Laugh
Showing posts with label refrigerator. Show all posts
Showing posts with label refrigerator. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Cleaning out the Rottery
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!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I Got This
Why is it that whenever impending doom perches on your shoulder like Cinderella’s bluebird, the man of the house will say, “Trust me. I got this.”
Is that a Man Term for, “Flying monkeys are on the horizon! We’re all going to die!”
Other languages have masculine or feminine nouns. English has entire phrases. If you happen to overhear a conversation beginning with, “Hey man, look what I can do!” not only is it masculine, the country’s defense code has just moved up to Defcon Four. On the other hand, if you hear, “We really need to talk,” the phrase is feminine and there’s imminent nuclear war on the horizon.
If I had a daughter, I would teach her that the hearing the words “Trust Me” is an indication she should take the little poison pill in her secret spy ring because the game’s up.
Don’t get me wrong. I love men. I married two of them and only threw one back. I raised two boys without calling 911 once unless you count the time Son One threatened to notify Emergency Services after the broccoli incident.
But if the roof is leaking and I hear one of my guys say, “Don’t worry, I got this,” I pull out the lifejackets and cover the couch in plastic because there’s going to be a flood through the living room shag that Noah would be proud of.
Yesterday, as I was peeling the potatoes for dinner, the ice maker in the refrigerator began to leak, the dishwasher pitched in with a Ka-Thunk noise, and the microwave produced an array of pops and sparks. I didn’t bother to wait for the guys to spring into action.
“I got this!” I screeched, drove a For Sale Sign in the front yard, and went out to dinner.
Is that a Man Term for, “Flying monkeys are on the horizon! We’re all going to die!”
Other languages have masculine or feminine nouns. English has entire phrases. If you happen to overhear a conversation beginning with, “Hey man, look what I can do!” not only is it masculine, the country’s defense code has just moved up to Defcon Four. On the other hand, if you hear, “We really need to talk,” the phrase is feminine and there’s imminent nuclear war on the horizon.
If I had a daughter, I would teach her that the hearing the words “Trust Me” is an indication she should take the little poison pill in her secret spy ring because the game’s up.
Don’t get me wrong. I love men. I married two of them and only threw one back. I raised two boys without calling 911 once unless you count the time Son One threatened to notify Emergency Services after the broccoli incident.
But if the roof is leaking and I hear one of my guys say, “Don’t worry, I got this,” I pull out the lifejackets and cover the couch in plastic because there’s going to be a flood through the living room shag that Noah would be proud of.
Yesterday, as I was peeling the potatoes for dinner, the ice maker in the refrigerator began to leak, the dishwasher pitched in with a Ka-Thunk noise, and the microwave produced an array of pops and sparks. I didn’t bother to wait for the guys to spring into action.
“I got this!” I screeched, drove a For Sale Sign in the front yard, and went out to dinner.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Turning Over a New Loaf
by Amy Mullis
My plan for the New Year was to introduce a wholesome influence into the family’s diet, but it’s impossible to provide healthy meals when one child thinks eating tofu is a Fear Factor challenge and another child only eats food that is covered in pizza sauce or stays crunchy even in milk. They rejected whole wheat bread like it was liver loaf, and the time I bought skim milk at the grocery store, I got voted off the kitchen island. Cooking healthy meals for the family shouldn’t be like an episode from Survivor: Spinach Casserole.
My kids are convinced that broiled chicken is a bird that stayed in the farmyard without SPF 30 and died from exposure. Their idea of fine dining is to supersize their fries. I can’t imagine where they got this attitude. Sure, I believe the road to down below is paved with exercise videos and sugar substitute, but that’s just geographical fact. I haven’t eaten a dessert in six months that wasn’t presorted into 100 calories packages.
“What’s for supper?” Son One strolled into the kitchen licking the icing off a cinnamon bun and tearing open the paper on a candy bar so sticky it looked like it was made of library paste. This kid’s idea of healthy eating is frosting a salad with honey-mustard dressing.
“I thought we’d combine two of your favorite food groups for something new.”
“We’re having Italian and Mexican? Cool!”
“Those aren’t food groups. They’re nationalities. We’re going to have a healthy meal.”
“Did somebody give you a bushel of cast off zucchini again?” Zucchini is the stray cat of the vegetable world. It always shows up on my doorstep at dinnertime.
“You’re so suspicious,” I said, nonchalantly raking chopped zucchini into the dog’s bowl. “I thought I’d make that baked chicken they had at church.”
“You mean Death Chicken? Count me out.” He peered into the freezer and extracted a pizza that had been in limbo so long the pepperoni was petrified and the cheese came in crystals instead of shreds.
“It’s not really death chicken. We just call it that because it’s so easy to make that a lot of times we’ll take it to someone who’s had a death in the family.”
“Yeah. Ever wonder what they died from?”
“Probably from eating zombie food that was in the freezer so long all the vitamins turned to dust.” I managed to sneak a few small zucchini out of the bag under cover of the answering snort.
He peeled off the wrapper and shoveled a layer of ice from the crust. My kids think perma frost is a basic building block of the food pyramid. “What do I set the oven on for undead?”
“Very funny. It wouldn’t hurt you to try something that’s good for you.” Just then the dog wandered through the kitchen to check his dish for food molecules left over from breakfast. He picked up a zucchini slice, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked at me reproachfully and spit it out on the floor.
“See, even Bo hates vegetables.” Son One plopped the pizza down on the oven rack. It sounded like he’d launched a hubcap at the dumpster.
I put my hands on my hips. It was time for decisive action. “From now on we’re watching what we eat.”
“You’ll need to spring for something with a wide angle lens,” Son One mumbled, scraping up a shred of zombie cheese off the counter with a fingernail.
“I’ll start by cleaning out the refrigerator. We’re going to throw away everything that’s bad for us.” I held up a pack of withered bologna. To me, lunch meat is the gastronomic equivalent of an Elvis painting on velvet. Everyone thinks it will gain in value the longer they save it and their children end up using it as a gag gift at a holiday party and complaining about their inheritance.
Next came a cheese product that had so many additives it no longer qualified for any of the food groups. When I finished cleaning out the refrigerator, all that was left was a mushy, brown stalk of celery left over from Thanksgiving and a frozen diet dinner left over from the healthy eating binge I launched after the baby was born.
Just then the baby trotted through the kitchen jingling his car keys, and clutching a breakfast pastry made of simulated cookie dough and synthetic chocolate frosting. Eighteen years after his first bowl of sugar frosted cocoa bombs, artificial flavoring is still his favorite food group.
“I’m late for class. What’s for supper tonight?”
I smiled sweetly and chopped the remaining squash into miniscule green bits.
“Not zucchini.”
“Good. Last time I slipped mine to the dog. He had indigestion for a week.”
So I’ll cover it with fat free cheese. They’ll never recognize it.
by Amy Mullis
My plan for the New Year was to introduce a wholesome influence into the family’s diet, but it’s impossible to provide healthy meals when one child thinks eating tofu is a Fear Factor challenge and another child only eats food that is covered in pizza sauce or stays crunchy even in milk. They rejected whole wheat bread like it was liver loaf, and the time I bought skim milk at the grocery store, I got voted off the kitchen island. Cooking healthy meals for the family shouldn’t be like an episode from Survivor: Spinach Casserole.
My kids are convinced that broiled chicken is a bird that stayed in the farmyard without SPF 30 and died from exposure. Their idea of fine dining is to supersize their fries. I can’t imagine where they got this attitude. Sure, I believe the road to down below is paved with exercise videos and sugar substitute, but that’s just geographical fact. I haven’t eaten a dessert in six months that wasn’t presorted into 100 calories packages.
“What’s for supper?” Son One strolled into the kitchen licking the icing off a cinnamon bun and tearing open the paper on a candy bar so sticky it looked like it was made of library paste. This kid’s idea of healthy eating is frosting a salad with honey-mustard dressing.
“I thought we’d combine two of your favorite food groups for something new.”
“We’re having Italian and Mexican? Cool!”
“Those aren’t food groups. They’re nationalities. We’re going to have a healthy meal.”
“Did somebody give you a bushel of cast off zucchini again?” Zucchini is the stray cat of the vegetable world. It always shows up on my doorstep at dinnertime.
“You’re so suspicious,” I said, nonchalantly raking chopped zucchini into the dog’s bowl. “I thought I’d make that baked chicken they had at church.”
“You mean Death Chicken? Count me out.” He peered into the freezer and extracted a pizza that had been in limbo so long the pepperoni was petrified and the cheese came in crystals instead of shreds.
“It’s not really death chicken. We just call it that because it’s so easy to make that a lot of times we’ll take it to someone who’s had a death in the family.”
“Yeah. Ever wonder what they died from?”
“Probably from eating zombie food that was in the freezer so long all the vitamins turned to dust.” I managed to sneak a few small zucchini out of the bag under cover of the answering snort.
He peeled off the wrapper and shoveled a layer of ice from the crust. My kids think perma frost is a basic building block of the food pyramid. “What do I set the oven on for undead?”
“Very funny. It wouldn’t hurt you to try something that’s good for you.” Just then the dog wandered through the kitchen to check his dish for food molecules left over from breakfast. He picked up a zucchini slice, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked at me reproachfully and spit it out on the floor.
“See, even Bo hates vegetables.” Son One plopped the pizza down on the oven rack. It sounded like he’d launched a hubcap at the dumpster.
I put my hands on my hips. It was time for decisive action. “From now on we’re watching what we eat.”
“You’ll need to spring for something with a wide angle lens,” Son One mumbled, scraping up a shred of zombie cheese off the counter with a fingernail.
“I’ll start by cleaning out the refrigerator. We’re going to throw away everything that’s bad for us.” I held up a pack of withered bologna. To me, lunch meat is the gastronomic equivalent of an Elvis painting on velvet. Everyone thinks it will gain in value the longer they save it and their children end up using it as a gag gift at a holiday party and complaining about their inheritance.
Next came a cheese product that had so many additives it no longer qualified for any of the food groups. When I finished cleaning out the refrigerator, all that was left was a mushy, brown stalk of celery left over from Thanksgiving and a frozen diet dinner left over from the healthy eating binge I launched after the baby was born.
Just then the baby trotted through the kitchen jingling his car keys, and clutching a breakfast pastry made of simulated cookie dough and synthetic chocolate frosting. Eighteen years after his first bowl of sugar frosted cocoa bombs, artificial flavoring is still his favorite food group.
“I’m late for class. What’s for supper tonight?”
I smiled sweetly and chopped the remaining squash into miniscule green bits.
“Not zucchini.”
“Good. Last time I slipped mine to the dog. He had indigestion for a week.”
So I’ll cover it with fat free cheese. They’ll never recognize it.
Squashed
My plan for the New Year was to introduce a wholesome influence into the family’s diet, but it’s impossible to provide healthy meals when one child thinks eating tofu is a Fear Factor challenge and another child only eats food that is covered in pizza sauce or stays crunchy even in milk. They rejected whole wheat bread like it was liver loaf, and the time I bought skim milk at the grocery store, I got voted off the kitchen island. Cooking healthy meals for the family shouldn’t be like an episode from Survivor: Spinach Casserole.
My kids are convinced that broiled chicken is a bird that stayed in the farmyard without SPF 30 and died from exposure. Their idea of fine dining is to supersize their fries. I can’t imagine where they got this attitude. Sure, I believe the road to down below is paved with exercise videos and sugar substitute, but that’s just geographical fact. I haven’t eaten a dessert in six months that wasn’t presorted into 100 calories packages.
“What’s for supper?” Son One strolled into the kitchen licking the icing off a cinnamon bun and tearing open the paper on a candy bar so sticky it looked like it was made of library paste. This kid’s idea of healthy eating is frosting a salad with honey-mustard dressing.
“I thought we’d combine two of your favorite food groups for something new.”
“We’re having Italian and Mexican? Cool!”
“Those aren’t food groups. They’re nationalities. We’re going to have a healthy meal.”
“Did somebody give you a bushel of cast off zucchini again?” Zucchini is the stray cat of the vegetable world. It always shows up on my doorstep at dinnertime.
“You’re so suspicious,” I said, nonchalantly raking chopped zucchini into the dog’s bowl. “I thought I’d make that baked chicken they had at church.”
“You mean Death Chicken? Count me out.” He peered into the freezer and extracted a pizza that had been in limbo so long the pepperoni was petrified and the cheese came in crystals instead of shreds.
“It’s not really death chicken. We just call it that because it’s so easy to make that a lot of times we’ll take it to someone who’s had a death in the family.”
“Yeah. Ever wonder what they died from?”
“Probably from eating zombie food that was in the freezer so long all the vitamins turned to dust.” I managed to sneak a few small zucchini out of the bag under cover of the answering snort.
He peeled off the wrapper and shoveled a layer of ice from the crust. My kids think perma frost is a basic building block of the food pyramid. “What do I set the oven on for undead?”
“Very funny. It wouldn’t hurt you to try something that’s good for you.” Just then the dog wandered through the kitchen to check his dish for food molecules left over from breakfast. He picked up a zucchini slice, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked at me reproachfully and spit it out on the floor.
“See, even Bo hates vegetables.” Son One plopped the pizza down on the oven rack. It sounded like he’d launched a hubcap at the dumpster.
I put my hands on my hips. It was time for decisive action. “From now on we’re watching what we eat.”
“You’ll need to spring for something with a wide angle lens,” Son One mumbled, scraping up a shred of zombie cheese off the counter with a fingernail.
“I’ll start by cleaning out the refrigerator. We’re going to throw away everything that’s bad for us.” I held up a pack of withered bologna. To me, lunch meat is the gastronomic equivalent of an Elvis painting on velvet. Everyone thinks it will gain in value the longer they save it and their children end up using it as a gag gift at a holiday party and complaining about their inheritance.
Next came a cheese product that had so many additives it no longer qualified for any of the food groups. When I finished cleaning out the refrigerator, all that was left was a mushy, brown stalk of celery left over from Thanksgiving and a frozen diet dinner left over from the healthy eating binge I launched after the baby was born.
Just then the baby trotted through the kitchen jingling his car keys, and clutching a breakfast pastry made of simulated cookie dough and synthetic chocolate frosting. Eighteen years after his first bowl of sugar frosted cocoa bombs, artificial flavoring is still his favorite food group.
“I’m late for class. What’s for supper tonight?”
I smiled sweetly and chopped the remaining squash into miniscule green bits.
“Not zucchini.”
“Good. Last time I slipped mine to the dog. He had indigestion for a week.”
So I’ll cover it with fat free cheese. They’ll never recognize it.
My kids are convinced that broiled chicken is a bird that stayed in the farmyard without SPF 30 and died from exposure. Their idea of fine dining is to supersize their fries. I can’t imagine where they got this attitude. Sure, I believe the road to down below is paved with exercise videos and sugar substitute, but that’s just geographical fact. I haven’t eaten a dessert in six months that wasn’t presorted into 100 calories packages.
“What’s for supper?” Son One strolled into the kitchen licking the icing off a cinnamon bun and tearing open the paper on a candy bar so sticky it looked like it was made of library paste. This kid’s idea of healthy eating is frosting a salad with honey-mustard dressing.
“I thought we’d combine two of your favorite food groups for something new.”
“We’re having Italian and Mexican? Cool!”
“Those aren’t food groups. They’re nationalities. We’re going to have a healthy meal.”
“Did somebody give you a bushel of cast off zucchini again?” Zucchini is the stray cat of the vegetable world. It always shows up on my doorstep at dinnertime.
“You’re so suspicious,” I said, nonchalantly raking chopped zucchini into the dog’s bowl. “I thought I’d make that baked chicken they had at church.”
“You mean Death Chicken? Count me out.” He peered into the freezer and extracted a pizza that had been in limbo so long the pepperoni was petrified and the cheese came in crystals instead of shreds.
“It’s not really death chicken. We just call it that because it’s so easy to make that a lot of times we’ll take it to someone who’s had a death in the family.”
“Yeah. Ever wonder what they died from?”
“Probably from eating zombie food that was in the freezer so long all the vitamins turned to dust.” I managed to sneak a few small zucchini out of the bag under cover of the answering snort.
He peeled off the wrapper and shoveled a layer of ice from the crust. My kids think perma frost is a basic building block of the food pyramid. “What do I set the oven on for undead?”
“Very funny. It wouldn’t hurt you to try something that’s good for you.” Just then the dog wandered through the kitchen to check his dish for food molecules left over from breakfast. He picked up a zucchini slice, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked at me reproachfully and spit it out on the floor.
“See, even Bo hates vegetables.” Son One plopped the pizza down on the oven rack. It sounded like he’d launched a hubcap at the dumpster.
I put my hands on my hips. It was time for decisive action. “From now on we’re watching what we eat.”
“You’ll need to spring for something with a wide angle lens,” Son One mumbled, scraping up a shred of zombie cheese off the counter with a fingernail.
“I’ll start by cleaning out the refrigerator. We’re going to throw away everything that’s bad for us.” I held up a pack of withered bologna. To me, lunch meat is the gastronomic equivalent of an Elvis painting on velvet. Everyone thinks it will gain in value the longer they save it and their children end up using it as a gag gift at a holiday party and complaining about their inheritance.
Next came a cheese product that had so many additives it no longer qualified for any of the food groups. When I finished cleaning out the refrigerator, all that was left was a mushy, brown stalk of celery left over from Thanksgiving and a frozen diet dinner left over from the healthy eating binge I launched after the baby was born.
Just then the baby trotted through the kitchen jingling his car keys, and clutching a breakfast pastry made of simulated cookie dough and synthetic chocolate frosting. Eighteen years after his first bowl of sugar frosted cocoa bombs, artificial flavoring is still his favorite food group.
“I’m late for class. What’s for supper tonight?”
I smiled sweetly and chopped the remaining squash into miniscule green bits.
“Not zucchini.”
“Good. Last time I slipped mine to the dog. He had indigestion for a week.”
So I’ll cover it with fat free cheese. They’ll never recognize it.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
One Woman's Heart
When I wander through the house in the mornings, ricocheting gently from refrigerator to coffeemaker, sorting socks and lunch boxes, I often ponder esoteric subjects like what makes me a mom. Well, more often I’m thinking “How did I end up like this?” or “Am I really awake or am I dreaming there’s a catcher’s mitt in the microwave?” but eventually I drift on to headier stuff.
“Mom, are you mumbling to yourself again?” Son One is getting ready for work, hunting in the fridge for a can of carbonated caffeine. I reach deftly around the milk and pull a Coke out from behind the leftover Teriyaki chicken.
“Thanks Mom. Say, did you know you have one of those little yellow notes stuck to your ear?”
“What does it say?”
“Toilet Paper.”
“So that’s where the grocery list went. I thought my breath-easy strip slid off my nose during the night. But I couldn’t hear your Pop snoring, so it worked out pretty well.”
“By the way, Mom, have you seen my name tag?”
“It’s in the lint trap in the dryer. You left it in your pocket on laundry day again.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He finished his drink, crushed the can, and headed down the hall, belching the words to “We Are the Champions.”
So, what makes me a Mom? I can’t pose the question to the family, because they are adept at sarcastic replies that often involve words I have to Google to understand. On the other hand, there was the time they gave me the nifty short version of the sixth grade health speech on human reproduction. Who knew so many interesting words begin with the letter S? It was like Sesame Street meets Dr. Ruth.
“Funnies?” Son Number Two has entered the kitchen. Some people can’t live without caffeine; he can’t start his day without the comics. He’s been the family computer programmer since he was six, but he can’t head off to his 8:00 class at Community College without checking out Garfield’s quest for lasagna. I extract the morning newspaper from underneath a sleeping cat, and turn to the proper page with a flourish.
“Mmph,” he grunts.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, patting his head and deftly inserting a kitchen chair under his descending backside.
Somewhere between Shredded Wheat and shower time, I trip over the cats and find the lost student ID while picking Cheerios out of my cheek, exercise the dogs by forgetting to lock the door when the neighbor bicycles down the driveway, and manage to get everybody out the door without any lost essentials except my peace of mind.
As the last kid peels out of the driveway, laying down tire tracks that resemble Jacob’s ladder, I smile and wave. Later on I’ll find my coffee in the microwave, my keys in the door, and the hamburger thawing quietly on the dryer. But for now, everything’s good.
This Mom job may be tough, but the rewards are out of this world. And the five minutes of quiet when everybody leaves the house is worth the 20 year wait.
Just then, a horn sounds in the driveway, a series of staccato blasts that echo off the neighboring houses, loosens the fillings in my teeth, and wakes up every baby in the subdivision, not to mention old Mr. Sloth who naps on his front porch every morning until his teeth fall out and remind him to eat lunch.
“Mom! I need gas money!”
It figures. You’d think the one thing growing boys wouldn’t need Mom's help with would be getting gas.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sometimes as parents we laugh to keep from crying, laugh until we cry, or just go ahead and cry. But we shouldn’t have to feel helpless when it comes to helping our children. Today I’m linking to a very special site, Simon’s Blog. Simon is an angel born too early, so early he probably still has his tiny wings hidden under tubes and blankets in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of a Denver hospital. But he’s a champ and a fighter, and takes the
attentions of doctors and nurses in stride with all the courage his 1 pound, 9 ounce body can hold. I want Simon's mom to have the chance to give up the last fiver in her wallet for a young man with a mop of unruly hair who needs gas to get to class. So check out Simon’s Blog, updated with the loving hands and heart of his Mom, Mysti. And if you can find it in your heart to help them out, it’ll be a personal favor to an angel.
“Mom, are you mumbling to yourself again?” Son One is getting ready for work, hunting in the fridge for a can of carbonated caffeine. I reach deftly around the milk and pull a Coke out from behind the leftover Teriyaki chicken.
“Thanks Mom. Say, did you know you have one of those little yellow notes stuck to your ear?”
“What does it say?”
“Toilet Paper.”
“So that’s where the grocery list went. I thought my breath-easy strip slid off my nose during the night. But I couldn’t hear your Pop snoring, so it worked out pretty well.”
“By the way, Mom, have you seen my name tag?”
“It’s in the lint trap in the dryer. You left it in your pocket on laundry day again.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He finished his drink, crushed the can, and headed down the hall, belching the words to “We Are the Champions.”
So, what makes me a Mom? I can’t pose the question to the family, because they are adept at sarcastic replies that often involve words I have to Google to understand. On the other hand, there was the time they gave me the nifty short version of the sixth grade health speech on human reproduction. Who knew so many interesting words begin with the letter S? It was like Sesame Street meets Dr. Ruth.
“Funnies?” Son Number Two has entered the kitchen. Some people can’t live without caffeine; he can’t start his day without the comics. He’s been the family computer programmer since he was six, but he can’t head off to his 8:00 class at Community College without checking out Garfield’s quest for lasagna. I extract the morning newspaper from underneath a sleeping cat, and turn to the proper page with a flourish.
“Mmph,” he grunts.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, patting his head and deftly inserting a kitchen chair under his descending backside.
Somewhere between Shredded Wheat and shower time, I trip over the cats and find the lost student ID while picking Cheerios out of my cheek, exercise the dogs by forgetting to lock the door when the neighbor bicycles down the driveway, and manage to get everybody out the door without any lost essentials except my peace of mind.
As the last kid peels out of the driveway, laying down tire tracks that resemble Jacob’s ladder, I smile and wave. Later on I’ll find my coffee in the microwave, my keys in the door, and the hamburger thawing quietly on the dryer. But for now, everything’s good.
This Mom job may be tough, but the rewards are out of this world. And the five minutes of quiet when everybody leaves the house is worth the 20 year wait.
Just then, a horn sounds in the driveway, a series of staccato blasts that echo off the neighboring houses, loosens the fillings in my teeth, and wakes up every baby in the subdivision, not to mention old Mr. Sloth who naps on his front porch every morning until his teeth fall out and remind him to eat lunch.
“Mom! I need gas money!”
It figures. You’d think the one thing growing boys wouldn’t need Mom's help with would be getting gas.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sometimes as parents we laugh to keep from crying, laugh until we cry, or just go ahead and cry. But we shouldn’t have to feel helpless when it comes to helping our children. Today I’m linking to a very special site, Simon’s Blog. Simon is an angel born too early, so early he probably still has his tiny wings hidden under tubes and blankets in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of a Denver hospital. But he’s a champ and a fighter, and takes the
attentions of doctors and nurses in stride with all the courage his 1 pound, 9 ounce body can hold. I want Simon's mom to have the chance to give up the last fiver in her wallet for a young man with a mop of unruly hair who needs gas to get to class. So check out Simon’s Blog, updated with the loving hands and heart of his Mom, Mysti. And if you can find it in your heart to help them out, it’ll be a personal favor to an angel.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Is The Nest Half Empty or Too Full?
After carefully analyzing the results of a scientific study held in my living room over a period of last Saturday, I have come to the conclusion that the theory of the empty nest is a myth.
According to the bogus empty nest theory, a parent’s house becomes empty of radios blaring the theme to Iron Man, cell phones with top ten ring tones, and empty pizza boxes for extended periods of time such as between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. on Friday nights. The house becomes strangely silent and can be used for random activities such as sleep or dialing the local hospitals to see if the nestling is lying about in a luxurious private room racking up enough charges to bring on a personal visit from your insurance adjustor.
For a while I had one left in the nest and one fluttering about in the nearby vicinity, but my lesson came quickly: Nests are never half full. It only takes one teenage bird with a cell phone and video game controller to make the nest party central for every chickadee in the treetops. It’s an amazing fact of nature that the human teenagers can actually produce more human teenagers. This happens at an alarming rated equaled only by the number of dirty dishes that appear in the sink the moment you turn on the dishwasher, or laundry that appears in the basket when you wash that last load of delicates.
I’ve decided there must be a transmitter of some type in the video game controller. Whenever the thing so much as aims at an alien at my house, teenage boys come swarming in through the doors like house flies in July. They buzz around the kitchen soaking up beverages and spare pork rinds and settle on the living room furniture, rubbing their hands together while their gaze fastens to the onscreen action. I think they’re attracted to the light.
My own nestlings have recently performed evasive maneuvers; the one that was here is gone and the one that was gone isn’t. I’m not sure what that will mean in terms of luring more of the flock to my perch, but I have a bad feeling that there’s a team of swallows out there ready to migrate. I've seen Alfred Hitchcock's movie, The Birds. I’d better stock the refrigerator.
According to the bogus empty nest theory, a parent’s house becomes empty of radios blaring the theme to Iron Man, cell phones with top ten ring tones, and empty pizza boxes for extended periods of time such as between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. on Friday nights. The house becomes strangely silent and can be used for random activities such as sleep or dialing the local hospitals to see if the nestling is lying about in a luxurious private room racking up enough charges to bring on a personal visit from your insurance adjustor.
For a while I had one left in the nest and one fluttering about in the nearby vicinity, but my lesson came quickly: Nests are never half full. It only takes one teenage bird with a cell phone and video game controller to make the nest party central for every chickadee in the treetops. It’s an amazing fact of nature that the human teenagers can actually produce more human teenagers. This happens at an alarming rated equaled only by the number of dirty dishes that appear in the sink the moment you turn on the dishwasher, or laundry that appears in the basket when you wash that last load of delicates.
I’ve decided there must be a transmitter of some type in the video game controller. Whenever the thing so much as aims at an alien at my house, teenage boys come swarming in through the doors like house flies in July. They buzz around the kitchen soaking up beverages and spare pork rinds and settle on the living room furniture, rubbing their hands together while their gaze fastens to the onscreen action. I think they’re attracted to the light.
My own nestlings have recently performed evasive maneuvers; the one that was here is gone and the one that was gone isn’t. I’m not sure what that will mean in terms of luring more of the flock to my perch, but I have a bad feeling that there’s a team of swallows out there ready to migrate. I've seen Alfred Hitchcock's movie, The Birds. I’d better stock the refrigerator.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Apple of my Eyetooth
Today, the sun finally peeked through the storm clouds long enough to make the daffodils bloom before the next cold snap mows them down like a serial killer on Sunset Strip. Definitely a sign from heaven telling us spring cleaning is in order.
Spring cleaning is probably a good thing to do at least once a millineum. So I scrubbed the bathroom fixtures, reorganized the bookcases, and scraped the ooky stuff from around the burners on the stove.
Hubby took the dog to the dump. No, he didn’t leave him there. The weekly dump adventure is their version of a father and son backpacking trip with the Cub Scouts. Plenty of male bonding with the added bonus of disgusting smells.
Bo is a Labrador-Dalmatian cross. He is born to be outside and happy to be riding along at top speed in the name of emergency resolution, even if the crisis involves getting the turkey parts to the dumping grounds before fumes overwhelm us.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the importance of the chore. But why does it take two hours to ride six miles? I know for a fact as they pull out of the driveway I won’t see them again until I’m scooping macaroni shreds and broccoli bits out of the drain.
It’s not that I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t seem fair that the dog gets to ride in the front seat.
Sure enough, just as I’m wiping the slimy stuff off the top shelf in the refrigerator, they reappear grinning like a pair of superheroes who have saved the world from coffee grounds.
“Thought I’d take Bo for a romp so we wouldn’t have to worry about walking him later,” Bill says, stopping in the kitchen to empty leftover dog treats from his pockets. He drops enough kibble on our kitchen table to feed a team of Iditarod Huskies.
If that’s the leftovers, I can’t image how much he used for the main course. When we go out to eat, he gets me the children’s meals. I’ve got a nice collection of toy surprises and some neat Disney collector cups.
“I see Bo won’t need any breakfast.”
“No, we stopped at the drive-through. He worked up quite an appetite.”
“I understand driving past huge containers full of rotting refuse will do that.”
"We took the recyclables, too.”
Scrubbing around the knobs of the oven with a toothbrush, I had a little difficulty focusing on the bigger picture. At the moment, “going green” was just another reason to throw out the cheese.
Just about that time, Bill stopped and took a good look at the kitchen. The sink was spotless, the stove sparkled, and the KoolAid stains had been bleached from the countertops.
“Uh oh. What did I do? It’s the two hour dump trip isn’t it?”
This dog’s been hunting long enough to smell a trap long before he’s hanging upside down by his hind leg.
“What makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, scouring the finish off the microwave.
“You haven’t cleaned this much since I forgot to tell you that I volunteered to take six loaves of apple bread to the Thanksgiving dinner at work.”
“And what happened then?”
“I learned to make apple bread.”
“So, you took off for two hours with the dog, who rides in the front seat with his tongue cleaning the pine sap off the windows, and you don’t get home until all the cleaning is done. What do you think is wrong?”
“You want me to make apple bread?”
I ponder this logic for a moment. I want him to help me empty the refrigerator drippings from the grease pit under the ice box. On the other hand, his apple bread makes the angels sing. You don’t get this kind of food in a Happy Meal.
“That’s right, honey,” I said smiling.
“Well, Bo and I worked hard this morning and I’m worn out. Let me take a little nap and I’ll make you a double recipe.”
What can I say? Sometimes it’s best to let lying dogs sleep.
Spring cleaning is probably a good thing to do at least once a millineum. So I scrubbed the bathroom fixtures, reorganized the bookcases, and scraped the ooky stuff from around the burners on the stove.
Hubby took the dog to the dump. No, he didn’t leave him there. The weekly dump adventure is their version of a father and son backpacking trip with the Cub Scouts. Plenty of male bonding with the added bonus of disgusting smells.
Bo is a Labrador-Dalmatian cross. He is born to be outside and happy to be riding along at top speed in the name of emergency resolution, even if the crisis involves getting the turkey parts to the dumping grounds before fumes overwhelm us.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the importance of the chore. But why does it take two hours to ride six miles? I know for a fact as they pull out of the driveway I won’t see them again until I’m scooping macaroni shreds and broccoli bits out of the drain.
It’s not that I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t seem fair that the dog gets to ride in the front seat.
Sure enough, just as I’m wiping the slimy stuff off the top shelf in the refrigerator, they reappear grinning like a pair of superheroes who have saved the world from coffee grounds.
“Thought I’d take Bo for a romp so we wouldn’t have to worry about walking him later,” Bill says, stopping in the kitchen to empty leftover dog treats from his pockets. He drops enough kibble on our kitchen table to feed a team of Iditarod Huskies.
If that’s the leftovers, I can’t image how much he used for the main course. When we go out to eat, he gets me the children’s meals. I’ve got a nice collection of toy surprises and some neat Disney collector cups.
“I see Bo won’t need any breakfast.”
“No, we stopped at the drive-through. He worked up quite an appetite.”
“I understand driving past huge containers full of rotting refuse will do that.”
"We took the recyclables, too.”
Scrubbing around the knobs of the oven with a toothbrush, I had a little difficulty focusing on the bigger picture. At the moment, “going green” was just another reason to throw out the cheese.
Just about that time, Bill stopped and took a good look at the kitchen. The sink was spotless, the stove sparkled, and the KoolAid stains had been bleached from the countertops.
“Uh oh. What did I do? It’s the two hour dump trip isn’t it?”
This dog’s been hunting long enough to smell a trap long before he’s hanging upside down by his hind leg.
“What makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, scouring the finish off the microwave.
“You haven’t cleaned this much since I forgot to tell you that I volunteered to take six loaves of apple bread to the Thanksgiving dinner at work.”
“And what happened then?”
“I learned to make apple bread.”
“So, you took off for two hours with the dog, who rides in the front seat with his tongue cleaning the pine sap off the windows, and you don’t get home until all the cleaning is done. What do you think is wrong?”
“You want me to make apple bread?”
I ponder this logic for a moment. I want him to help me empty the refrigerator drippings from the grease pit under the ice box. On the other hand, his apple bread makes the angels sing. You don’t get this kind of food in a Happy Meal.
“That’s right, honey,” I said smiling.
“Well, Bo and I worked hard this morning and I’m worn out. Let me take a little nap and I’ll make you a double recipe.”
What can I say? Sometimes it’s best to let lying dogs sleep.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
What's Cooking?
I’ve had it the same way every Tuesday night since I got married.”
“Sunday for me. And it’s always the same. Rub it with butter, turn on the heat, and wait til it’s done.”
“If they can show me one new thing to do with a chicken, it’ll be worth the money.” I sighed, peering again into the refrigerator. I’m hanging on the door hoping the Food Fairy has arrived with a creative new dish for supper. My two sisters are there to fight over the wishbone.
“That’s it. Let’s go to the cooking show. What could it hurt? Besides, we don’t have time to cook before it starts, so we’ll have to eat out.”
An hour later, Laudy, Quirky, and I, blotting bleu cheese and bacon bits from our blouses, surrendered three bucks each and filed into our seats. The woman in charge of the cooking show resembled a test pilot instead of a test cook. With that microphone headset she wore I expected to hear “Cheese manned and ready, sir!” any minute. I couldn’t imagine measuring flour in front of 500 women. At home, I can’t tolerate even one living person near me as I jerk open drawers and slam doors looking for the quarter cup. I was there as much to see the kind of person who possessed such bravado as I was to get free food samples. Okay, truthfully I was there for the free food, but there were other important things as well, like discovering new ways to put the “hot” into hot wings and entering the raffle for the free mixer.
The stage was set up with a small kitchen that looked like it was delivered on the back of a pickup truck from Toys R Us. A woman browned chicken with more enthusiasm than most people generally reserve for sex. Another one created a sugar free peach dessert that made an audience full of mid-life belly-roll ladies yearn to rush the stage like it was a Tom Jones concert. Still another showed us more creative things to do with cream soup than I could do with a tub of gelatin and a turkey baster. A woman next to me, who wore diamonds like the rest of us wear polka dots, tucked coupons she found on the floor into her goody bag. Laudy scribbled her phone number on the back of an old recipe for round steak she found in her pocketbook and attempted to sling it on stage.
At the end of the show, we twittered like sparrows in springtime as the hostesses awarded door prizes. A woman in front of me won a kitchen gadget that I had lived 40 years without knowledge of and would probably live my next 40 without need for. Envy covered me like ivy on an outhouse. A middle aged woman, whose striped blouse was tucked into blue polyester pants just under her armpits, won two wooden spoons. It looked like all the good stuff was going first.
Finally, slow as the last hour of work before a three-day weekend, the last name came out of the basket. I was still checking my ticket when Quirky, wearing a smug expression like it matched her pumps and purse, pushed past me on the way to claim her prize. She won an autographed cookbook full of recipes for ground beef. The unfairness of the universe consumed me.
“I thought we were here for the chicken,” I hissed as the traitor squeezed past.
“Oh, rub it with butter,” she smirked. “Hamburger. Now that’s where the action is.”
“Sunday for me. And it’s always the same. Rub it with butter, turn on the heat, and wait til it’s done.”
“If they can show me one new thing to do with a chicken, it’ll be worth the money.” I sighed, peering again into the refrigerator. I’m hanging on the door hoping the Food Fairy has arrived with a creative new dish for supper. My two sisters are there to fight over the wishbone.
“That’s it. Let’s go to the cooking show. What could it hurt? Besides, we don’t have time to cook before it starts, so we’ll have to eat out.”
An hour later, Laudy, Quirky, and I, blotting bleu cheese and bacon bits from our blouses, surrendered three bucks each and filed into our seats. The woman in charge of the cooking show resembled a test pilot instead of a test cook. With that microphone headset she wore I expected to hear “Cheese manned and ready, sir!” any minute. I couldn’t imagine measuring flour in front of 500 women. At home, I can’t tolerate even one living person near me as I jerk open drawers and slam doors looking for the quarter cup. I was there as much to see the kind of person who possessed such bravado as I was to get free food samples. Okay, truthfully I was there for the free food, but there were other important things as well, like discovering new ways to put the “hot” into hot wings and entering the raffle for the free mixer.
The stage was set up with a small kitchen that looked like it was delivered on the back of a pickup truck from Toys R Us. A woman browned chicken with more enthusiasm than most people generally reserve for sex. Another one created a sugar free peach dessert that made an audience full of mid-life belly-roll ladies yearn to rush the stage like it was a Tom Jones concert. Still another showed us more creative things to do with cream soup than I could do with a tub of gelatin and a turkey baster. A woman next to me, who wore diamonds like the rest of us wear polka dots, tucked coupons she found on the floor into her goody bag. Laudy scribbled her phone number on the back of an old recipe for round steak she found in her pocketbook and attempted to sling it on stage.
At the end of the show, we twittered like sparrows in springtime as the hostesses awarded door prizes. A woman in front of me won a kitchen gadget that I had lived 40 years without knowledge of and would probably live my next 40 without need for. Envy covered me like ivy on an outhouse. A middle aged woman, whose striped blouse was tucked into blue polyester pants just under her armpits, won two wooden spoons. It looked like all the good stuff was going first.
Finally, slow as the last hour of work before a three-day weekend, the last name came out of the basket. I was still checking my ticket when Quirky, wearing a smug expression like it matched her pumps and purse, pushed past me on the way to claim her prize. She won an autographed cookbook full of recipes for ground beef. The unfairness of the universe consumed me.
“I thought we were here for the chicken,” I hissed as the traitor squeezed past.
“Oh, rub it with butter,” she smirked. “Hamburger. Now that’s where the action is.”
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Credit Pays
Men are from cash only, women are from Visa. If you can’t drive it, put a refrigerator in it, or watch the Super Bowl with automatic stop-and-go action on it, men want a one-time transaction. Women want a receipt.
Paying cash may have been an option in the olden days when you could get gas without taking out an advance on your paycheck, but these days you need to pursue a line of credit just to buy breakfast cereal. A transaction to fill up your gas tank could very well involve the question, “Fixed or variable rate?”
And why is it men carry on like the TV remote just went belly-up if they have to go to the store with us to buy a pair of pantyhose, yet if they’re off to shop for lawn tractors, we have to pack a lunch? Once they get into a discussion of horsepower with the garden man at Home Depot, we can sneak off for a cut and perm, have a rendezvous with the pool boy, and still be back in time to hear them say, “But will it handle the hills?”
A man copes well with important, life altering purchases, like a home in the suburbs or a clever multipurpose tool that can do everything from buff his golf balls to pick his teeth, and that comes with a sleek leather holster that clips to his belt. Men are especially fond of gadgets, and have a particular love for the ones they can attach to their bodies for display purposes. My husband looks like he’s wearing a Batman utility belt when he leaves for work every day. But the first time he calls me Alfred and slides down a pole to get to the breakfast table, we’re through.
Paying cash may have been an option in the olden days when you could get gas without taking out an advance on your paycheck, but these days you need to pursue a line of credit just to buy breakfast cereal. A transaction to fill up your gas tank could very well involve the question, “Fixed or variable rate?”
And why is it men carry on like the TV remote just went belly-up if they have to go to the store with us to buy a pair of pantyhose, yet if they’re off to shop for lawn tractors, we have to pack a lunch? Once they get into a discussion of horsepower with the garden man at Home Depot, we can sneak off for a cut and perm, have a rendezvous with the pool boy, and still be back in time to hear them say, “But will it handle the hills?”
A man copes well with important, life altering purchases, like a home in the suburbs or a clever multipurpose tool that can do everything from buff his golf balls to pick his teeth, and that comes with a sleek leather holster that clips to his belt. Men are especially fond of gadgets, and have a particular love for the ones they can attach to their bodies for display purposes. My husband looks like he’s wearing a Batman utility belt when he leaves for work every day. But the first time he calls me Alfred and slides down a pole to get to the breakfast table, we’re through.
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