green Giant may want to rethink his packaging strategy.

Once I had two cans that matched each other as closely as Spaghetti and Meat Loaf, I grabbed a couple of attractive spices from the shelf where we keep important kitchen items such as cayenne pepper and cat food.  I measured the spices carefully with a plastic spoon I found on the drainboard,  tossed the contents of the cans into a bowl, and stirred with vigor.  Vigor is an important ingredient as it shows your commitment to the dish.

I was excited that no eruptions or ill-smelling fumes rose from the mixing bowl. Explosions often precede the arrival of the fire department, an event which delays dinner by at least half an hour.  I sampled the concoction.

It tasted vaguely of ear drops. 

A crop dusting of garlic and an hour in the oven later, and dinner was served.  Julia Child wouldn’t have been proud, but every woman who has skipped grocery shopping and come home to a pantry that resembles the scratch and dent table at Discount Foods was cheering me on.  I felt good about the whole thing.

Until the dog, who thinks gourmet  means “from the  litterbox,” asked for his chicken plain.

Maybe tomorrow night I’ll read the labels. Or I might just try my hand at Dinnertime Match Game one more time.  It's not called Pot Luck for nothing.

Paleo or Oleo

“Whatcha doing?”

The kids are never intimately concerned with my activities unless I’m stirring around in the kitchen at suppertime.

I put an egg on the table.  “Checking the fridge for supper stuff.”

“Are you gonna divvy up that egg between us or are we on our own?”

“We could only afford one. It’s a special free-range egg. The chicken that produced this egg roamed the countryside randomly, picnicking on the wonders of nature along the way.”

“Wonders of nature?  You mean like beetles and slugs?”

“I don’t think so. Chickens like corn.”

“I don’t think the chicken crossed the road to pounce on a niblet.  On the Nature Channel I saw one suck down a baby mouse like it was a chocolate truffle.”

“Tell you what. You can have the egg.”

“I’m good.” He hooked a slice of cold pizza out of the fridge.

“One day you’ll be sorry for your poor food choices.”

This kid could simultaneously bench press me and the contents of my purse, and yesterday he finished my Zumba video while I was still searching for my oxygen tank.

“At least I’m not on the Fred Flintstone diet.  You have to eat special food to give you big feet and bad posture?”

“It’s the natural diet of our caveman ancestors.”

“And what was their lifespan?”

"Twenty years or so?   I have Devil’s Food Cake recipes older than that. But they didn't have to worry about middle-aged spread. "

 

"Or Senior Citizen discounts." 

“Maybe I’ll pick a different era to eat my way through. Somewhere in between Caveman Og and Paula Deen.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, tossing the pizza crust into the trashcan like Lebron James sinking a three-pointer.             

“One carries a big stick and one carries a stick of butter.”

 

 

Grackle Cackle

Surprised by a sudden snowstorm in the sunny South (everything except the fire ant hills was covered with a thin coat of white, like glaze on a doughnut), a flock of hungry grackles discovered our bedroom window bird feeder.  Grackles are the frat boys of the bird world. They travel in noisy groups, eat whatever they find, and leave nothing but party remnants in their wake.  One had Greek letters tattooed on its forehead and was clutching a longneck bottle in one claw.  They divebombed the smaller, well-studied birds, and their bulk sent our small feeder dancing like a coed in a mosh pit.

In unrelated news, the cats have taken up birdwatching.

Danger Cat in stealth mode

Our cats are peaceful, indoor folk, as a general rule, and are roused in the wild only by the call of the can opener.  Oh sure, every now and then there’s a fierce battle with a catnip mouse or a summer housefly that has invaded enemy airspace, and at least once Danger Cat TP’d our house, but overall they don’t have any trouble keeping up with the Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments, or the grocery list.

Grackles appearing suddenly in their window must have been like the first appearance of Godzilla off the coast of Japan.



Gojira!

Huddled on a blanket-covered steam trunk under the window, they responded with an immediate show of bravery, condensing themselves into tiny kitty stealth missiles and hurling hurtful comments in the direction of the infidels.

The Grackles responded by emptying the bird feeder in less time than it took the Seahawks to sign Peyton Manning’s farewell card.

After a couple of thousand treks outside to watch Bill filling up the feeders in the cold, I came in, removed my  wet snow clothes and began tactics to discourage the Grackles from gorging on the expensive sunflower seed and corn nugget delicacies.  I’m as eager to feed the hungry as the next gourmet chef, but my front yard is not the Prime Buffet for those thrifty enough to help themselves.

In an unannounced attack intended to frighten the offenders and restore the birdseed buffet into the little curved claws of the smaller peepers, I leaped at the window, piercing the air with my best Screech Owl shriek and hammering at the glass with my fists.  Bill fell off the ladder, the cats scattered, and the grackles raised tiny glasses in a toast.

Next time I’ll remember to wear my robe.

Fifty is Not a Speed Trap

For the Padre; if I can go flat out at fifty, you can rev it in to overdrive at forty. It's gonna be a great year. The race is on!
(This is the post I wrote for my fiftieth birthday.  Since then, I've seen my sons grown into fine young men, I bought a house, I've learned to prune a fig tree, I've written the Thank You Notes That Tried to Kill Me, and I've had my life enriched by an insane feline with an incredible will to live and no sense of fear: Danger Cat. After that, everything seems possible.)

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 my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.

Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.

Danger Cat's Christmas Adventures

Sure, we’ve always had an assortment of wise cats and German Shepherds scattered across the rug at Christmas time.  We’d add a strategically placed bell or two on the tree so the merry tinkling sound would alert us to redirect the actions of any miscreant who displayed an excessive amount of curiosity toward the decorations.  Five decades, a few toppled Frasier Firs, and some believe-it-or-not stories later, everything was going fine.

This year we have Danger Cat.

This is the cat who, six weeks old and blind from infection, trekked across two fenced backyards, traversed a couple of pony-sized Labradors, and scaled a tower of architectural bricks to announce to my son that it was time for kitty adoption.

The long and winding roll.

Soon after, an expensive magical healing was effected, and she launched into the Trail of Toilet Paper Adventure, Summer 2013, a day of carnage when she laid waste to a Jumbo Pack of Scott Tissue’s finest.  We may not squeeze the Charmin, but we shred whole cartloads of Scott. I’m still finding single-ply tucked into shoes in the closet.

Our eight foot evergreen doesn’t stand a chance.



Innocent Bystander

We added more bells to the tree; different sizes and shapes so that we could track her exact location like Norad tracks Santa Claus.  Last night she used the tree bells to play the trumpet fanfare from the Kentucky Derby.  I imagine the theme from Rocky will be next.

It’s no more dangerous to walk into our living room than it was to take a stroll along the Normandy coast on D-Day.  This morning I bent to rescue a battle-scarred reindeer with two legs, only to sustain a massive hit from a red satin snowflake ornament shot like a missile from somewhere near the center of the tree.  I’m still picking glitter shrapnel from my lipstick, and have the festive air of someone who’s been kissing the Times Square New Year’s ball.  I can identify with Mary and Joseph’s dismay at finding three ice skating penguins and half a sugar cookie nestled next to baby Jesus in the tabletop nativity.

Our tree looks more like the result of an explosive blender episode than a holiday decoration.  Meanwhile, there’s a black and white fuzzball swinging from limb to limb like Nadia Commenechi gearing up for the backwards high-bar flip on her Olympic quest for the perfect 10.



"And now, grinned the Grinch, I will stuff up the tree."

So, what’s the answer for the cat who has everything when Christmas comes to town?

A sixpack of Scott Tissue under the tree.  Danger Cat, roll out!