When Dreams End
1 year ago
google search
Custom Search
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Easy Recipe —Tasty Chili Cornbread Casserole
I'm writing for a site called Suite 101 now--check out my first article. It's a tasty recipe for an easy chili casserole. (Yes, I actually cook on occasion!) John, Katie and I really love it!
Friday, May 15, 2009
A cleaning product I love? Am I coming down with something?
Yes, I must be feverish. Hallucinating. Delerious. Because I've found a cleaning product I actually love! (Yes, me!) It's the Swiffer Wet Jet! Why do I love it? Let me count the ways! The Swiffer Wet Jet makes it possible to have a clean floor without either (a) scrubbing on hands & knees, or (b) lugging around a big, nasty bucket of water. Instead, I just sweep and swiffer!
I don't even need to bend over to squeegee out the sponge mop! Instead of a sponge, Swiffer WetJet uses a nifty little maxi-pad that just velcroes onto its wiping surface. The squirter is cool, too! It is battery operated, you just push a button to spray the cleaning solution onto the floor.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
Timber! A cutting tragedy in agonizing detail
The big news in my world is that our neighbors, who previously seemed like ordinary--although suspiciously perfect--people, have finally revealed themselves as a sleeper cell of militant terrorist lumberjacks. For reasons unknown, they have been visciously clear-cutting the trees in their premium, wooded lot--which abuts our wooded, but much-less-premium acreage--for eight straight days.
We've lived next door to the Perfects for ten years, but before we moved in and ruined their neighborhood, Jeff and I would drive over from the low-rent district and gaze longingly at their perfect home. We'd admire their perfect landscaping and perfectly manicured lawn. When we finally arrived next door, we discovered that although Mr. and Mrs. Perfect have two perfect children, their home has perfectly maintained white carpeting. Need I say more?
When the siege against trees began, Jeff and I reasoned that a few of their perfect trees must have perished over the winter. On the second day, we theorized that perhaps they were tired of cleaning leaves out of the gutters. When day three of non-stop chain saw and chipper/shredder activity arrived, I speculated that perhaps an in-law apartment was in the works.
Lest you start thinking that I’m the neighborhood eco-Nazi or a major control freak, you should keep in mind that I’m a freelance writer now. I’m at home in my formerly peaceful home, 24/7, absorbing every roaring engine, every grind, every chip, every shred. I love a good tree for the oxygen, shade and privacy it shares with us, but essentially it was noise that was driving me out of mine. By day four, I was downright twitchy.
When day five dawned, a beautiful rainy Monday, I was sure that blessed silence would prevail. I got up, took my daughter to the bus stop, then sat down at the computer to begin crafting gems of prose, when the first chainsaw started up with a roar. When a friend suggested I put on a hockey mask, start my chain saw and pay the Perfects a visit, this sounded like a plan to me.
Returning to reality, I realized that neither Jeff nor I have ever played hockey and our chain saw scares the poop out of me. I was strangely reassured by my personal cop-out when another friend reminded me of the danger of confronting neighbors who have large chipper-shredders available FOR YOUR DISPOSAL.
Luckily, the environmental carnage seems to have concluded with a three-day frenzy of stump-grinding and earth-moving equipment. We’re still debating its purpose. Perhaps a swimming pool? A football stadium? A putt-putt golf course? Perhaps we’ll never know. After all, as newly revealed eco-terrorists, the Perfects could tell me—but then they’d have to kill me.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Ghost of dachshunds past...
Here are some vintage photos from my mother's photo album, featuring my beloved childhood dachshunds!
">
">
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Cousin It, doggy-style
How is it possible that Sunny can shed so much and still possess a luxuriously full, shiny coat? I am currently sweeping the floor every day--and each time, I get a dog-hair tumbleweed the size of a bowling ball. It's a wonder she's not completely bald.
Between official sweeps, I scoop up small, bonus tumbleweeds that lurk in corners, at the base of chairs, behind the refrigerator. I'm convinced that there are small tufts of fur gathering stealthily throughout the house. They watch me, waiting for me to sit down, then they scurry out of hiding while my back is turned.
It's a conspiracy. Together, the hairballs plan to takeover the kitchen, the family room and then the world! Meanwhile, I'm plotting against them, determined to sweep them into oblivion--at least until I can figure out how to transform a giant hairball into a living, breathing dachshund puppy.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Nobunny wants to do this on Easter...
Our 17-year-old washing machine broke down dramatically last night, its belly full of wet blankets. The appliances must have been plotting this for weeks, conspiring to find the best possible time to act. Intent on wreaking maximum havoc, they waited patiently until our mountains of dirty clothing rivaled Mt. Everest. For the evil appliance collective, it was merely a bonus that this coincided with Easter weekend.
Now I'm hopping off to shop for a new washer on Easter Sunday! Just about every article of clothing I own is dirty. And I'm not talking about slightly dirty. I'm not talking about "brush it off and re-wear it" dirty. I'm talking "been lying in big fetid piles for weeks" dirty.
So, dear readers, here's the question of the day: Which is more appropriate attire for appliance shopping on Easter Sunday, a sequined black evening gown, or a Star Trek costume?
Monday, March 09, 2009
Cruising for (canine) companionship
(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)
I come from a long line of people who forget about common sense when confronted with a wet nose and wagging tail. My grandmother shared breakfast daily with her fox terrier, Snooky. Every morning MeMa dunked her donut in coffee, offered Snooky a bite, and then took a bite herself. Dunk, bite, bite, until the donut was gone.
My husband, Jeff, who had the pleasure of meeting both MeMa and Snooky, should have realized that I couldn’t remain dogless for long after our cocker spaniel died. Instead, he was surprised and furious when I committed the ultimate crime: bringing home an unauthorized puppy.
I can’t really blame him for not understanding. The problem stems from a fundamental difference between Jeff’s relatives and mine. My side of the family believes animals belong seated at the dinner table. Jeff’s family believes animals should be presented on a plate, medium rare with gravy on the side.
Our conflict began when I secretly began cruising the Frederick Humane Society the way some people cruise singles bars.
Like most women, I didn¹t cruise alone. My friend, Mary, who was looking for Mr. Goodcat, accompanied me. After perusing the kitties, we rounded the corner to the doggy department and there she was, sixteen pounds of scrawny black and tan coonhound pup. Our eyes met, and I knew she could see deep into my soul.
"Look at those enormous paws -- this dog will be huge!" Mary exclaimed. "And your husband will freak," she reminded me. But it was too late.
For those unfamiliar with the breed, a black and tan coonhound is a large, energetic, floppy-eared dog used for hunting raccoons, deer and bear. Picture Mickey Mouse’s dog, Pluto, sporting a Doberman’s paint scheme. A sensible suburbanite would have left the building immediately, dog-free, but as I’ve mentioned, I am not a sensible person.
"Jeff will fall in love as soon as he sees her," I assured myself as I completed the adoption papers. If Jeff needed additional convincing, I theorized that a little bonus time in the marital bed would cure him.
The reality was somewhat different. Enraged, Jeff refused to even look at Sunny. He saw through my feminine ploys and stoically slept on the couch. Luckily, we love each other quite a bit, and four years later, he has almost reached the point of forgiving me for my transgression.
Despite her father’s antagonism, Sunny has grown into a good-natured 75-pound dog who loves everyone. At our house, burglars and escaped convicts would be greeted with the same joyous celebration as the president of MilkBone International.
I’ll admit I didn’t like Sunny much when she deposited a steamy, fragrant load in the back seat of my Honda Civic, or after she rolled in a rotting rabbit carcass. But overall, I’m looking forward to growing old with both Sunny and Jeff. And I’d share a donut with either one of them.
Desperately seeking solitude
(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)
I am writing this column while locked in the powder room. Outside these four walls stands a perfectly nice house with several rooms better suited to writing, but if I open the door, they’ll find me. No, I’m not a dangerous fugitive on the FBI’s most wanted list. Even worse. I’m a Mom.
I have just one husband, one child and one dog, but together, they’ve conspired to rob me of every shred of privacy. If I were a criminal, I would have a shot at solitary confinement. Instead, I’m a law-abiding citizen who must resort to hiding in the loo to get a moment’s peace.
Under ordinary circumstances, even the bathroom isn’t off limits. Usually my economy-sized dog follows me, supervising every bodily function and pressing her cold, wet nose against my bare flesh.
Somehow I’ve also managed to slip in under the radar of my ten-year-old daughter, Caitlyn. If she finds me, she’ll commence firing a rapid volley of questions through the bathroom door -- without hesitation and seemingly without even breathing -- until she finally comes up with something that stumps me.
"When’s Daddy coming home what’s for dinner why do I have to go to church can I watch TV when my homeworks done what does gay mean why do you have hair in your nostrils?" she might inquire at top volume.
"Seven! Leftovers! Because I said so! Maybe! Ask your father! I don't know, and LEAVE ME ALONE!" I reply. Sometimes I’ll throw in an oddball response, like "rutabagas!" or "Outer Mongolia!" just to throw her off balance.
My husband could come home, slip into the LaZBoy and read War and Peace from cover to cover without hearing a peep.
I emerge from my hiding place, and the idyllic scene of domestic tranquility ends. My previously content family suddenly requires my full attention for dinner cooking, homework helping, clothes laundering, permission-slip signing, Scholastic book ordering, bill paying, doctor’s appointment making and dog walking.
Now, don’t get me wrong -- I love my family. I would slay a dragon for them. I would take a bullet for them. I would even go on Fear Factor for them. But I would give a case of Charmin for ten blissfully uninterrupted minutes alone.
I’m thinking of entering the Witness Protection Program, but that seems a little drastic. What I need is a better hiding place. With a lawn chair, some cheerful paint and a padlock, the walk-in closet might just do the trick!
I am writing this column while locked in the powder room. Outside these four walls stands a perfectly nice house with several rooms better suited to writing, but if I open the door, they’ll find me. No, I’m not a dangerous fugitive on the FBI’s most wanted list. Even worse. I’m a Mom.
I have just one husband, one child and one dog, but together, they’ve conspired to rob me of every shred of privacy. If I were a criminal, I would have a shot at solitary confinement. Instead, I’m a law-abiding citizen who must resort to hiding in the loo to get a moment’s peace.
Under ordinary circumstances, even the bathroom isn’t off limits. Usually my economy-sized dog follows me, supervising every bodily function and pressing her cold, wet nose against my bare flesh.
Somehow I’ve also managed to slip in under the radar of my ten-year-old daughter, Caitlyn. If she finds me, she’ll commence firing a rapid volley of questions through the bathroom door -- without hesitation and seemingly without even breathing -- until she finally comes up with something that stumps me.
"When’s Daddy coming home what’s for dinner why do I have to go to church can I watch TV when my homeworks done what does gay mean why do you have hair in your nostrils?" she might inquire at top volume.
"Seven! Leftovers! Because I said so! Maybe! Ask your father! I don't know, and LEAVE ME ALONE!" I reply. Sometimes I’ll throw in an oddball response, like "rutabagas!" or "Outer Mongolia!" just to throw her off balance.
My husband could come home, slip into the LaZBoy and read War and Peace from cover to cover without hearing a peep.
I emerge from my hiding place, and the idyllic scene of domestic tranquility ends. My previously content family suddenly requires my full attention for dinner cooking, homework helping, clothes laundering, permission-slip signing, Scholastic book ordering, bill paying, doctor’s appointment making and dog walking.
Now, don’t get me wrong -- I love my family. I would slay a dragon for them. I would take a bullet for them. I would even go on Fear Factor for them. But I would give a case of Charmin for ten blissfully uninterrupted minutes alone.
I’m thinking of entering the Witness Protection Program, but that seems a little drastic. What I need is a better hiding place. With a lawn chair, some cheerful paint and a padlock, the walk-in closet might just do the trick!
A Fond Farewell to the Mom-mobile
(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)
Losing a friend is always difficult, even when that friend wears steel-belted radials. Yes, after ten years of faithful service, my original mom-mobile has gone to the big junkyard in the sky.
Contrary to popular belief, a mom-mobile doesn’t need to be a particular make or model. Since I have just one child, mine was a little red Honda Civic. Yet her mom-ness was as unmistakable as if she were a minivan.
In the early years, the mom-mobile was still looking pretty cute. As an infant, my daughter, Caitlyn, was too small and powerless to be considered a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, sure, Baby Cait made the obligatory juice and formula spills. Her animal crackers made their way into every nook and cranny. But the real devastation was yet to come.
As my daughter grew, so did her accessories. The full-sized car seat was so large and awkward that I knocked off the mom-mobile’s door trim while trying to squeeze it into the back seat.
And have you ever tried to navigate a full-sized bicycle into the trunk of a Honda Civic? Let’s not even go there. It’s an ugly scene that involves scratching the paint, breaking fingernails and using language unbecoming a lady.
Within a few seasons, any mom-mobile worth her salt also develops an aroma all her own, crafted from a subtle blend of fermented formula dribbles, potty-training accidents and McDonald’s french fries. My own coffee spills and a complete set of antique junk food bags enhance both the aroma and the décor.
Visits to the veterinarian’s office also add character to a mom-mobile. Each and every time we embark upon this journey, I carefully cover the back seat with an extra large towel purchased solely for this purpose. And each and every time, Sunny the Wonder Dog carefully uncovers the seat and yaks up her lunch directly onto the fine upholstery.
Lest you think life as a mom-mobile requires only interior destruction, I’ll also give you a virtual tour of the exterior highlights. To your right, you’ll observe the scraped fender that resulted when toddler Caitlyn let out a blood-curdling scream just as I was trying to parallel park next to a retaining wall.
To your left, you’ll see the mom-mobile’s unique rear door. Its charming “distressed” finish and one-of-a-kind shape occurred one frazzled morning when I backed out of the garage without realizing that the passenger door was ajar. Later, I shredded the door gasket while trying to open the door with a coat hanger when I locked my keys inside after a frantic trip to the pediatrician’s office.
Yes, despite the years of abuse I heaped upon her, the mom-mobile was a dedicated team player, a real trouper who served me well. If she had been a baseball player, she’d be a shoe-in for the Hall of Fame. But since she was but a humble econo-box, I’ll just invite you to raise your sippy cup of apple juice to toast in her honor. To the mom-mobile. She was a classic.
Losing a friend is always difficult, even when that friend wears steel-belted radials. Yes, after ten years of faithful service, my original mom-mobile has gone to the big junkyard in the sky.
Contrary to popular belief, a mom-mobile doesn’t need to be a particular make or model. Since I have just one child, mine was a little red Honda Civic. Yet her mom-ness was as unmistakable as if she were a minivan.
In the early years, the mom-mobile was still looking pretty cute. As an infant, my daughter, Caitlyn, was too small and powerless to be considered a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, sure, Baby Cait made the obligatory juice and formula spills. Her animal crackers made their way into every nook and cranny. But the real devastation was yet to come.
As my daughter grew, so did her accessories. The full-sized car seat was so large and awkward that I knocked off the mom-mobile’s door trim while trying to squeeze it into the back seat.
And have you ever tried to navigate a full-sized bicycle into the trunk of a Honda Civic? Let’s not even go there. It’s an ugly scene that involves scratching the paint, breaking fingernails and using language unbecoming a lady.
Within a few seasons, any mom-mobile worth her salt also develops an aroma all her own, crafted from a subtle blend of fermented formula dribbles, potty-training accidents and McDonald’s french fries. My own coffee spills and a complete set of antique junk food bags enhance both the aroma and the décor.
Visits to the veterinarian’s office also add character to a mom-mobile. Each and every time we embark upon this journey, I carefully cover the back seat with an extra large towel purchased solely for this purpose. And each and every time, Sunny the Wonder Dog carefully uncovers the seat and yaks up her lunch directly onto the fine upholstery.
Lest you think life as a mom-mobile requires only interior destruction, I’ll also give you a virtual tour of the exterior highlights. To your right, you’ll observe the scraped fender that resulted when toddler Caitlyn let out a blood-curdling scream just as I was trying to parallel park next to a retaining wall.
To your left, you’ll see the mom-mobile’s unique rear door. Its charming “distressed” finish and one-of-a-kind shape occurred one frazzled morning when I backed out of the garage without realizing that the passenger door was ajar. Later, I shredded the door gasket while trying to open the door with a coat hanger when I locked my keys inside after a frantic trip to the pediatrician’s office.
Yes, despite the years of abuse I heaped upon her, the mom-mobile was a dedicated team player, a real trouper who served me well. If she had been a baseball player, she’d be a shoe-in for the Hall of Fame. But since she was but a humble econo-box, I’ll just invite you to raise your sippy cup of apple juice to toast in her honor. To the mom-mobile. She was a classic.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
Quote of the day
Feelings are like toes! They have to breathe free or they'll stink to high heaven!
Takayuki Ikkaku, Arisa Hosaka and Toshihiro Kawabata, Animal Crossing: Wild World, 2005
Takayuki Ikkaku, Arisa Hosaka and Toshihiro Kawabata, Animal Crossing: Wild World, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
