Friday's Fave Five- Olympics

So, here are my favorites for the week. I seem to have some kind of Olympic theme this week.

Notice none of them involves the postman. The reason I pick on Newman and not some punk kids taking things from our mailbox in some kind of teenage caper is because our mailbox is locked.

Gotta let it go, m'am.

Back to my favorites.

1. The two performances by Canadian figure skater, Joannie Rochette. There is always something about the ladies' figure skating that is emotional. This story both breaks my heart and inspires me. I was so glad to see her win a medal.

2. Gold Medalist Kim Yu-Na from South Korea. After hearing about the immense pressure this young lady is under as a celebrity and skater in her country, I was so proud to see her win. Her performance was incredible.

I am also glad that the judges don't let the personal stories affect their scores. These ladies won based on merit and performance.

3. Watching and hearing my own national anthem play.

4. Watching and hearing other national anthems play.

I am a patriot of my own country, but I can be moved by the patriotism of others. What an amazing opportunity to stand there on the podium, exhausted, and watch your country's flag raised.

5. Seeing the Canadians win. Hubs thinks I'm nuts or just sappy. I always love it when people from the host country win a medal. What a proud moment to be able to win and be surrounded by your countrymen on home soil.

See my Canadian friend Susanne for some more great posts. Thanks, Susanne!

Keeping It Pithy

1. Still no valentine. The glass is half empty part of me says, "Someone is enjoying Daughter's money from her grandparents."

The glass is half full part of me says, "The valentine is just stuck in a dusty, old canvas mail container and will arrive."

Then the glass is half empty part of me interrupts in her grumpy voice and says, "Next time they'll take the valentine, the twenty, and the glass."

2. I am out of dinner ideas. Right now I'm boiling chicken on the stove hoping that by the time it is done, I'll have a recipe to put it in. Unless I have a recipe revelation, we'll be having Chicken Divan.

3. I need a haircut. Desperately. We won't discuss the roots and the gray. I can't decide what kind of cut I want, so I keep waiting. If I wait much longer, I'll have to start wearing hats.

4. Must go. Just saw Newman's little truck. Maybe he's delivering the valentine. Or a new set of glasses...

An Open Letter To Newman

Most letters begin with "Dear," but Newman, you and I both know that would be stretching it.

So.

Newman,

We've had our ups and downs. Mostly downs. We've had our disappointments. Mostly mine.

The time has come when I feel we must make amends. This enmity between us has affected the lives of my loved ones and it breaks my heart.

Over the years I've scoffed at your profession. The late mail and damaged packages. The tracking system which is just a ruse. Your attitude. Your little truck... okay I never made fun of that.

Alas, I set aside all of my unused two-cent stamps and my grievances and reach out to you with one request.

Please deliver my daughter's valentine.

Her grandmother sent it over two weeks ago. She wrote legibly and didn't use a red envelope. Still, the valentine (and the twenty tucked inside) are somewhere out there in Postal World. Lost. Lonely. Torn. (Man, I hope not.)

In the spirit of St. Valentine and all the other Hallmark holidays, let's call a truce. A little girl and her piggy bank are waiting.

I'll be at the mailbox at our usual time. You know the place.

Painfully Sincere,
Melanie

P.S. You'd better not be spending that twenty on root beer and TV Guides.

Roughing It

Hubs pitched the tent. Then he inflated the single air mattress, covered it with an arctic sleeping bag, added a pink snowman pillow, a stuffed bunny, a Build-A-Bear black lab, and a flashlight.

And that was just his sleeping area.

He and Daughter are camping in the backyard. They invited me to join them, but I don't do camping. Remember?

Seriously, I wouldn't mind it in our own yard. The bathroom is steps away and I can easily reach my Diet Coke. However, I declined the invitation. There's something sweet about a Daddy/Daughter camping outing.

I'm tucked inside with Maggie and the laptop.

All. By. Myself.

As soon as I finish this post, I may just grab the tissue box and watch The Notebook.

Oh wait, we're out of Puffs with lotion.

Now, that's roughing it.

In a last ditch effort, I'm considering clothes pins.

All of my life I've known that something was unusual (okay, weird) about my sense of smell.

I can smell things others can't. Kind of like that kid in Sixth Sense, but without the macabre.

Mama is the same way. Although, she says her sense of smell has diminished over time. We both have a lot of problems with allergies. So I've always attributed our freak-of-nature skill with malfunctioning sinuses or something.

Or we're just strange.

Sometimes this unusual talent (?) is nice. I'm able to enjoy flowers much more, my laundry smells fresh longer, and I can actually tell when Krispy Kreme has hot doughnuts without looking at the neon sign.

Maybe that's stretching it a bit.

Other times my olfactory oddity can be most unpleasant. For example, Small Town is surrounded by cows. (Like in the thousands. You do the math.)

Or when there is a rotten potato in the pantry, or an unusually strong onion odor in the trash, or the most debilitating experience of entering a public restroom.

May I also note my never used a porta-potty record. Now, can you see why?

So, as you can see. My bloodhound super skills are both blessing and curse.

Which is the point of this post. You knew I'd get to it eventually.

I have a problem. I can't seem to find the perfect anti-bacterial hand soap. This may seem insignificant to normal people, but it is quite the dilemma for me.

Bath and Body makes the neatest foam soaps, but they dry out my hands in the winter. Right now I have the Fresh Linen scent in our bathroom. I was going to suffer through the dryness for the sake of, you know, freshness, but I tell you, it smells like cough medicine to me.

Yes, as in Robitussin.

I bought a moisturizing hand soap with shea butter, but I've realized that there is something about the scent of shea butter that bothers me.

You can see. I have issues.

So, my inter-peeps, do you have any suggestions?

I do love lavender, vanilla, and fruity scents. Any products you love? Hate? Any great moisturizing hand soaps?

I know there are more pressing problems in the world right now, but we'll save feeding the starving people for tomorrow.

My nose and hands would be most grateful.

P.S. As a strange, side note, I had to give up Maybelline Stiletto mascara because the smell strangely reminds me of beer.

LidNa's (not a typo) Random Dozen: Olympic Style

1. If you could compete in one Olympic event (not necessarily winter sports) what would it be?
We're assuming that in an alternate universe, I am athletic. Right?
'Kay.
In Bizzaro World, I would love to be a figure skater. It's the closet thing to dancing and the uniforms are the coolest. I am so sophisticated.

2. Do remember a specific Olympic moment from the past?
Nancy Kerrigan. Bless her heart. And I mean that. For real.

3. Have you ever known anyone who competed in the Olympics?
No. However, I have a friend who has an extremely talented son who could possibly end up in the Olympics. He is a talented swimmer and his mother drives him to swimming practice every morning at dark-thirty and every afternoon at whatever-thirty. Rain or shine. Hot or cold. SHOUT OUT TO LL! Yes, you!

4. If everyday activities were Olympic-worthy, which activity would you have a gold medal in?
Wow. I have to think on this one. I'd love to say cleaning or cooking or organizing. Seriously, if I could hope for them playing the national anthem because of my efforts, the activity would have to be the longest time spent in yoga pants. Record breaking, I tell ya.

5. Do you know anything about your ethnic heritage?
Part Indian or Native American or whatever, part British and part Irish Wolfhound. I mean, I may have some Irish. Who knows?

6. Do you enjoy sleeping late?
Yes! Finally something that would win me the gold medal!

7. Have you ever performed CPR on anyone? Do you know how? (Yes, that's two, I know. Whatevs.)
No, unless you count that poor dummy at the Red Cross class (the plastic one on the floor.)
Yes, I do. I hope I never have to use it.
But not like I hope I never have to use my killer karate moves.
(Is there a gold medal in making up skills?)

8. Name one country you'd like to visit and explain why.
Greece. Just always have.

9. Have you ever fixed up a couple romantically?
No. Most of my friends are probably thankful.

10. What is the last book you read?
The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren
It's a novella and yes, it's about Christmas. But that doesn't mean you wouldn't love it right now in the middle of February.

11. Do you enjoy sleeping late? NO, YOU write the question! How's that for random??
Okay, here's my question-
What food would you make accessible to all Olympic athletes at Olympic Park?
Good Southern cooking with fried chicken, biscuits, vegetables cooked in bacon fat, all slathered in butter. If you can eat that and still do a triple toe loop, you're a real athlete.

12. What is your favorite meal at your favorite restaurant?
Thai Basil Fried rice at Thai Kitchen in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida.
Tied with
Crab cakes or Gulf Shrimp from Dewey Destin in Destin, Florida

Thanks, Linda!

Soon Maggie Will Ask For Her Own Cell Phone

In addition to the usual Valentine hoopla at our house, yesterday was Maggie's birthday.

She turned thirteen. In human years, she's a full blown teenager. In cat years, she's just old.

We really don't know when Maggie's birthday actually falls. It is just an estimate based on when we rescued her from that awful place called the shelter, how old they thought she was, and the fact that Valentine's Day seemed the perfect birthday for a kitten.

Maggie was a gift to me from Hubs. We had visited the shelter several times looking for a kitten. In fact, I had even met Maggie, commented on how cute she was, then could not decide. Days passed and Hubs decided to visit the shelter again to surprise me with a kitten.

When he arrived at the shelter, there was Maggie (named Gypsy at the time) and he thought it was fate. He later said he got her because I said she was cute.

"I think all cats are cute,"I said,"if we brought home every cat I thought was cute, we'd be breaking some kind of animal control laws or something."

The truth is that Maggie had already been adopted. In between our first meeting and Hubs' return visit, a family had adopted her and then brought her back. (They claimed it had something to do with their landlord or something, but after thirteen years of shear JOY with Maggie, we know better.)

Hubs paid the fee, put her in a little cardboard box and made the long drive home. She mewed the whole way, sticking her little black nose through the holes. He rolled in the driveway and asked me to come outside to his car. There was Maggie's nose, pressing against the cardboard.

Yep, I melted.

For Maggie and for Hubs.

We named her Maggie after the Magpie bird. She's been the gift that keeps on taking ever since.

Each Valentine's Day we celebrate her birthday. By celebrate I mean we say "Happy Birthday, Maggie!" as she sleeps on the sofa and gives us the stink eye.

Really, how would you celebrate a cat's birthday? They are natural loners, so there are no friends to invite. They are picky, so they're tough to buy for. And they're ungrateful, so there would never be any thank you notes.

You just leave them alone, let them sleep as much as they want, let them out when they want, feed them when they want, and keep the litter box clean.

Come to think of it, it is a lot like having a teenager.

Only without the little cardboard box.

You could call me Phil.

This morning was the first morning I've felt like greeting society. And I don't mean greeting society as in wearing a formal gown and practicing my curtsy. No. I mean opening the blinds and taking off my scary, anti-social, sweatpants attire.

I have a cold.

Daughter gave me her cold, which is really my own fault, because I've always taught her to share.

As usual, she was sick for a short time, then quickly got better. My almost 40 year-old body takes much longer to recover. I am not a really whiny sick person. I'm just a sickly sick person. I require more sleep (in addition to my already high requirement), boxes of Puffs with Lotion, and gallons of Diet Coke.

A quick aside. Wouldn't it be cool if they sold Diet Coke by the gallon? Okay, maybe it would lose its fizz fairly quickly, but still. Cool.

As you can see by my wanderings, the cold medicine is beginning to kick in. That, and my third cup of coffee.

I do have a lot of catching up to do. Valentine's Day is nearly here, my house could use a good scrub, and groceries... Groceries? You mean a sub from Quizno's isn't a balanced meal?

Unnecessary Ruffness

So, I was one of about 5 people yesterday who didn't watch the Super Bowl. Instead, we watched the Puppy Bowl.

I wasn't thrilled with the NFL's choice for the half time show. (I won't go into that here. Just Google it.) I'm not a huge football fan anyway. And, after the Janet fiasco, you never really know what is going to pop up. (Excuse the pun.)

Hubs was out of town for the day. So Daughter and I sat in front of the TV, ate chili dogs, Cheetos and Doritos, and watched puppies and kitties play. I'm telling you, it beats pro football any day.

On another note, we are supposed to have more snow this week. Oh, SPRING, wherefore art thou?

How was your weekend??

More things I don't understand: Food Edition

Once again, I'm baffled.

This time it's about food.

1. Why is it that the teenager making my sandwich at Sonic has to wear disposable gloves, but the professional chef at the fancy restaurant can handle every single shrimp from my scampi in order to plate it beautifully?

2. Why does the lady at Winn Dixie have to wear a hairnet while she makes my kid's birthday cake but Duff's staff can stand over a thousand dollar cake for days without their hair pulled back (or any gloves, I might add?)

3. Why is it never okay to eat an entire plate of bacon and eggs unless I am on a special protein diet?

4. Who actually prefers Diet Pepsi? Someone is buying it, but no one wants to admit it.

5. Who decided to put carrots in cake?

6. When you go to Sonic in the mall, do they have little cars for you to sit in?

7. Does the egg salad look over at the chicken salad in the deli counter and wonder,"That's what I could have been."

8. When Martha Stewart does something over-the-top, does she say,"Oh, that was so me."

9. When Rachael Ray is at home, does she cook her 30 Minute Meals and try to beat her own time?

10. The Food Critics on Iron Chef America are so soft. I'll give you a food critic. A two year-old child.

What about you? What food stuff don't you understand?

Partially Thawed

Now I know why Mr. Rogers became friends with his neighbors. He was preparing for when he got snowed in.

On Saturday morning, after two straight days of going absolutely nowhere and crazy, I asked Hubs to drive me to the mall.

I'm ninety.

Seriously, we had no idea what the roads were like. The street in front of our house was still covered with snow. I knew the major roads were clear from what I had read in the paper, but that wouldn't help me if I couldn't get to them.

I had three choices:

1) Attempt to drive myself and have to call Hubs to rescue me from the ditch.
2) Let Hubs drive me to the mall.
3) Stay home one more day and go nuts with cabin fever making Hubs wish he had driven me to the mall, or that I was stuck in a ditch. Oh, I kid. Sort of.

Hubs offered to drive me and we all bundled up. I trusted his driving more than mine. He has skills.

I wore my Target snow boots like a REAL BONAFIDE winter expert. I was a wee bit self-conscious wearing snow boots shopping. They seemed a little casual compared to say, some cute ballet flats. However, I decided that sporting snow boots to Dillard's drew less attention than sliding across the icy parking lot and landing on my rear.

Plus, as a nice surprise, most of the other ladies at the mall were sporting snow boots or Uggs or whatever. Simpatico.

Saturday night we went to a baby shower BBQ as opposed to a baby BBQ shower, which could be ugly. (Never say the order of the adjective and/or adverb does not affect the meaning of the phrase.)

The lady who hosted the Shower BBQ should earn extra jewels in heaven. Not only did she invite husbands and kids to the shower, she had them all in her house after the snow storm. Bless her heart. That's hospitality.

I was telling Mama about the BBQ when she asked me,"What kind of BBQ did they have?"

Now if you aren't from the South, you don't know the complexity of that question. In the South, we hold BBQ nearly as close as our religion and guns. (In fact, we may even cling to it.) There are types of BBQ (beef, pork, chicken) and subtypes (Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, Carolina.) It goes on an on. You could call it a BBQ Taxonomy.

The other thing you may not know is that, for us, BBQ is a noun. Not a verb.

I told Mama that at this BBQ, we had hamburgers and hot dogs because the term meant just to grill something.

And grilling, they did. In the cold. We had some of the best tasting burgers I've eaten in a while. I even asked for the recipe.

Yesterday the snow really began melting and turning to slush. It's still cold, but at least we can get out of the house.

I learned a few things from the snow storm.

I like my flip flops more than my snow boots.

When I am ninety, Hubs will do a fine job driving me to my hair appointments during a blizzard.