Okay, Change of Topics....

I was going to write a blurb today about Houdini's latest failed escapades, but maybe later. Today, I've got insects on the brain.

You see, I just met this guy:



I'm not sure where he came from, but he was next to Toddler's chair when I stood up from the computer. I was fairly certain when first saw him that it was a big ... giant... baby-eating spider. Then, on careful reflection, I remembered that baby-eating spiders are black, and they live under my sister's stove or in my mother's downstairs bathroom. They do not live in my house. I do not permit them. Since we had to stop the pest terminator contract to save cash, I have been forced to permit other spiders to live in this house (but only until I find them), but not the baby-eating spiders. Nope. Not here.

I don't much care for spiders, but I wouldn't especially say that I am afraid of them. Snakes? Yes -- paralyzing, irrational, blood chilling fear of snakes, even little ones. Spiders? I would like to say no, but the dislike of them and sharp, noisy reaction to their presence has increased with age.

I recall when I was younger, helping my mother out with her Girl Scout Troop, Mom had a rule -- no screaming unless there is blood. Anyone screaming at spiders was subject to severe ridicule and spontaneous punishment. My middle sister was the other Girl Scout Leader of the troop, and I was the tagalong, with some authority, but not a lot of respect, if you know what I mean. I can safely say that Middle Sister and I have the same healthy dislike for spiders. (I know this for a fact.)

So, the Girl Scout "no screaming" rule often meant that at campouts, the leaders (and I) would need to go tent to tent to deal with little girls trying hard not to scream about the spiders. When I was a scout their age, the Daddy Longleggers didn't bother me, and we didn't see too many other creepy crawlies. By the time I was old enough to be helping my mother, I think I'd seen a few too many nature movies, or Alfred Hitchcock, or read too much science fiction, or something. I don't know, but picking up those Daddy Longleggers and pushing them out of the tent took all I had some days. Middle Sister would just go in, pick them up by the leg, and toss them, with a sideline to the girls, "See? That's all there is too it."

I used to feel a little sheepish about that reaction, until one day when I went to Middle Sister's house. Her oldest was a scarce few months old, and we were spending a lot of days together that summer. One of those days a spider as a big as the whole house crawled across the kitchen floor. To my shock, my sister yelped! She called me, and I came out, baby on my hip. She said, "Look at that!" This big giant arachnid was making a straight line to the stove. She swatted at it with something, but she missed. To my surprise, she almost seemed ... intimidated by it? She yelled, "Get it!" I said, "Get it? If I put the kid down, the spider might eat the baby!"

Well, the spider disappeared under the stove, never to be seen again, so far as I know. Middle Sister then confessed that spiders freaked her out a little. "Really? But you were so calm about them at camp!"

She grinned. "I know. It was because I had to. Here, I thought you might get it for me."

HA! (But don't ask her about it. She won't admit it, but I swear I'm telling the truth.)

Now, that couple-month old baby I was using as an excuse not to kill the spider is applying to college. (I wonder if she is afraid of spiders, too?) Now, there is me, Toddler, and this guy:



Before you go saying anything, I know it isn't a spider. I realized that as soon as I remembered that I don't permit baby-eating spiders in my house. This guy is a cricket ... I think. Well, he's some kind of jumping dude that is at least related to a cricket. I don't kill crickets. I tossed a paper towel over him and was about to scoop him up when he leaped up about the level of my head, at which point I yelped like a puppy. Mr. Cricket then snuck under the refrigerator and hasn't come out yet. Well, either he comes out soon, and I escort him to the front door, or he becomes cat food tonight when the three stooges find him.

PS -- edited to add, the cricket apparently returned in the middle of the night, at which point he met one or more of the sentry cats and did not survive.

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Yesterday ... All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away....

Yesterday was an odd, odd day. I accomplished a LOT. I was so proud of myself.

I made it to the pet store.
I made it to the store to pick up laundry detergent.
I weeded the flower bed.
Toddler actually went pee pee on the potty.
I got all the laundry at least into the dryer.
I tried something new for dinner.
I almost got my in-box cleaned out.

I mean, WOO HOO! Right?

By the time Toddler went down for his nap, I thought everything was going GREAT! Now, I was a little bit leery, because days this efficient usually mean the forces of Entropy and Chaos are massing for a big strike against my home, but I've learned to enjoy my successes where I can find them. In fact, I was thinking about sitting down and writing a blog about procrastination and asking how many times would I have to learn that the longer I waited to do the landry, the worse the chore became? I was so excited -- the last load of laundry was going in to the washer at about noon! How great! I was going to wait until the second to last load was dry so I could swap out some pants for the ones I was wearing and make a complete sweep of all the jeans on one day. Wow.

Then the rose colored goggles came off, and reality set in.

I realized I went to the pet store, but failed to use some coupons that were expiring.

I realized I went to the store for laundry detergent, but I failed to remember to buy the butter we were out of.

I weeded the flower bed, but I didn't get the full bag of weeds out to the curb in time for the truck. Plus, I wasn't able to get all the clover out, and it will grow back by tomorrow. Worst of all, a whole bag of weeds went out, and DH didn't even notice a difference.

Toddler went pee pee in the potty, but he decided to hold the poop until the diaper was on.

The reason I was so ahead in the laundry was that I forgot about two piles that were up in the bedroom, and I was actually not ahead, but behind.

The new recipe I tried for dinner was plain awful. First of all, it had lots of carrots, and the sauce did not hide the flavor. The whole thing tasted a lot like my blood pressure pills when I swallow them without water. Toddler hated it, and I didn't blame him one bit.

I did almost get my in-box cleaned out, but I neglected to write a blog entry, and now I'm behind.

Entropy was very subtle yesterday. It made me think I was winning, when in fact I was losing ground.

Very tricky.

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Mornings, Mornings

I woke up this morning, and my first thought was, "Really? Another morning?" My second thought was, "Why is Toddler screeching like that?"

And so the day begins.

As I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, I got to thinking. When I was working full time, if I stayed at home, in bed, with the comforter pulled up over my ears, the worst that would happen would be that I would get fired. Well, let's be accurate. First I'd have an anxiety attack about all the people I was letting down, lots of people would call looking for me, and then I'd get fired.

Now, if I stay in bed all day with the comforter pulled up over my head, the worst that would happen is that no one would fire me. First, Toddler would come into the room yelling, "Mommy, TV please! Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!" Then the cats would come racing up the stairs to jump on the bed to have me referee their latest argument and complain abut the supply of cat food and the state of the litter box. If I'm really lucky, the cat who discovered that the litter is not clean will sit right next to my head, but I can handle that. I would have the covers over my head, remember? If I still refused to get up, the day might progress without me, but then I'd have to clean it all up eventually.

But, back to reality. On my way to the shower I saw cat stomach contents. Being in a state of undress, I called down to DH. "Hey, ____! I see hairball! Watch out when you come upstairs!"

At that point, he called back, "OK! I have time. Just put out the hairball flag, and I'll come get it!" Hmm. Sounds like DH has been watching too much My Friends Tigger and Pooh. We may need to snap him back to reality. But, in the meantime, I was rejoicing that there was a hairball attack timed so that I did not have to be the servant who cleaned it up. WOO HOO! Of course, I just got done telling that cat food survey company that there wasn't any puking during the past week ... hey survey company, can you call back? I need to amend my response.

Then I got dressed. It took me a while, because I have a lot of old fashioned shirts (cut "short" by today's standard), and new fangled jeans (riding "low" by my standards), and the two don't match. Trust me ... no one wants to see my gut hanging over my belt loops. Now I'm sitting at the kitchen table, typing this blog, eyeing the coffee machine, and trying to figure out how much protesting I will get when I tell Toddler we have to go for a long drive to drop off a big box and we can't bring the TV with us. DH is on his way out the door and just advised me that as far as he knows, Toddler hasn't pooped since early yesterday. He's a time bomb waiting to explode.

What did you do this morning?

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Foooooootttttbaaaaaaaaaaallllllll

Ah, football. Toddler has caught the bug big time. He loves going to the game and asks about it all the time. He talks a lot about his "Lion on his cheek" too. Unfortunately, he came down with a cough, and DH attended the game in the cool mist while I watched wistfully from the hotel room and Toddler coughed on me.

And to top it off, Penn State was playing a top 25 team: Eastern Illinois. (Now, I didn't say in which division they were ranked, did I?) Of course ... I couldn't actually watch the game on TV because it was broadcast on ESPN Classic, and the hotel room doesn't get that channel. The good news is that all games are available on line. The bad news is that if you are on an internet connection that does not subscribe, you can't watch the game for free. Guess which kind of internet connection the hotel had.....

Now, if I were home, apparently I COULD have watched the game for free. Of course. For starters, we get ESPN Classic. Plus, it seems our internet connection was a participating company. Of course.

There does seem to be a one-time-pay online service that will get all the games I want forever (so it claims). I'm deeply, deeply suspicious, because I can't find the cost of this "one time payment". Needless to say, I didn't take the opportunity on Saturday. I just watched the clouds blow over State College, PA and listened to Toddler giggle and cheer over recorded DVDs of "Bunnytown" and the occasional "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" on our portable player, and I cleaned up the milk he spilled on the carpet while trying to hear ESPN over the singing antics of those Bunnies.

I consoled myself by sharing a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips with Toddler and keeping tabs on my friends actually at the game via Facebook. I tried listening to the local sports cast on the radio, live from Beaver Stadium with student announcers ... but I couldn't hear the announcers over the crowd noise. Good job, crowd. Bad job, radio announcers. Finally, thanks to a wonderful website of a frustrated Penn Sate fan, I located a list of radio websites that would stream the game to me, and I clicked into one. It's a good thing I had directions, because nothing on the web site said they were actually playing the Penn State game, but they were. Whew! I tuned in just in time to hear PSU's first touchdown on its first possession of the game. Nice.

I spent the rest of the game trying not to stare at the pretty psychedelic lights moving around on Windows Media Player in case I got hypnotized. It kept me from the Mikes Hard Lemonade in the fridge, too, because I thought that might be too potent a combination in case I accidentally looked at those lights while playing on the computer. Whew!

Moving away from Penn State, let's give some awards.

I can't decide which award to give to Desmond Howard. He's managed to qualify both for the, "Never Ending Nostalgia" award and the "What About Me?" award. Once again, Desmond Howard took great care to remind his TV viewing audience about his past glory again this Saturday. He was even heard to say, "Now, the year when I won the Heisman ..." and he proceeded to give a bit of a blow by blow of his achievements during 2 straight games.

Umm, Desmond ... you won the Heisman 17 years ago, and now you are a football talking head. Some of the current college football players weren't even born when you won the trophy. I know. The truth hurts. You could have been an aging star in the NFL still, but you aren't. Please, please try to transition a little more gracefully.

On the exact other end of the spectrum, we have the, "I'm Just a Guy" award, which goes to Lee Corso. Every week or so (give or take), Lee makes a statement like, "This game will be closer than the experts think."

Lee, I've always wanted to ask this ... who are the experts if not you and Herbie? I mean, you do have votes in the football rankings ... right?

And as for the Gameday Final group, I have to ask ... are you guys seriously in love with Tim Teabo? I wasn't sure if I was listening to a Florida game wrap up or a love sonnet. Bastardizing scripture? Comments about hugging and wardrobe? Was this Gameday Final or a Lifetime reality TV show? I wasn't sure for a few moments there. I've never seen these guys so effusive for one guy. Where was the obligatory critic? I mean, Teabo is a great humanitarian and a pretty fabulous quarterback, but I seriously doubt he is, as quoted on ESPN, "One of the greatest players in the history of the game."

Well, I'm signing off, sad for missing the game, confused about who the "experts" are in college football, more than a little bit pleased that my good old boys in Blue and White pounded some serious football on Saturday, and obviously suffering from "Teabo Fatigue" as coined by one sportscaster (who claimed we were wrong to be so).

See you next week.

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Bread Bowls

I've done it. I have finally discovered the secret to great soups. Here I was thinking that it had something to do with base ingredients, lots of salt or spice, fresh off the restaurant stove, or something else I wasn't doing.

And then I remembered my mother and my grandmother making soup in my mom's kitchen (over and over again) each year when I was young. I remember thinking that soup was pretty crappy. (Hey, I was young.) Maybe it was that the kind of soups they liked to make most -- split pea and black bean -- were not huge favorites of little kids. Maybe it was that my mother never salted the chicken soup when she made it.

Maybe it was just that none of us had discovered the secret yet.

The secret is that really good soup comes in a bread bowl.

Yes, it is that simple. I've discovered that anything tastes better in a bread bowl.

You doubt me? Well, I've proven it. See, I had some of that wonderful Panera soup in a bread bowl, but I was too full to eat the bowl. So, for supper, I made some ramen-type (shrimp flavor) and dumped that in the leftover bread bowl. The verdict? The noodles tasted the same, but boy did that broth improve the minute it soaked into the bread.

Soup ... it's all about the bread.

I'm thinking I could open up my own "Soup Nazi" kitchen here in Virginia. I can serve as many different soups as I can find on the shelf at Big Lots, and I just have to procure enough bread bowls to serve them in. Bread bowls will be mandatory, to hide the fact that I'm using generic condensed soup, and I should rake in the dough.

So ... let's see ... if we are keeping track, I think that makes ... 3 ... yes, 3 major money-making ideas I have had this week. I suggested the waterproof hoodie with rain mask (Nike/Champion, I'm still waiting for your call). I suggested drive through pizza, and I figured out how to sell soup and make millions.

I'll sell you all of these ideas for a mere negotiated percentage of your profits.

Just give me a call.

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Drive Through Pizza

You know, there is something that has been puzzling me for a few months now. I am reminded of it every single time I am driving in the car around lunch time with a sound asleep child in the backseat.

Living in one of the more "urban" suburbs in this country has some pretty great upside. We have lots of things available here that weren't available where I grew up, or in my college town. (That isn't to say we have everything. We won't have everything until Barney's Coffee comes back, someone opens up a La Famiglia Giorgios around here, and a bagel shop and Dunkin' Donuts moves in close enough for me to walk to no matter where I am. Then we will have everything.) One of the really big upsides is that in a pinch, when your Toddler is sound asleep in the backseat for the first time in days, you can get almost anything you need from a drive through window.

I can get burgers, chicken, french fries, salads, coffee, fancy coffee, fish, baked potatos, and even my prescriptions, all through the drive through. One thing I cannot get from a drive through window, however, is pizza.

Am I the only one that has ever thought about this? With all the innovation in this world, and all the people trying to sell me things I don't even know I want, why can I not get pizza through a drive through window? If course, there are some obstacles to waiting in line in my car for an entire pizza to go through the oven. I get this. But why can't I order my slice (or two) and my very, very, very large 32 ounce or larger "medium" diet soda at a speaker, have them slap it in the reheater, and give them to me at the window just like a burger?

I hear some of you thinking, "but you can't eat pizza in a car -- too messy". Well, sure, pizza in a car is not the smartest thing anyone could eat. But then, how smart is any eating in the car, really? I think a slice of pizza is no worse -- and probably better -- on the easy/not too messy scale than (1) a salad, (2) a baked potato, (3) fried chicken on the bone, (4) a Big Mac. (C'mon, you know more lettuce goes onto your lap than into your mouth ... admit it ....)

So why not? Why not Drive Through Pizza? With Pasta? There is this restaurant in Lake Tahoe with this great sounding name that would be perfect for a new chain of drive through slice shops: Fasta Pasta. I'll admit to never having eaten there, but boy did that name sound cool.

With great ideas like this, I have to wonder why I'm not the richest woman in the world.

Oh, right. That's because I blog about things and don't actually do them. That's right.

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Watch What You Say

Most families go through the phase where the child/ren repeat everything you say. In some cases this can go on for years, and the older the child, the bigger the time delay in when they repeat what you said -- usually they wait for the worst possible moment.

Take this story, for example. I think it is safe to tell it now without causing strife, as it happened over 10 years ago, and all the parties involved are either still friends or are dead....

When this story happened, my oldest niece was a little girl. I don't recall how old, exactly, but old enough to be in school. My mother, my grandmother and I were to meet my sister and her family at the local Chinese Buffet for lunch. Now, to be fair, this was a period of time where my mother's entourage seldom arrived anywhere on time. Nobody liked this, least of all my mother, but things were what they were. My mother would be hunting for coupons or something, my grandmother would forget we were going someplace ... it wasn't a pretty scene. Of course, we were all used to it by now, and everyone made some sort of accomodations for transport of the elderly and the generalized chaos that seemed to follow the three of us when we were living together. By the time we arrived, we were probably 10 minutes later than we said we'd be. At that point, my niece comes running up to us and said, "Mom told us to just go inside and get our seats, because she said, 'You know how they are!'"

Umm, yea. Kids will say the darndest things, right?

Well, we are in that phase right now with Toddler. Our one saving grace is that his speech, while complex, still requires a human interpreter, so even if he rats us out, chances are he won't be understood ... for now. I've been having fun with this by saying things like, "Go tell Daddy that Mickey Mouse is a piece of broccoli." (Of course, he does.)

Today, however, we saw what we all knew was coming. Toddler repeated something little boys aren't supposed to say. For about a minute, he was walking around the house saying, "dammit, dammit." Now, I know we have all been trying so hard not to say such things anymore, but when the brand-clean pile of laundry falls down on the big giant pile of cat fur, things just slip out, okay? Thankfully, he dropped the idea quickly, and the front door was closed.

Be very, very careful. The day has arrived....

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