pensieve.me

The accidental, honey-fied catching of a fly

I almost titled this the Taming of the Shrew....  Read on.  You'll understand.

* * * * *

Company was coming in hours and he was giving up his room for their visit.  Not because he volunteered, but because we told him so. 

Out of four, his is the messiest room in the house; he would even agree.  He's content to let things fall as they may...and stay there.  Dirty clothes ~ heck, clean clothes! ~ years' old rubber bands from when he had braces, papers from the 9th grade (he's a junior).  His closet floor is stacked to the hem of hanging shirts, and there's no more room for anything that should live there.  Like shoes, which he somewhat orderly lines along his wall behind the drum set.

Five pair, three (I come to find out) don't even fit anymore.

I'm busy, cleaning the rest of the house, readying for my sister and brother and their families.  They aren't White Glovers, but I want them to feel comfortable and anticipated, and part of that is getting the house in Company Order.  It's still in good shape from my manic Thanksgiving cleaning spree, so there's really not a whole lot to do.

Thomas tells me his room is clean, so I wander in to make sure.  With a mom's laser precision, I point out the overflowing trash still in his can, his mirror that hasn't been Windexed since 2009, a few other things; not bad for him.

So he's really done this time, and when I notice the shoes still lined along the wall, I open his closet door to throw them inside.  The towering avalanche of stuff smiles and winks at me.  

So I begin without a word.  My spirit is thrumming the familiar, "If you want anything done right you've got to do it yourself," and frankly I'm not interested in involving him.  I'm the one who wants to know what's in there, obviously it doesn't bother him. 

This time, rather than teaching him to fish, I'm feeding him for the day. 

The rest of the house is waiting a good vacuuming, dusting and mopping, but I choose the Black Hole, unable to resist its attraction.

I start with hanging shirts.  Easy enough; they're mostly on top.

But then I get to the real pile and the only option is to pull everything out to determine what stays and what goes. 

Out comes four duffle bags--they take up so much room!  One he uses, one he might, and two that show their age and he'll never use again.  An old bookbag whose zippers lost their teeth.  Football pads from when he played in 7th grade.  Books from the 10th grade.  Shorts that don't fit.  Socks--the matches to the singles I keep finding!  Empty boxes, three.  Broken drumstick.  A fiery Bozo wig. 

With light at end of tunnel, I finally call him to identify clothes I'm uncertain about.  He's furious when he discovers what I'm doing, his expression, pained.  He thinks I'm judging him, but I'm not.  This time, anyway.

"I'm not fussing, baby," I assure him.  I think he senses this truth.  "There are just a few things I'm not sure about."

"You're doing this NOW?!" he asks, and I explain I just wanted to move his shoes into his closet and one thing led to another.  He knows I clean like this.

He's understandably defensive, anger boiling just under skin.  Resignation hangs on his broad shoulders.  But one by one we beginning sifting through the remaining pile, and he explains whether to keep, give away, throw out, or pass down to his brother. 

We find a rhythm, a momentum.  I am patient and kind. 

Usually I'm a screamy shrew with a judger's dagger.

Small wonder he's tense; he's expecting my usual.

But then something unexpected happens.  As I maintain a sense of calm and kindness, he begins to soften.  His personality comes into play.  We begin laughing...and having fun. 

He's taking ownership.

The boy's gone fishing!

I finish his closet ~ it hasn't looked this beautiful since we moved in ~ but he keeps going!  He empties all his drawers, folds everything neatly, tosses or gives away clothes he won't wear again.

I put the two pair of shoes that still fit in his closet. 

His pride and satisfaction fills the room.

And it slowly dawns on me....

you can,

in fact,

catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

 

Honey photo credit

Black and white and red all over

Oh, my.

I loved the book The Help, not because it was the best-written novel I've ever read, but because I can identify with the story in part, because this is the era in which I grew up.  I thought (romanticized??) that Abileen's and Minny's perspective gave me a glimpse into the other side of the relationship we had with Callie growing up--  

The maid who worked for my grandmother, then after her death, our family, and then eventually for my brother, until Callie's own death.  

We loved her and she sat on the family pew at my and my sister's wedding.

I liked the movie well enough, but I stumbled across a post by Kola Boof that opened my eyes to how black/African women might view the movie.

So I tweeted my musing.

From there, Kola Boof retweeted my link, and a volatile (from her end) conversation ensued (storify.com here.  Originally I embedded the exchange below; I've since decided I'd rather keep the vitriol off my blog....)

There's just too much to try to dissect the whole thing--I was stunned--but mostly it makes me wish I could find my way into a respectful conversation with a group of black women ranging from 45-85.  

And on both sides the adage 

seek to understand before you seek to be understood

marks boundary.

Don't feel sorry for me; I invited the conversation (although without meaning to).  I thought Boof's post, although angry, was challenge to conventional white thinking.  No need to come to my defense in any way, either; I didn't even take what she said personally, I'm just flabbergasted at the lack of civility.  

If any African American women read this post, could you politely share your thoughts good, bad or ugly?  

 

Motherhood, martyrdom and GET OVER YOURSELF!

After a restless night, I was rudely awakened by the sounds of footsteps and chatter just outside my bedroom door; the hallway hardwood floor might as well have been canyons.  This was unusual--my daughter and her two friends typically sleep in when spending the night together.  Today they had plans, though, so necessity dictated they rise before the earliest of birds had even begun thinking of worms.  

Seeing how they had finally gone to bed around 3 a.m.--"We couldn't stop talking..."--I'm sure in hindsight there was some regret about not calling it a night earlier, but I hardly felt sorry for them.  Their lack of sleep was due to choice; mine wasn't.

I stumbled to the kitchen following the invisible trail of caffeine, hoping aroma and drink would bring me to life.  I found the coffee pot alright, but I also found the sink that was empty last night full of dirty dishes.  The dishwasher was full of clean.

My 16-year-old son also had two friends over, and between the (c o u n t i n g...) SEVEN teenagers in my house, every bowl, cup and spoon had been used. 

 

Indignance began to rise in my person.

 

As an at-home mom, I take care of most domestic responsibilities, all the while teaching my able-bodied teenage children how to do the same.  They make their own beds, clean room and bathroom, vacuum common areas, help with laundry, and whatever else we delegate.

Unloading the dishwasher is at the top of their chore list, so unless absolutely necessary, I rarely do that for them.  This morning was not one of those days I felt inclined.

With the girls here, I gave up my last cup of coffee--the one I didn't need anyway.  I assured them I could make another pot if I wanted some, and off they went.  

Most likely sleep deprivation was shaping my ill temperament, but when I made that second cup of coffee and it was weak and a step above dirty dishwater, I mentally blamed the teenagers for wrecking my morning!  Dirty dishes, not enough caffeine (which I should've taken as a sign from God to stop at one), keeping me up too late last night, waking me up too early this morning--I was a hot mess of mean and spiteful (which if you know me, is NOT me).  

To make some kind of misguided, sanctimonious point, I slapped on my pink rubber gloves and washed everything, leaving the dishes on the counter to dry.  The boys would have those and the full dishwasher to put away when they got up, my daughter was off the hook with her prior commitment.

There!  That would show them!

And then it hit me--

That herd of teenagers could have been a lot of other places last night; they could've been

...spending money they don't really have,

...on the road, which presents its own brand of danger, 

...falling to temptations that lurk in corners and shadows...

but instead they were in our home...

watching movies...

   playing ping pong and X-box...

baking cookies...

   working on their music (and dreams)...

hanging out with friends...

   eating lots of junk...

and getting dishes dirty.

 

Poof!  Just like that my perspective shifted, my heart filled with thanks, and I realized sometimes...

minor inconveniences are blessings in disguise.

 

While I'm licking my wounds...

Three things while I try my "best" to rewrite the post I was "this close" to publishing, the follow-up to A Time to Speak--somehow lost when I blinked [insert screeching, foot stomping and language that would earn me an "R" rating here]. 

[1]  The movie version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince opened at midnight, and because searches for "pensieve" have already been heating up, a few bits of related trivia:
    a)  Pensieve is pronounced like "pensive", not pen sieve.
    b)  What, in fact, is a pensieve?  A stone basin used to store memories, to relieve the mind of clutter.  Memories, seen by a third-person point of view, can be re-visited by anyone; the viewer is present in the memory but not a part.
    c)  A pensieve was first introduced in book four, "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, when Harry accidentally discovered it in Dumbledore's office.  Pensieves in the movie series do not look like they're described in the books!
    d)  It should play a prominent part in the movie; it certainly does in book six.  {Revised...it does play a prominent role...and if you wanna know my take on the movie??  Ask...:)}
    e)  I've been criticized for using it as my blog name due to its association with sorcery :(.  IMHO, it was a brilliant concept, and I saw it as literary device to advance plot more than say, playing Pied Piper and leading you all to hell. 

[2]  I posed a question on Twitter, asking followers to name their favorite childhood non-electronic toys.  How 'bout shouting out your favorites in comments and/or voting in the poll below:

[3]  I have a "personal trainer" now, and I gotta admit it, between him and the looming threat of having to buy "the next size up", I'm highly motivated.  Couple that with two friends who are similarly motivated, and voila!  I've got accountability.  Which, for the record, is ABSOLUTELY kickin' my trash!  It's amazing to me how just a little bit of exercise encourages me to cut down on junk food--amazing in the "I'm-not-the-least-bit-happy-about-it-so-I'd-better-see-some-results-soon kind of way.

Part of Charles' training is delivered via text message.  Tidbits like, "Remember:  Breath is FUEL!  Concentrate on smooth rhythmic breathing patterns when you walk.  Especially when you increase intensity.  Deliberate, intentional," and "I wouldn't focus so much on weight loss.  Think of it as muscle redistribution. Patience, Grasshopper."

The best part of it is he works for FOOD!  Cook him a decent meal and we're good for a few weeks! :) 

Seriously, go visit his new blog and comment a little encouragement.  The guy's a spin master AND avid cyclist and he knows the science of exercise!

Irony

File this one under "You've gotta be kidding me...!":

Mentioned a few posts ago, I received an email notification that we would NOT be receiving the Rock Band 2 Wireless Drum Set I had:

• ordered weeks prior
• been given a UPS tracking number and a delivery date 
• found within a half hour's driving distance, but because of the two bullets mentioned above, decided to save the gas money & time suckage, since, you know...it was "on its way" 

Well, as any desperate mother would do, I let my fingers do the walking and I continued to call stores locally to see if anyone had one in stock; I'd get a "yes" from a store employee (temporarily elated) only to be let down when they realized I needed it for X-BOX not Play Station.

The Friday night before Christmas, we went out to dinner; while we waited on our food, I decided to check Best Buy one more time, and, OH!MY!WORD! when I walked in there were TWO wireless drum sets for X-Box!

I commenced to Snoopy happy dancing, nose in the air and feet barely touching the ground.  Any mother would KNOW why I did; everyone else just thought I was Christmas-crazy.  

Who cared that they looked like returns?  Heavily taped by apparently a four year old, I choose the "better" of the two, paid for it, and then, stealth-like-a-fox, got my daughter to sneak into the restaurant, ask my husband for the car keys, and without any suspicions from my sons (I'm s u r e), snuck them into the back of our van and covered them with a picnic blanket I keep for emergencies of the picnic or need-to-hide-presents variety.

Cause don't we all have emergencies like that?

Oh! the glory of mother success!  Christmas morning would be joyful indeed!

The next day, we hit the road for a visit to Georgia for a wedding and then to South Carolina for Christmas with my husband's family.  We returned home on Tuesday evening. 

The Tuesday before Christmas.

Once unpacked, the next thing our boys did, was crank up the ol' X-Box to settle the DTs they were experiencing from three days on the road without a gaming fix.  

Nothing happened.  

They unplugged it, replugged it, tried to reset it, whatever you do to make it work....and nothing.  

Maybe we should've had the neighbors feed it along with our pets while we were gone, but whatever the problem, our 362-day-old X-Box was dead.  

On Christmas morning, there would be no use for the wireless drum set I had scored for my son; there would be no use for the Madden '09 game my brother got Thomas.  

Thomas' Christmas was beginning to look like the "What might have been" or "If only" or "Coal in your stocking would've been more fun".  He's reasonable, and I was thankful at 14 he could understand delayed gratification, but he's also still a kid, and I knew he would be disappointed.

Carrots dangled just out of bite's reach, knowing they're going to be so tasty, but having to wait to eat them.  Somethin' like that....

(The good thing was service at X-Box is excellent; we downloaded a pre-paid mailing label to return it, and they promised to repair or replace it within two-three weeks.)

There are TWO sweetly silver linings in this tale, though--

1. After I found out we WEREN'T going to get the set mail order, I told Thomas his gift was canceled, and as soon as we could find one, we'd get it for him (I didn't tell him WHAT it was, just that we found out at the last minute it wasn't being shipped).  I told him about ripping GamesForLess and Buy.com, and his response that melted me?  "Awwww, Mom, you DO love me, don't you?"  (He liked that I was all bowed up and defensive for HIS sake, not that my love is ever in doubt.)
2. Our friends, Chris and Julie, came to his rescue, letting us borrow their X-Box until his returns.   

And that single act of generosity, might've been the sweetest gift to Thomas of all :).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What about you?  Did you have any missteps this Christmas?  Did anyone extend an act of generosity to you or someone in your family?  
   

My Series of Unfortunate Events, part troix

{Continued from "My series, part two"}

"It's just water," I rationalized.  "And it was only half a bottle...."

Clearly, the icy shock that now drenched my nether regions had affected all sense of sound reason and good taste.

Leaving home with just enough time to get my son and his friend back to school on time was my first mistake; the second was thinking it was a good decision to traipse around with my britches soaking wet, that if it didn't bother me, no one would notice.

(Sometimes I can be the Queen of Self Delusion. It’s the grown-up equivalent of a child closing his eyes and sing-songing, “I caaan’t see you!”.)

We arrived at the school minutes before the bell rang, and my daughter was at our pre-arranged meeting spot, my credit card in hand.

“Sorry, Mom…I forgot to give it back yesterday. Oh, and I forgot to give your change back, too—want it?”  She knew I was in a hurry and wouldn’t wait for her to scavenge through her purse to find it, so score one for her impeccable sense of timing. Typically, she doesn’t even carry her purse at school, she squirrels it away in my car, knowing it’s there when she needs something. Score a second point for Murphy—the day I need something out of her purse, is the day she decides to take it with her!

Heading back to Wal Mart, I convinced myself my pants were almost dry; the truth I denied was my wet jeans now simply equaled my body temperature, and I couldn’t feel the differential…until I got out of my car to walk indoors.

Walking briskly and deliberately to the door, thoughts swirled—half a bottle is a LOT of water, pants don’t dry when you’re sitting in a puddle, so this is what chafing feels like, I bet it looks like I wet my pants but if anyone sees my Dreaded Wet Butt, shame on them for looking!—all very reasonable and cogent thought when you’re well out of the Pampers stage of life and not yet at the Depends phase.

I was a Woman on a Mission, however, and a little humiliation wasn’t going to stop me. With head held high, I continued my Emperor’s New Clothes charade, and marched to customer service.

Armed with a debit card that needed to be credited and a credit card that needed to be debited, I presented my receipt while bloviating my dilemma to the Customer Service Associate.

Her response, Amanda’s response, left my jaw dragging the floor and restored my faith in humanity:

She said—cheerfully—“Sure! We can do that!”.  That wasn't the response I anticipated.

This was no simple task; my receipt had 67 items sold on it. If I had a buggy of groceries with me, she could have simply scanned their return, then re-scanned their purchase on the other card. Instead, item by item, she had to key in the UPC code, then answer two questions for it. For 67 items.

Let’s do the math:

67 items x 12 UPC digits + 2 questions = 938 numbers keyed in

That was for the return; for the re-purchase, it was a bit quicker--

67 items x 12 UPC digits + 1 question (I think) = 871 numbers keyed in

Total:  1809 numbers keyed in.

Remarkably, she only made one mistake, and it took her just seconds to locate and correct.  I asked her if I could nominate her for Employee of the Year and she just shrugged, smiled and said they don’t do that. The whole process had taken just short of AN HOUR and she was kind throughout the entire transaction.

Can you imagine the line that grew behind me during transaction? Can you imagine how much they HATED ME? Thank goodness 20 minutes in, another cashier began processing returns, and she CLEARLY indicated to Amanda how glad she was not to have gotten me (mutual feeling). I think nine others were helped in the time it took to complete my return.

Of course, if you stand in the Wal Mart customer service area long enough, you’re going to see some pretty entertaining things; only because this story is SO LONG already will I spare you the details of The Redneck Woman, a badly-concealed bruise on her cheek, her VERY LOUD AND PROFANE threats for her “companion” to get the ef away from her, her crossing my personal space bubble (close enough for me to get second-hand cancer from her nicotine-clouded breath) to ask me “WAS THEY FIXIN’ ONE OF THEIR MISTAKES OR WAS YOU RETURNIN’ THAT MUCH STUFF?” and I was scared she might pull out a can of whoop-A$$ if I told her the truth, cause let me tell you this, I’m pretty sure I saw the outline of a comb switchblade in her back pocket.

Anyways…………….

By the time all was said and done, I had given up on my agenda and resigned myself to hamster-spinning for the rest of the day.

But at least by then, my pants were dry.

My series of unfortunate events, part deux

To begin, please read Part One

Do you ever feel as if you (and the world) would be better served some days if you pulled a pillow over your head and never got out of bed?  Little did I suspect, following my day of abject, public humiliation last week, things were about to sink to a new low, in part, because of a misstep the day before.  In front of God and e.v.e.r.y.b.o.d.y.

Unlike Tuesday, a day over-flowing with the minutia and demands of life with children, Wednesday was simply fraught with frustration.  Thankfully, typically, I am even tempered; my personality is not characterized by emotional rollar coasterism.  Perhaps exacerbated by my third sleepless night in a row, however, on Wednesday I was fraggggiiile.  (I should know better than to twitter at a time like that; those who follow me could tell something was wrong in less than 140 characters!)

My in-laws were due in for a visit the next day, and I needed to ready my home for company.  Though they've never put pressure on me to have the house in perfect order, my mother-in-law is the consummate wife and housekeeper; I "do" to myself what she would never do, just because I want them to feel welcome.   

Because they were coming to town, I also knew time online would be limited; I wanted (and needed) to edit some posts for Inspired Bliss and Blog Nosh, not to mention, write and schedule a few for PENSIEVE.  Other details escape me now, but the day was agendized to get it all done.

Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men...!

Not long after I dropped the kids off at school, I got a call from my oldest son--an actor in the Fall play--explaining that the cast was dismissed from 10-1, I guess as consolation for countless hours of practice; they performed the play for the student body first thing that morning and didn't have to return to class until after lunch.

Unfortunately, he hadn't told me in advance, or I would've run the errands I needed to run while I waited on his dismissal.  Because we live so far from the school, I realized an hour was just taken from my day...a very inconvenient time to lose an hour.

Screaming inappropriately at the top of my lungs Muttering politely under my breath as I drove to the school, I must've looked like a deranged psychopath--I was cussing m.a.d. my plans were interrupted!  A healthy dose of mother guilt calmed the beast within, forcing me to acknowledge my own selfishness.

The guilt did little to minimize twitchy frustration.

When I arrived at school, my son had a cast-mate friend with him.  In these days of outrageous gas prices, my eye is always on the most efficient route to get "everything done", so I asked the boys if they minded a stop at Wal Mart on the way home....

It wasn't really a question. 

They were so grateful to get out of class, they probably would've gone underwear AND bra shopping with me! They were likely relieved they could play in the electronics department while I shopped.

My intent was to pick up just a few things; as is often the case, "while I'm there", I remember we're out of EVERYTHING, so a three-item trip turned into a 45-minute shopping spree and a mile-long receipt totaling $180. 

As the cashier approached the end of my pile, I reached inside my purse for my credit card.

It wasn't there.

In a panic, I began looking through every pocket of my purse, every compartment of my wallet.  The line was getting longer, my blood pressure was getting higher, the boys were getting embarrassed and the ice cream was getting soupy.

It still wasn't there.

As I lived out the definition of insanity--doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome--I sent the boys to the car to look for my card.

We charge just about everything for the cash-back incentive (paying the balance monthly); that, coupled with the token amount I keep in my checking account, meant using my debit card wasn't a great option. 

But it was all I had and I didn't want to have to re-shop those groceries, so while the boys were CSI-ing the car, I asked if I could charge everything with my debit card, then, WHEN I FOUND THE BLOOMING CREDIT CARD, transfer it to that. 

OF C O U R S E, they said it wouldn't be a problem...as long as I did so that day.

As expected, the boys returned empty-handed, so I completed the transaction with the debit card.

We went home, unloaded groceries; they hung out, and I changed sheets, swept and vacuumed, dusted, washed clothes, folded laundry...and I'm sure, twittered and blogged until it was time to take them back to school. 

Very concerned about having lost my credit card, then someone finding it and charging millions on it, I mentally retraced my steps.  Eventually it hit me:  I had given it to Rachel the day before and she had never returned it.  A phone call confirmed it, so when I dropped off the boys, I planned to meet her so I could transfer the groceries to that card.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I always take water bottles in the car with me; sometimes, there's a stash of 3-4 half-full ones.  Thursday, I grabbed a new one from the pantry, unscrewed the lid as we walked out the door, and got in the car.  As I backed out, distracted, I was aggravated from all the open bottles that occupied every freakin' cup holder in the front of our car.  I situated my fresh bottle in my lap, and continued on our way back to school.

As I pulled out of our driveway, the bottle tipped, and drenched my lap.

Which would've been bad enough on its own, but I had several stops along the way...and there was no time to change clothes...so...

to be continued...again

{Now that Part Three is published, I'm linking it here :) }

A series of unfortunate events

File this under "Bloggers will share anything."

Two caveats before we begin:

• I've had about 12 hours sleep over the past three nights.

• If you tell me the following is hormone related, I might chuck a brick upside your head.

• Laugh at me, laugh with me...it matters not to me, I just hope you laugh (oops three, make that THREE caveats)!

Yesterday was one of those days that was full before it began; starting with voting right after I took the children to school, and ending--one eye closed and two ears open--with President-elect Obama "yes we canning" me to sleep.  A mad-cap blur of children, taxi service, mammogram, Precept study and soccer games marked the "in-between". 

Oh, and my oldest going to the DMV to get her license.

Heaven forbid that should have gone smoothly.

Only this time, it wasn't the DMV's fault.  Long lines would have been welcome inconvenience compared to what DID happen.

Because I had been running all day, by the time we got to the DMV, I really had to "go"; I'm a camel and can drive forever without needing a bathroom break, but 4:00 is apparently equivalent to "forever".  While my daughter filled out the necessary paperwork, I excused myself to their restroom.

I don't know about your local Department of Motor Vehicles, but ours is highly trafficked and the bathroom is barely a notch above gas station quality.  Like most moms, I can get in and out of a bathroom without touching anything, a skill that serves us well (especially during the potty training years). 

The toilet seat was broken, positioned cock-eyed over the bowl.  No problem, I wasn't sitting anyway, and I proceeded to assume "the position."  Moments later, I was much relieved (in every sense of the word) having previously consumed two cups of coffee, a water bottle and a Diet Vanilla Coke. I wadded up a handful of tp to "finish" (I'm doing my level best to articulate this tastefully, but is that even possible???) and then kinda sorta stood up.

That's when I first detected a "problem".

The back of my left pants leg was wet.

I thought, "How did that happen?"   I mean, it wasn't raining, I hadn't splashed in a puddle, I certainly didn't spill bottled water on my lap while driving... and then it hit me.

I whipped my head around, looked down at the VERY CROOKED toilet seat (thankyewverymuch) and realized I had missed the target-OH-YES-I-DID!   The entire back-side of my left leg was ringing wet--OH-MY-WORD--and IT WASN'T WATER FROM THE FAUCET!

AND I HAD TO GO BACK OUT TO A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE WAITING TO GET THEIR DRIVER'S LICENSE!

OH.NO.OH.NO.OH.NO!!!!

I proceeded with my only option.  I washed my hands, walked out the door, prayed for an invisibility cloak, pretended nothing had happened, and through hysterical laughter, whispered in Rachel's ear that I had to run home and change clothes.  She looked at me like I was crazy.  When I reluctantly explained what was wrong, she lost it too.

Do you think anyone knew what we were laughing at?  I had to walk through the center aisle of a waiting room full of people, so it's possible they noticed the crazy lady with wet pants walking out the door. (Or maybe this sort of thing happens all the time at the DMV.)

Well, before I left, I gave Rachel the cash I had and left my credit card with her in case the fee was more than my cash on hand...

...which set up today's misadventure.  Do I even have to mention it involves another unfortunate pants-wetting...?

s i g h

I'm mid-40s and though I haven't had to deal with bladder incontinence (yet), apparently I'm the queen of bladder incompetence.  Stay tuned click here for Part Two.

:)

If you're interested in the next "event" in this "series", please be sure to subscribe in a reader if you aren't already.

"Iron" IS a four-letter word, after all...

Just when the vertical, six-inch (palm to mid-forearm) bunny scratch was almost healed, my iron attacked me.  Viciously and without warning.  Doesn't the wound look angry, like a grimacing pair of lips?

Apparently, domestic chores are hazardous to my health...;)

   

She's trying to kill me, but I still love her

This afternoon, I planned to do two things I rarely do:  watch daytime TV and iron. I figured one made the other endurable, though really, I'm not sure which one I disdain more. 

Some friends of ours were on Rachael Ray's talk show today, and since I knew I was going to be out during the segment, last night I asked my son to record it for me.  In the midst of doing all things house and home, I set up the ironing board, rounded up a stack of wrinkled cotton, and scanned the DVR for my show.

Instead of finding Rachael Ray's talk show, however, Thomas had recorded $40 a Day.  Because many things In My Real Life mirror Seinfeld moments, "The Doll" episode popped in my mind--if you're a fan, think Kathy Griffin and the wrong barbecue sauce, and if you aren't a fan, WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?! never mind.

But I digress. 

This is about pre-meditated murder; the weapon of choice?  a stick of lard.  Why does EVERY RECIPE "SHE" USES include at least ONE STICK of BUTTER???  I'll get to that shortly....

I had already had one glitch in my domestic intentions when I discovered after cleaning the "trap" for our front loading HE washing machine, I HADN'T SCREWED IT BACK IN CORRECTLY AND THE ENTIRE LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR WAS FLOODED WITH AN INCH OF WATER, but that's another story, and just cleaning up the mess nearly did me in, adding two extra loads of laundry to tend.

I was bummed about not getting to see Chip and Tracey (thanks to the internets for bailing me out on that one!), so I scanned the guide to see what else was on--there was no way I wasn't going to iron SOMETHING and I needed a distraction to keep me going.

Well, la-di-dah, my BFF PAULA DEEN was on, cooking up a breakfast that had my mouth watering almost as much as my washer.  And though I haven't had time to try them out myself, I was compelled to share my favorite with you--a true taste of the South: 

Baked Garlic Cheese Grits

Ah....just the sound of them has me livin' at altitude again (name the movie reference?).  I'll be fixin' these for breakfast the next time we have company...and if I don't live to tell ya about it, a) you can find Paula in Savannah, and b) I will have "passed" fat, dumb and happy. 

Enjoy!

• 6 cups chicken broth
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon pepper
• 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
• 2 cups regular grits
• 16 ounces Cheddar, cubed
• 1/2 cup milk
• 4 large eggs, beaten
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
• 8 ounces grated sharp white Cheddar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 4-quart casserole dish.

Bring the broth, salt, pepper, and garlic powder to a boil in a 2-quart saucepan. Stir in the grits and whisk until completely combined. Reduce the heat to low and simmer until the grits are thick, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add the cubed Cheddar and milk and stir. Gradually stir in the eggs and butter, stirring until all are combined. Pour the mixture into the prepared casserole dish. Sprinkle with the white Cheddar and bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until set.

Note:  check out the episode link for the other Sunday Brunch recipes:  applesauce bread, creamy apple butter and sausage balls.  Click the graphic for TONS of great ideas at Rocks In My Dryer-hosted WFMW.

Photo credit:  About.com (I couldn't find an exact photo, but this is a good representation).