37 Buys a Coffee Maker and We Named Him Roy

Hello Dear Readers.  Today, I have a doctors appointment . . . sigh . . .  which means I don’t have any time to think up something new for the blog,  So in lieu of new, here’s something old!  

My husband, 37, Buys a Coffee Maker and We Named Him Roy (the coffee maker not 37)

My husband, 37, and I have to have a certain amount of coffee each morning to properly function — no more, no less, or we’ll be dead by 9:30 a.m.

So yesterday when our coffee maker conked out, I gave 37 the task of getting us a new one.  And since 37 loves to buy things that plug in, he wholeheartedly agreed.

When I got home last night and went into the kitchen, I was greeted by 37’s coffee maker purchase extraordinaire!  It was nothing less than the ultimate symbol of the most advanced civilization to have ever existed on planet earth.  I’m speaking, of course, of the:

The Coffee PLUS® 12-Cup Programmable Coffeemaker & Hot Water System. 

But let’s just call it Roy.

When I first saw Roy, it was like looking at the control panel of a Boeing 747.  I even thought I saw a docking port for my ipod, but I was mistaken, it turned out to be a hot water spigot.

And if you happen to be a fan of spigots, this here’s the coffee maker for ya’ll. (Sorry, I left the window open last night and must have contracted a slight case of  fakey southern accent.)

Naturally Roy has a timer so that piping hot coffee will be waiting for 37 and I when the sun comes up –and,  if we can figure out how to do it — I think it also has a programmable timer for what time we would like the sun to come up.

Let’s peruse the Instruction Booklet shall we?

Hmm. . . I’m looking at the instructions right now and from what I can ascertain, it looks like Roy might also have a spin cycle; but I’m not very good a ascertaining so dont’ get your hopes up.

Yes it’s definitely a spin cycle maybe.

Nifty! It says Roy also has a light that flashes whenever Roy needs a good decalcification.  (And frankly who wouldn’t be better off having a good decalcification?)

Hey here’s some good news!   It says Roy is equipped with a charcoal water filter!  Which is a good thing because if when 37 decides to try to poison me by putting poison in my coffee, it will be filtered out! (And 37 thinks he’s so smart. Ha!)

Ok, you know what? I’m getting as bored as you are, Dear Reader, with reading Roy’s instruction manual, so I’m going to end this little coffee soliloquy right now!  Hope ya’ll don’t have a problem with that, ya’ll.

In the meantime, I’m going to see if there’s something I can take for this fakey southern accent.

Until next time . . . I love ya’ll

You Gonna Use the Rest of that Synapse?

Hello Dear Readers! It’s Friday again which means it’s time to fish something out of the archives.  Today’s offering is:

The Suspect Synapses

The Suspect Synapses

You Gonna Use the Rest of that Synapse?

I think I’m coming down with a bad case of old age.  I think I might have caught it from my husband, 37.

The two of us are just pathetic in that neither one of us can finish our own sentences anymore – let alone each others sentences like we used to back in the good old days — when we both had a nice selection of connected synapses to work with.

Still, we’re getting pretty good at having entire conversations without ever being able to remember the name of the topic we are talking about.   They usually go something like this:

You know that guy that was in that movie we watched the other night?  What was his name?

Well,  what was the name of the movie?

I don’t remember but that guy was in it that you like.

That I like? Well, what else has he been in?

Oh, he’s been in lots of stuff,  oh you know!  He was in that movie where that guy sunk on that boat.

Oh Titanic?

No!  Not Titanic!

Well what night was it on?

Uh, it was on . . . last week I think.

Oh yeah, I know what movie you’re talking about.  Yeah.  It had that guy I like in it.  I wish I could remember his name.

Oh what was the name of that movie!  It’s on the tip of my tongue.

I don’t know — but I want to buy it. 

Well, it wasn’t that good.

Yes it was.  It’s the best movie that’s guy’s ever been in.

No, he was way better in that other movie he was in.

What movie was that?

Oh I can’t remember the name of it.  You  know the one where his monkey catches on fire.

Oh Titanic?

No! Not Titanic!

Oh wait . . .  yeah!  Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! I know what movie you’re talking about.  Yeah it was really good!  I want to buy that one too!

Well, it wasn’t that good.

Well what do you know, you can’t even remember the name of the movie.

Well, either can you.

So?

This is how most our conversations end now.  With one of us saying, “so”.   Then we’ll wander into the living room and turn on TV.

And if we’re lucky?  There won’t be a movie on with that guy in it.

Until next time . . . I love you

Vernon and Vernon, Professional Team Toasting

I have a confession to make. It concerns our toaster.

You see, 37 and I have been using a toaster whose slots are too short for the bread we like for over a year now, but we were too lazy to go buy another one.

In one of life’s little ironic twists, it was the toaster, itself, that finally stepped up to the plate and motivated us to buy a new one by conking out.  An act which gave me a lot more respect for this little toaster as I was chucking it into the dumpster.

I suppose if we would just eat traditional-sized, Wonder Bread, our toaster would have suited us just fine, but as aging baby boomers, we like to think that by eating 732-grain bread, that is too big for a standard-sized toaster — we might live well into our 90’s or beyond!

Anyway, on Saturday, 37 and I found ourselves in the neighborhood of Fry’s Home Electronics, a store that I am not a fan of but for some strange reason (I suspect witchcraft), 37 and I always end up buying stuff at.

So we figured it was as good a time as any to buy a toaster and soon found ourselves in the dimly-lit isles of the Fry’s appliance netherworld looking at toasters.

Soon a young clerk approached us whose age was somewhere between puberty and a legal drinker.

“May I help you?”  he asked cheerfully enough, but I detected that trademark Fry’s Home Electronics Clerk Pity for an old couple, such as ourselves, who are no doubt seen as electronically retarded.

After we assured our clerk, Little Boy Blue, that we were just going to pick out a toaster, and we didn’t think we needed any help for that, he looked doubtful but went away momentarily, anyway, to let the geezers take a crack at it.

And oh what toasters there were to choose from!  The one that really caught our eye was the one that had “Professional Toaster” engraved into its stainless steel.

37 and I were impressed as all get out with this professional toaster, as aging boomers in the dimly-lit isles of Fry’s Home Electronics often are:

“A professional toaster?  Why would anyone need a professional toaster?”

“Well maybe if somebody wanted to make a little extra money, instead of taking in ironing, they could take in toasting.”

“What a great idea for a business:  Have Toaster Will Travel!”

“Yeah, and we could go around to all the fairs and farmer’s markets and set up a toast booth!”

Just as 37 was declaring that this Professional Toaster opened up all kinds of possibilities that were heretofore unimaginable with toast, Little Boy Blue returned to asked us again if we needed any help  — with some real concern creeping into his voice (maybe we had just had dual strokes or something).

When we  finally decided on a toaster, and made the official announcement to Little Boy Blue, he hurried off to get the ladder (which was actually four flights of stairs on wheels), climbed 20 feet up in the air, grabbed the toaster from the tippy top of the stack and that’s when 37 yells,

“You can just throw it down, I’ll catch it!”

I don’t know what got into 37, maybe he was just trying to prove that he could still take one for the Gipper (whoever that is), but Little Boy Blue just looked at 37 like he was an Alzheimer escapee with Tourette’s and wisely ignored him.

Instead, Little Boy Blue climbed down and gently handed the toaster to 37 so as not to break any of 37’s brittle bones, and we headed off to the checkout counter because we remembered where it was and didn’t have to ask.

Mmm . . .as I write this, I can smell the unmistakable aroma of 732-grain, over-sized bread toasting in our new toaster.  And if it turns out to be as good as it smells . . . who knows . . . 37 and I might just be turning pro with this thing!

Until next time . . . I love you

How to Tell if You’ve Been Spending Too Much Time with Your Husband

You’re starting to see the wisdom in eating things straight out of the bag.

“What? A plate for these? Don’t make me laugh.”

You know how to check “the scores” during commercials.

Lately you’ve found yourself reading things like Drip Irrigation Guidelines just for the heck of it.

“Can I see it now?”
“Ok, but don’t lose my place.”

You’ve developed temporary blindness when looking for something on a shelf.

“What apple on a plate? I don’t see any apple on a plate.”

Now it’s YOU who eats the last piece of everything.

The idea that just because a person has had an article of clothing hanging in their closet that they haven’t worn for fourteen years doesn’t mean they aren’t ever going to wear it again – is actually starting to make some sort of crazy sense to you.

“No I’m keeping it. I might decide to wear it to next year’s company party.”

You’ve adopted your husband’s penchant for keeping his favorite socks on the floor by his recliner.

You’ve adopted your husband’s recliner.

You’ve adopted your husband’s favorite socks.

You’ve suddenly discovered:  Hey! It’s fun to start conversations while you’re brushing your teeth!

“Nasha shaha sha shu?”
“Ha Ha!  Nasha shushi shashi shu shu!”

You’re beginning to actually fathom exactly why golf clubs need to always be in plain sight.

“You’re right! Life IS better when you can see them 24/7!”

And finally, the best way to tell if you’ve been spending too much time with your husband:

You are now able to tell the difference between regular TV and HD TV.

“Wait! That’s not HD . . . turn it QUICKLY!!

“PHEW!! That’s better!”

Until next time . . . I love you

Sunny, How I Love Ya!

Yay!  The Sun is out!  And summer is sliding into home plate!

Sunny, California

I really shouldn’t be complaining about the sun or lack thereof since I live in Sunny California and would never live anywhere else.  I couldn’t take the weather anywhere else.  It would either be too hot (Arizona I’m talking to you), too confining (Hawaii I’m putting your name on the board), too humid (Florida go sit down) or much, much too rainy (Seattle you’re staying after school).

 Honolulu, Hawaii

37 (my husband) and I visited Hawaii for the very first time last fall.  I always thought, when I go to Hawaii I know I’m never going to want to come home again.  Well, turns out I was wrong.  It’s not that Hawaii isn’t beautiful beautiful beautiful! (Btw, I’m asking for adjectives for my birthday.)  It’s just that Hawaii belongs to the people who were born and raised there.

You see, I’d get a little stir crazy being surrounded on all four sides (or maybe even five) by the sea, see?

I mean, I like the ocean just fine as far as bodies of water go, I just don’t like what could be lurking in said body of water just below my big toe — getting ready to freak me out by biting, stinging or eating it.

 Seattle, Washington

And as far as places to live go, don’t even get me started about Seattle.  Places like Seattle should be illegal.

37 and I lived in Seattle for six of the longest years to ever grace the pages of a calendar.

In my opinion, Seattle is a horrible, horrible place where people have to take a number to jump off a bridge.  Ok, I might be exaggerating just a teeny bit, but whose going to stop me?  You? Ha!  I’d like to see you try!

Another non-wonderful thing about Seattle is that when the sun does come out (once or twice for a couple of hours in the August), you can’t go out in the yard barefooted because “the rain forest in which all things in Seattle are located” is home to a little thing called slugs, only they’re big.

In Seattle, you’ve got your small, your medium and your large slugs — inch-worming around in the grass day and night –their sole purpose in nature being to freak out barefooted humans.

And if that’s not bad enough, they also have this really cute thing called a banana slug, that looks like a banana only it moves.

Banana Slugs put the jeebie in heebie jeebie

Anywhere In, Arizona

I would go on to complain about living in Arizona but I’ve never been there.  I know it’s pathetic isn’t it?  I’ve only been to Hawaii, Washington, Idaho, Oregon, Nevada, Utah, and California.  But judging from the shape of Arizona on the map, it looks boring.  Maybe I’ll make it a point to visit that little notch at the top left-hand side just so I can say I’ve been there.

Forget About It?, Florida

Now, I’ve never been to Florida, but I think I would like to go there.  Even though I’ve heard  they have snakes, alligators, sharks, and stink apes and that’s just at the airport. Ha Ha!

I would visit there but 37 is against all things Floridian.  (“Floridan” is one of those great words that make you sound smarter than you are.)

37 thinks it’s too humid in Florida and when he went there, he felt like he couldn’t breath and said it was so hot he felt like he was going to die.

What a pansy!  We’re going anyway!

Until next time . . . I love you

37 Buys a Coffee Maker

My husband, 37, and I have to have a certain amount of coffee each morning to properly function — no more, no less, or the rest of the day takes on a discombobulated edge that’s very discombobulating for want of a bigger vocabulary.

So yesterday when our coffee maker conked out, I gave 37 the task of getting us a new one.  And since 37 loves to buy things that plug in, he wholeheartedly agreed.

When I got home last night and went into the kitchen, I was greeted by 37’s coffee maker purchase extraordinaire!  It was nothing less than the ultimate symbol of the most advanced civilization to have ever existed on planet earth.  I’m speaking, of course, of the:

The Coffee PLUS® 12-Cup Programmable Coffeemaker & Hot Water System. 

 

But let’s just call it Roy.

When I first saw Roy, it was like looking at the control panel of a Boeing 747.  I even thought I saw a docking port for my ipod, but I was mistaken, it turned out to be a hot water spigot.

And if you happen to be a fan of spigots, this here’s the coffee maker for ya’ll. (Sorry, I left the window open last night and must have contracted a slight case of  fakey southern accent.)

Naturally Roy has a timer so that piping hot coffee will be waiting for 37 and I when the sun comes up –and,  if we can figure out how to do it — I think it also has a programmable timer for what time we would like the sun to come up.

Let’s peruse the Instruction Booklet shall we?

Hmm. . . I’m looking at the instructions right now and from what I can ascertain, it looks like Roy might also have a spin cycle; but I’m not very good a ascertaining so dont’ get your hopes up.

Yes it’s definitely a spin cycle maybe.

Nifty! It says Roy also has a light that flashes whenever Roy needs a good decalcification.  (If only I had one of those lights– just think how low my cholesterol would be!)

Hey here’s some good news!   It says Roy is equipped with a charcoal water filter!  Which is a good thing because if when 37 decides to try to poison me by putting arsenic in my coffee, it will be filtered out! (And 37 thinks he’s so smart. Ha!)

Ok, you know what? I’m getting as bored as you are, Dear Reader, with reading Roy’s instruction manual, so I’m going to end this little coffee soliloquy right now!  Hope ya’ll don’t have a problem with that, ya’ll.

In the meantime, I’m going to see if there’s something I can take for this fakey southern accent.

Until next time . . . I love ya’ll

37 Takes a Shortcut and Nobody Got Eaten

My husband, 37, and I got to take an impromptu little trip to Lake Tahoe last week so 37 could attend a conference, and  I tagged along so I could eat out for every meal.

So on our way to the conference  which was about 3 hours away, 37 decided to take a shortcut to miss rush-hour traffic.  I mentally added an hour and a half to the trip, which is always par for the course when 37 decides to take a faster route.  OK, maybe it’s not exactly par for the course as much as double bogey for the course.

Anyway, I was relieved  to find we were heading in the direction of Lake Tahoe when  the signs along the way started including the word Donner as in the infamous “What’s for dinner? We are! Donner Party of pioneer culinary fame who got lost crossing the mountains and well . . .  ended up eating one another and whatnot.

“Where shall we stop for dinner?”  I asked 37.

“I don’t know, I guess anywhere that’s not called Donner Party Family Restaurant.”

“Well, I feel sorry for the Donner Party.”  I said.  “Not only were they forced to eat each other; but people are still making fun of them for it to this very day!”

“Well, don’t feel too bad, after all, making fun of the Donner Party  is the  common ground that’s kept our marriage together for 37 years!”

Mrs. (or possibly Mr.) Donner

“I bet when the Donners were pulling into St. Louis, Mrs. Donner said, “Let’s stop and get something to eat here, since there might not be another restaurant for  hundreds of miles!”

“Yeah and Mr. Donner probably said,  ‘No it will take too much time. Let’s just eat when we get there’ . . . ” 37 added.

“Yeah and then Mr. Donner probably said ‘there’ll be plenty of time to chew the fat once we get there because . . . I know a shortcut!'”

Anyway, when we finally got to  the hotel  it was dark, so we didn’t see this magnificent view from our room until morning: 

View from the room of the Squaw Valley Resort Hotel. 

The next day, 37 left to attend the conference and partook of the breakfast buffet with other conference attendees.  But during the morning break, he met me at the breakfast buffet so he could keep me company while I ate. 

I piled my plate high and wide, and 37 got an extra plate so I would have enough room for fruit.  (The plates were small, really!)  So we sat down at the table and we both had coffee, and I ate my breakfast while 37 nibbled from the fruit from on the extra plate. 

When 37 had to get back to the conference –13 minutes later, the waitress brought our check — $30.00 per plate and $4.00 per cup of coffee for a grand total of $68. 

Of course, it would have been a lot cheaper to just eat each other.  

Say what you will about the Donner Party, but they really were ahead of their time. 

Until next time  . . . I love you (even maybe for dinner!)

37 Hits a Bucket of Balls

I went to the driving range with my husband, 37, to hit a bucket of balls.  As we were setting up, I noticed all my balls were wet.

“Does it make a difference if your balls are wet?”  I asked 37.

“What?”

“Your balls, does it matter if they’re wet.  Is that going to make any difference?”

“Well I suppose if you were a professional golfer, it might make a difference  because there would be less spin on the ball.” 

“Oh, then wet balls are a good thing?”

“No because you don’t have as much control on the ball as you would if you put spin on it.”

Then does that mean you’re going to wait for your balls to dry?”

“What?  No.”

“Well that’s because you’re a good golfer.  Wet balls . . . dry balls — it just doesn’t matter.  You’re so lucky!”

We began hitting our balls.  37’s balls were long and lean.  Mine were short and fat.

“Ouch!”  I said.   my middle toe is cramping up on my follow through.”

37 stroked his chin and rolled his eyes up trying to access what Golf Coach,Hank Haney, of the Golf Channel might advise.

"Don't worry Hank will know what to do!"

Then he asked in all seriousness, “Which middle toe?   The one right next to the big toe or the one next to that one?”

“The one that ate roast beef.” 

37 went into suspended animation trying to access his memory for a golf channel tip about what you should do when the Little Piggie That Ate Roast Beef  cramps on the follow through.

“Well I think you should try tightening up your abdominals.  That ought to fix it.”

So I did what 37 said and tightened up my abdominals and hit the ball long and straight. 

“Hey look at that, it worked!”

“YAY!” I said.   I didn’t have the heart to tell  him my balls had completely dried.

An Intimate Conversation with My Husband,37

Sometimes when you’ve been married to someone for 37 years, conversations get a little out of whack.

Here’s what happened last night for instance.

The Scene:   37 is relaxing in his recliner eating soup and a sandwich and watching the golf channel, and I am cleaning out the bookshelf.  My comments are in green, and 37’s are in red.

There!  I have it all arranged according to topic!  And I found this whole stack of books I completely forgot about!

How nice!

I know!

Phil Mickelson got inducted into the PGA Hall of Fame!

Oh I thought you were talking about the way I rearranged the books.

Mmmm. . . turned out really really good.

Thank you, I’ve always been good at organizing!

Did you make it from scratch or buy it at the store?

Oh what?  You mean the soup?

Oh Jeez!  I don’t believe it!

What?  Did you find a bone or something?

I cannot believe Dustin Johnson missed that putt!

Oh, I thought you meant the soup.

Hey wait a minute something’s different.

Yeah, hello? I just cleaned out the book shelf, that’s what’s different.

This tuna doesn’t taste like normal.

You mean it tastes funny?

That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  YES!

Well maybe that’s why it was on sale.

Tiger Woods just made that 37-foot putt . . . YES!

You know what?  You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying!

Yes I have! 

Ok, what have I been talking about?

Before I answer that, answer me this . . . why are all these books scattered everywhere?

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Explaining My Husband, 37

I just did the math.  I’ve been married to my husband now for 84 years.  Ok, I admit, I’ve never pretended to be very good at math, well, in all honesty, I have pretended; but it never did me any good.

Now where was I?  Ah yes, my husband of 84 years. 

Actually now that I recalculate I find that we have only been married 37 years. (Which is why I always call him 37. It just saves time.).  Anyway, in all those 37 years,  it occurs to me I’ve never really attempted to describe him (except that time to the police).

Here’s my beloved 37 explaining something.

I suppose the most dominant trait about my husband is that he is an engineer.

This means that if he is asked a simple question about, say, fractions, his eyes will light up like a super nova, and he will begin to answer your question by going back to the days of Pythagoras, and then work his way up the timeline of  history’s great moments in math one by one.

He’ll often get so involved  in his explanation that he will fail to notice that the person who posed the question (me) ducked out to go to the grocery store right after Sir Isaac Newton was elected Lucasian Professor of Mathematics in 1669 and popped back in just before Einstein figured out E = MC 2.

The only way you can tell when he’s done talking is when he says, “What was the question again?”

Sir Issac Newton

Engineers are trained to analyze the efficacy of systems as they pertain to the outcome desired.

This means they will give you a million reasons why something won’t work and none why something will.

That’s why, if I want something done around the house in this lifetime, I simply pretend that I am going to attempt the project on my own.

Believe me, if you want to get the attention of an engineer quickly, simply put a big role of duck tape under your arm and ask him if he’s seen the tape measure.  If that doesn’t get him away from his spreadsheet nothing will.

Another thing about engineers is that they are definitely not clothes horses (or even clothes goats).

“And there’s even a place for my pocket protector!”

That’s why, if you were to peek inside an engineer’s closet it would not be unusual to see his 1967-issued, navy uniform (engineers never clean out their closets) right next to his work shirts — all four of them — two of which he considers brand new because he thinks he bought them four years ago when it was really seven.

And the only difference between his good pair of  jeans and his bad pair of jeans is that the bad ones have holes that show and the good ones have holes that don’t.

But I would have to admit that being married to my husband, the engineer, has had its advantages.

First of all, if I need an accurate measurement, I know my husband will come through with flying colors.

Secondly, I’ve learned that pretty much everything that exists in the universe, real or imagined, has a scientific explanation.

And finally, and most importantly, not only can I count on my husband through thick and thin; but also, I can count on him to calculate just exactly how thick and just exactly how thin right down to the nearest millimeter.

Until next time. . . I love  you

Getting Nabbed by the Fuzz or Happy Birthday 37!

I've got her up to 25 miles per hour . . .fasten your seat belts and HANG ON!

Have you ever wondered who that annoying little old lady was that you always seem to get stuck behind in traffic when you’re running late?

Well guess who?  It’s me or, failing that, someone gawd-awful like me.

That’s why when I got a ticket for speeding yesterday — yes, you read that right SPEEDING as in going TOO FAST — I was floored (and flooring it apparently, but I’ll tell you about that part later).

This is so unlike me.

To illustrate my  normal driving habits, here’s the conversation that transpired between my son and I while he was a passenger in my car on a Christmas Eve shopping expedition:

Why is everybody honking?

Well, maybe it’s because you are going a little too slow.

Oh you mean they are honking at me?

I think so, Mom.

And of course I NEVER drive when 37 (my husband) and I are going somewhere.

Why?  Because it makes me mad when he starts complaining that I’m driving too slow.  So to avoid conflict, I just let him drive and then I can complain about how he drives too fast — for I find I’m far more comfortable in the role of complainer than complainee.

Not only do I drive slow, but I’m also a Huge Driving Coward.

I’ve got a “thing” about changing lanes in that I’d rather not.  So I try to get in the lane I think I’m going to need to be in well in advance.  But my planning never pays off.  Usually the lane I think I need to be in is the wrong one — so I have to crowd into the one I actually need to be in at the very last second.

This tends to make people a tad bit  honkish and road ragey.  What I really need is a sign that says “sorry” to hold up when stuff like this happens.

Anyway, getting back to my speeding ticket

Yesterday I was driving down this road that was right next to the freeway. It was just going along beside the freeway but wasn’t actually a part of the freeway in that there was a chain link fence dividing me from the freeway itself.

Naturally, everybody on the freeway was going at least 60 so I guess I just joined in.

It was peer pressure I tell ya!

Next thing you know, I look down at my speedometer and it said 61 (even though the cop said he clocked me at 59 – I didn’t correct him . . . why quibble?)

In my own defense, I only was going 61 for only about  five seconds when I suddenly realized  what I was doing  — and immediately  slowed down to 40 (the speed limit) on my own accord.  I didn’t even see the cop until 30 seconds later when he finally managed to quit eating my dust as it were.

First thing I did was text my son that his old mammy still had it in her and just got nailed by The Fuzz for speeding!

This  boggled his mind enough to make the sting of the upcoming fine hurt just a little less.

As for breaking the news to 37?

Well I figure the ticket should arrive  sometime around his birthday.  And since he has always wanted me to drive faster, I think my speeding ticket might make a very nice birthday gift, don’t you?

Until next time, I love you

Tomorrow Night It’s Peanut Butter and Jelly Fish!

Guess what I’m cooking for dinner tonite, dear.

I cooked fish last night for dinner. 

I don’t know a lot about the make and model of the fish I cooked except that it was white, and I bought it at Trader Joe’s. As you probably already know, things are better when you buy them at Trader Joe’s.  That’s because Trader Joe’s refuses to sell any food that contains unnecessary, unhealthy additives like preservatives, chemicals, poison or lint.

Sure, you do have to put up with bread that gets stale before you unload it from your Trader Joe’s nylon-mesh-don’t-be-a-pig-about-the-environment bag you purchase every time you go because you keep forgetting to take one with you; but it’s a small price to pay for Trader Joe’s Lint-Free 7,643-Grain Bread containing 67 grams of fiber in every bite once it’s swallowed, god willing.

Anyway, I did a really nice job on the fish I cooked last night.  First, I took it out of the package.  I find this is always a good idea.  Then, I put together a mixture of flour and some spices I had sitting around.  My spices sit around practically 24/7.  I’ve made peace with the fact they will never amount to much.

Sure they’re a pathetic group of slackers, but they’re MY pathetic group of slackers.

Some of the spices I used were salt, pepper, lemon pepper, Season All, garlic pepper, garlic salt . . . well; basically I used every spice I owned. (Luckily I was out of cinnamon.)

Then I heated up some olive oil in a big frying pan, smothered the fish (don’t worry it was already dead) in the spices and threw it in the frying pan when it got sizzling hot.

I wasn’t very nice to it really.

I browned both sides and added water, covered it and let it steam on low for about 15 minutes.  Then I squeezed lemon juice all over it and stuck it in the oven for a half hour more.

I took it out of the oven and frosted it with a nice healthy layer of cocktail sauce.

Well, sir!  We absolutely loved it.

Who knew me and 37 were such fish connoisseurs!

Until next time . . . I love you

Tightening the Elastic Waistband Til It’s Curtains

I’m not afraid of much.  Shots don’t scare me.  I can get major surgery with my eyes closed.  I’m brave enough to swat and kill any spider any size anytime with my bare hands.  Yeah, I’m pretty much bad to the bone.

Except when it comes to sewing.  When it comes to sewing,  I wouldn’t even qualify as skin-deep bad, I’m just plain ol’ bad.

But I want to sew!

If I could sew, I would make beautiful items for my home.  I’d become a fashion designer and go on Project Runway.  I would have more self-esteem and confidence as a person, in general — not to mention a killer wardrobe where everything I made would make me appear 15 pounds thinner, 20 years younger and upwards of  50  I. Q. points smarter.

It’s not like I haven’t tried!

Once, when my youngest daughter was in the 3rd grade she had a friend over.  I was sewing myself a pair of pants.  I had just finished sewing in the elastic waistband and was feeling rather proud of myself when my daughter’s friend looked over from across the room and asked,

“Why are you sewing an elastic waistband in the leg of those pants?”

I quickly pulled the pants out from under the needle, held them up and sure enough the little brat was right.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete idiot just an unfinished one.

I suspect my sewing problem stems from my inability to be able to tell right from left.  I can tell right from left, of course, — just not consistently.

And being able to distinguish right from left on a regular basis seems to be important in sewing.

Frankly, I don’t understand people who can tell right from left easily.  People like that have a tendency to complicate matters just to confuse you.  37, my engineer-husband takes great delight in vexing me:

Can you hand me my pocket protector? It’s in the right-hand, top-desk drawer.

No it’s not in here.

Yes it is.

No it’s not.

It’s on the RIGHT side of the desk, not the LEFT.  The RIGHT.

Well, that’s the one I’m looking in — the RIGHT and it’s NOT in here.

No, you don’t understand.  It’s on MY right, which is YOUR left.

Or  let’s say 37  is giving me directions over the phone:

What side of the street is their house on?

Well that depends.  Are you going east or west?

East or west?  How would I know? Just tell me what side of the street it’s on!

It’s on the RIGHT side of the street.

Ok, great, thanks.

If . . . .

If what?

If you’re heading east, that is.

I don’t know what direction I’m heading.

Well that’s easy to tell.  If your going East, the shopping center will be on your left.

It’s not on my left.

Not YOUR left MY left.

It’s times like this when I want to get out my sewing machine and sew an elastic waistband into 37’s shirt collar.  Then slowly tighten it to MY left HIS right MY East and HIS West.

You’ll have to excuse me now, I have some sewing to do.

Until next time . . . I love you

In 37’s Mind, Thanksgiving IS Football

It’s Thanksgiving morning, and my husband, 37, — better known as Sports Fan Dad — has just turned on the first of the 500 games he  will vicariously experience on this, The Day of the Turkey.

In addition to  his couch-coaching commitments, he will also attempt to help me prepare the holiday feast.  If all goes according to his plan, he will be able to help with the cooking, eat The Big Meal and take The Big Nap without missing even a second of the Thanksgiving Day Foootball-a-thon.

At 9 am, 37 takes his position in front of the television set where he begins gently stretching his thumbstrings in preparation for some serious football spectator skills, such as olive-to-mouth tossing, pull-tab popping and rapid-fire remote controlling.

I’m in the kitchen preparing the dressing and making the usual holiday decisions about whether to stuff the turkey in the fridge or the one on the couch.

By 10 am, after I have everything chopped, cleaned, peeled, and stuffed, Father Football dashes into the kitchen (during one of the longer commercials) and, assuming an air of authority, lifts lids and asks pertinent questions such as:

“Are these nuts or what?”  and  “How much Longer?”

He then grabs a cold refreshment with one hand and nimbly plugs in the electric knife with the other and toddles back to the couch, secure in the knowledge that he has been a valuable team player in the outcome of the big game hen.

Of course, after expending all this energy, it is not surprising that 37 is a no-show when it comes to getting out the good china and setting the table.

After all, too much activity at this critical point in the day could cause 37’s blood sugar level to plummet — zapping him of his much needed cork-popping strength at The Big Meal.

At 1 pm, I summon You Know Who to the kitchen so that he can perform “The Dad Thing” –which is to get the turkey from the oven to the counter without 1) dropping the patient on the floor and 2) getting third-degree burns on his free hand — the one not holding the refreshment.

Then with the precision of a tree surgeon, 37 carefully carves the turkey while I get the rest of the food ready and call everyone to the table. 

About the time the potatoes are cold and the Jello is warm, 37 emerges from the kitchen proudly displaying a delectable platter of turkey parts arranged in the famous football wing formation.

This duly impresses the relatives and they applaud while the children at the card table perform the wave. 

For the first time all day, the television set is turned off, Thanksgiving dinner is served and the family shares the warmth o fellowship in collective turkey gobbling.

The culmination of hours of planning, shopping and cooking is consumed in a matter of minutes and as 37 returns to his post (with dessert), he assures me he will be assisting in the clean up of The Big Mess . . . just as soon as he awakens from The Big Nap, that is.

Until next time . . . I love you

This Blog Brought to You by 37

I was telling my husband, 37, about how I couldn’t think of anything to write a blog about.  So he came up with these two suggestions:

1) Rename the alphabet

2) Paint that changes color

Ok, renaming the alphabet? 

37 actually threw this out there as a viable topic for a blog.  And I, being just that hard up for topics, wrote it down.  Hmmm . . . rename the alphabet, eh?  Talk about being caught up on your To Do list!

Let’s see here . . .

laundry   √

vacuuming  √ 

rototilling  √

iron socks  √

let cat our of bag  √

Well, it looks like all there is left to do now is rename the alphabet!  Hunky Dory!  Hey, there’s the first letter re-name right there.  So that’s 1 down and 25 to go!

Now it’s on to the next topic.  Paint that changes color. 

I think what 37 meant by this slightly ambiguous phrase was — wouldn’t it be neat if they invented paint that changed color on its own?

So let’s say we paint our living room beige and, at some point, probably in the dark of night, it changes color on its own. So maybe it’s purple when we get up the next morning. The conversation might go something like this:

37:  “Honey come and look!  The paint changed color on its own!”

Me:  “Uh huh, now all we have to do is go buy new furniture to match!”

37:  “uh . . . well . . . maybe it will change back.  I think we should hold off on that.”

Me:  “Oh so you’re saying we are never going to buy any new furniture?”

37:  “Well, how could we possibly buy new furniture when the paint keeps changing color?”

Oh!  So THAT’S  what 37 is up too!   It’s all making sense to me now.  Well, isn’t that just like 37.  He NEVER wants to buy any new furniture.  No wonder he thinks paint that changes color would be neat.

Neat for whom? 

Oh yeah!  Well that does it.  I’m going out right this very minute and buy all new furniture! And when 37 gets home tonite he’s going to be in for a big surprise!  And if he doesn’t like it, he’ll have no one to blame but himself.

Paint that changes color, my foot!

Until next time . . . I love you