Month: November 2011

Let’s Label

When I decided to write a blog, the set-up took FOREVA.  Like forty days and forty nights.  The Teacher Girl came over and said, “Watch.”  Then she did about 25 steps while texting with multiple sites getting maximized and minimized and music playing in the background and I had no idea what she did.

Even though it was all ready to go, I decided to change everything which explains the simple look I’ve got going.  Simple because it was all I was capable of.   Simple because I was Amish in another life.

This weekend I was talking to someone who has a different kind of blog and asked him a bunch of questions.  Foremost, how do you get your blog out there and attracting attention?  He gave me some advice that had something to do with something something zero or something something oh.  I can’t remember because I was having fun and drinking and you know how that goes.   And then I wondered how you labeled your posts?   By typing whatever you want in the box that says “label” on the compose page.  Drrrrrrr………….Drrrrrrr…………Double Drrrrrrr………….

I’m going to label everything I write now because I learned a new skill.  All Big Daddy posts will say, Hey, Why Don’t You Put That On The Blog?  That’s cuz whenever I think he’s done something dumb, he says that to me.  In the meantime, the Nook that The BD got me last year for Christmas sits unused because turning the pages made me so nuts I wanted to fling it across the room.   I may have to tap into my skill set and figure out how to turn just one.  At a time.  Instead of thirty.  I would label that A Breakthrough.

This is The Big Daddy yelling at me to “put it on the blog.”  So I did.


The Hofmeister Ham

Many years ago, my brother stopped by my mom’s house, popped the trunk of his car and pleaded with us to take a ham.  Take two, he said, I’ve got to get rid of these things.  He is a salesman and his company gives a Hofmeister ham to its best customers during the Christmas season.  He had a serious overstock issue.

I took one, put it in a cooler and drove it back to Kansas.  We stuck it in the fridge until Easter and IT WAS THE BOMB.  Everybody raved about the Hofmeister.  I entertain a lot of people at Easter.  A free good ham is essential to my dinner being a success.  And to people liking me.  Really, really liking me.

Now I make it my business to get in touch with my brother in early December. Hey, how you doing?  How’s Sharon?  The kids?   Good, good.  Work?  Good.  Yeah, well, since you brought up work, how ’bout securing me one of those hams?

Last year in exchange for a Hofmeister, I offered him a mint condition, collectible Scottish snowman in golf attire.  What could be more perfect for a guy who loves golf?   He emailed me back.  “Nice job trading crap from your basement.  You sure know how to make a guy feel special…..like-wearing-a-helmet-short-bus-special.”  Always the short bus jokes with the brother even when you’re both old enough to qualify for AARP.   I told him he’s always been my my special boy and to go easy with the tinsel on his helmet this Christmas so things didn’t short out upstairs.  If you know what I mean.

From there, the email got sent to my sister and all of his kids.  It was a hamstorm of activity….like chimps at the zoo flinging crap at one another.  There were accusations of me being cheap, regifting and of him only hearing from me during Ham Season.  I was offended.  I remained mature and generous (me Scotty Snowman was still on the table), but I really wanted a Hamosaurus for Christmas.  No crocodile. 

Sure enough, The Man In Brown shows up one day and I could hear the choir of angels singing as he walked up the drive.  The shepherds watched over their flocks, the people who walked in darkness had seen a great light, and unto us a Child was born.   Oh, and The Mighty Holiday Hofmeister in refrigerated packaging was sitting on my doorstep like the best damn gift ever.

Hit it angels………………

Party City

The Big Daddy and I entertain often.  This requires a lot of work and planning to make sure things go smoothly.  BD?  He’s flown by the seat of his pants from the second his Momma gave birth to him.  He plans nothing.

A few years ago, we had a chili party.   I sent out invitations and made two different kinds of chili ahead of time.  Moved furniture.  Cleaned the house and porch.  Scrubbed the bathroom.  Got wine, beer, napkins and glasses.   Decorated and strategically placed mood candles.   In order to help out, The Big Daddy left work after lunch, came home, changed his clothes and trimmed the trees.   When my neighbor saw him up on a ladder sawing branches she called to make sure we were having a party that night,  Yes, it’s tonight.  Yes, in a couple of hours.  Yes, he’s “helping” me.

Last year, we had a Christmas party with even more people invited.  The BD stayed home in the morning to help out before leaving for a meeting, and cleaned the backyard of dog crap.   A different neighbor called that time to see if I wanted her to tell him to get in the house.   You know, where the party was going to be.  

Pre-Entertaining Man Stupidity runs rampant at this time of year.   There is no known remedy, but symptoms can be managed with a shop vac, leaf blower or chainsaw.  Extreme cases may require a bobcat.

Party on.

Source: google.com via Kelly on Pinterest

Processing The Food

Thanks to this………….

Source: howdesign.com via Meg on Pinterest

……….I’ve been branching out with some recipes, and it seems most of them require a food processor.  I had a small one at one time, but gave it away since it intimidated the hell out of me.  Just reading about pulsing gave me the heebie-jeebies.

The Big Daddy had a bumper crop of tomatoes that came in about hmmm…..October.  Tomatoes had taken over the homestead so I decided to make salsa which required a food processor.  I opted to use the blender instead with less than great results.  I told my tale of woe to my friend who offered me her food processor that she had never used.  Skerd, like me.  I put my big girl panties on, put that Mother on the counter and stared it down.

I have now made two new batches of salsa that The Fam is going crazy for and I AM IN LOVE WITH THE FOOD PROCESSOR!!!!  I returned it to my friend with a breathless description of its life changing power.  She wanted a piece of that action and made a sweet potato dish with the same results as me.  Now we talk about a kitchen appliance that has been around FOREVA, like we just lifted our skirts and got off the carriage from Amish country.

My mom has had a lifelong debilitating fear of yeast.  She’s always referred to it in a low whisper, like gossiping about somebody whose husband is going to the Big House for tax evasion.  Her advice to her kids, “Stay away from it..  Don’t even try it.”

I think somewhere along the way she may have gotten the Just Say No To Drugs campaign confused with Yeast, and crazy is as crazy was raised.

Hunter & Gatherers

When The Big Daddy decided to start farming the backyard, we had a difference of opinion on the aesthetics.  I know it’s shocking.   He was going to leave the railroad ties to border it and I haaaaaaaate those things.  I convinced him that we should extend it, curve it and border it with rock. 

We are firm believers in not forking over money for things like rock, so we hunted the Great Plains in search of flagstone.  We would drive around on Sundays, pull over when things looked promising, open the hatchback and start loading.  Can I tell you how many people stopped because they thought we had car trouble?  No, just pilfering rock.  Move along.  Nothing to see..  We were getting puny amounts until The Big Daddy decided we should go to suburbia to nab our prey.

YABBA DABBA DOO!!!!  We stumbled upon a golf course under construction and it was like Bedrock.  Fred and Wilma loaded and loaded, and that car of ours dragged itself home and back many times.

We also believe that we should not pay for dirt.  Across the street, the city is putting in a walking trail to the park.  Suhweeeeeeet.  Bobcats start bright and early and this is what we’ve looked at for two weeks.  Finally, I said to The BD, “Did you see all that dirt over there?  We should go after dark and load up.”  My thoughts exactly, he said.

Great minds and gardeners think alike, and when we’re done stealing the dirt we just may bring home Johnny On The Spot.  I’ve heard that an extra bathroom always ups the resale value of a home.  Significantly.

A Revelation

In my obsession with reality shows about hoarding, I heard a pearl of wisdom from a professional organizer working with a client.  He said to her, “Life is about experiences, not things.”

Oh my.

In a house and garage that has too much stuff, a closet that is full, kitchen cabinets that barf Tupperware every time you open them, a freezer with food that can no longer be identified, and a basement that is a holding pen for crap we have no need or use for……this was an eye-opener.  I may not be a hoarder, but I buy way more than we need.

Last week, the girls and I went to see The Alvin Ailey Dancers.  That Tiny Dancer of ours has led the way to a whole new world for this family, and those professional dancers proceeded to Rocka My Soul to the Bosom of Abraham.  I’ve been singing my prayers ever since, and oh my indeed…………

It was an experience.

Doin’ 40

The Big Daddy rides his bike back and forth to work every day, and has for many years.  On the weekends, he rides early in the morning with a group of guys who call themselves The Gravy Train.  I think it’s because their wives are so frickin’ awesome their life is GRRRRRRRavy.  This is the fast ride.  A Hard 40.  The Shawshank Redemption.

It never fails that if we are out socializing on a Friday or Saturday night, The Big Daddy will say, “Yeah, I’m doin’ 40 in the morning.”  And nobody ever knows what he’s talking about.  This causes him to thump his chest and say, “40 miles.  6:30.  With The Gravy Train.”  Which leads to lots of oohs and aahs.  As if a monkey couldn’t ride a bike.

I’ve decided to play that BD at his own game.  Now when we leave a party, I say, “Yeah, I’m doing 10 tomorrow.  Maybe 12.”   And when people ask me what that means, I say, “Sentences.  10:30.  Ish.  Sweats.  Chair with wheels.”   However, if I was over-served by the hosts the night before, I write in fragments that I count as a sentence cuz I put a period at the end.  Like this.

I swear I can hear a little gasp, as if people are so impressed with me they can’t form a word.  It might be a choke, but I’m pretty sure it’s the Awe Factor.

Source: reddit.com via Cody on Pinterest