Recipe for Romance

When you're a new wife, you analyze everything that your husband says and does and rate it on the Romantic Scale also known as the This Determines Where You Sleep Later Meter.

Some days he scores an 8 and some days he sleeps on the sofa. The trouble for the new husband, is that it takes him a while to figure out exactly what he is supposed to say and do, or not say and do in order to earn the required points and get a good night's sleep.

There are also some very critical moments and holidays which may weigh a little heavier in the scoring process, thereby providing the opportunity to either negatively or positively affect the romantic points total.

For example- The Birthday. First, let's assume that he remembers the birthday. (I have to say that mine always has.) If your husband gives you a gift that is not related to domestic duties (i.e., blender, vacuum cleaner, iron), he will score well. If the birthday gift comes in a small box and has a description involving carats, he will score even better.

On the other hand, if your husband completely forgets your birthday, deduct 100 points. He is in the negative and must work feverishly over the next 3-4 birthdays to make up for it. (Most likely this will involve a small box and carats.)

Then there is Valentine's Day, a holiday invented by a deranged hermit who may or may not be working for the greeting card companies. The hermit delights in the thought of newlywed couples fighting over the Romantic Scale and the fact that households across the country are forced into bankruptcy over the price of red roses.

Valentine's Day can tip the Romantic Scale. If your new husband is in the hole, he can score (or dig) his way out in just one day. The number of flowers correlates to the number of points. The mushiness of the card also directly correlates to the number of points, though it does not weigh as heavily as flowers.

Months and years go by. Anniversaries come and go. Sometimes you each score well on the Romantic Scale and sometimes you end up sleeping outside with the dog. Or you sleep outside and the dog gets the bed. Eventually, all of the points just don't matter anymore.

One day, you both wake up and look at each other and say,"Honey, you've got a little drool dried around your lips and you snored last night. Happy Birthday. Would you like to go out to dinner tonight or how about some pizza?"

I'm not saying the romance dies. It doesn't. At least, it doesn't have to. You just learn that romance means different things to different people. Romance wasn't invented by Hollywood and it doesn't come as a plush, red puppy holding a heart in its mouth and sold by Hallmark (with the purchase of three greeting cards.)

Romance is the little things.

Romance is respect for each other. It's the "thank you's" for doing the dishes or the laundry. It's taking care of each other when you're sick. Some days a frozen pizza for dinner is romantic. Some days you like roses. Others, you'll take a potted plant.

When your marriage matures and you grow in love with each other, romance can be in the everyday, ordinary tasks of life.

Like making a meal for the one you love.

Last night I made meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It wasn't gourmet and it isn't necessarily my husband's favorite meal, but it was the kind of stick-to-your-ribs food that just fit the cold weather we're having. We ate dinner as a family. I helped our daughter start her bath and my husband did the dishes. It was an ordinary night.

Then, today I received one of the most romantic emails he has ever sent. He had taken some of the leftovers with him for his lunch at work. I guess he enjoyed it, because this was the email he sent-

"These are the best green beans I ever tasted."

That's it. No "I Love You, Sweetheart" or "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." Nope. None of that. Just green beans.

I love roses. I love cards. But, an email about my cooking? Now that's romantic.

I give him a 10.

:>)

Works For Me- Unstopping the sink

Here's a tip some of you may already know. I learned it from a school maintenance person.

You can unstop the sink with an ordinary plunger. This won't work for grease clogs. You will still have to use the commercial plumbing solutions. Keep a separate plunger on hand just for the sink. (You don't want to use the one designated for the commode. Yuck!)

I have used a plunger to unstop my kitchen sink when I put too much in the garbage disposal, or when there is some item clogging the drain.

Works for Me!

Toothless grins at our house.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Tooth is out!

I was going to post some really cheesy quotes like, "You can't handle the tooth!" and "The tooth shall set you free!"

Then, I decided not to, but I guess I just did, didn't I?

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Very Lady Melanie the Discombobulated of Leighton in the Bucket Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Now I just need to work on that parade wave.

Feelin' The Love

Y'all know how to make a girl feel special! Where were you in junior high school?

Anyhoo.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for nominating this blog for the Share The Love Blog Awards over at One Woman's World.

I was browsing the nominees and saw you kindly nominated me for Best Humor, Happiest Blog, and Blog You'll Never Stop Reading. I am honored to be nominated along with some really great writers out there!

Picture me. Thanking you. Dainty tears falling. Fanning my face with my hands and saying, "Oh, you guys are just too much. I said I wasn't going to cry...is my mascara running?"

:>)

100% Pure

If you looked up "sweetness" in the dictionary, you would find a picture of a child.

And, if you looked up "rotten and mischievous", you would find a picture of a child.

Kids are like that. Whatever they say or do, what you see is what you get. They are all or nothing. It's what makes them so special.

I've been feeling a little under the weather the past few days and my daughter has picked up on it. As I type, she is cleaning the house with a wet paper towel. Mind you, most of what she is cleaning isn't really dirty but I am bragging on her nonetheless. The curio cabinet and windows are a lot shinier, smudges and all.

It's just sweet. Sweet, sweet, sweet. I don't mind sayin' it. It's my blog and I'll brag if I want to.

:>)

The friendship is still alive, which is more than I can say for the Sea Monkeys.

Tonight a really close friend called. I was in bed with a cold and I heard my husband on the phone. It only took me a few minutes to figure out who was on the other end of the line. My husband was laughing and joking, just like old times.

It was David (name changed to protect the innocent- me), our best man. We've known him since college. David and my husband were good friends when I first met my husband. Whenever you saw one of them, the other was there, too. If they were sorority sisters they would have been seen giggling a lot, but since they were, well, guys, they were usually seen just looking at the sorority sisters.

I don't know if David and hubby became friends because of common interests or because they were both always broke and decided to pool their money to buy Ramen noodles and generic mac and cheese. Sometimes they would help each other cook for dates and they would argue about how much garlic should go in the sauce or whether or not this date was worthy of Kool Aid. To hear my husband tell it, he was helping David cook most of the time and letting David use his pots and pans. Sometimes they worked on college papers in the wee hours of the morning, the night before the paper was due, of course. For whatever reason, they bonded, and they've been friends ever since.

Sometimes months will go by without them talking. That's OK. It only takes a minute on the phone and they are back to their old antics, making fun of each other, calling each other names, the stuff all male friends do to lay the foundation for a lifelong friendship.

David has been there for us on many occasions. One time while we were dating, hubby and I took a road trip to look at cars. Hubby was determined to buy a Saturn and we had to travel several hours to the nearest dealer. On the way back, my little Honda broke down on the interstate. After crying (me, not hubby) and calling a tow truck, we ended up at a nearby Hardee's. It was David who drove the hour trip to rescue us in the middle of the night.

I don't even think I gave him any money for gas. In case you're reading this, Dave, I'll be sure to send that to you ASAP.

David was there for us when we got married- decorating my car with some lovely phrases and jokes, along with some other very close friends in the wedding party. He calls and asks about our daughter, too. This says a lot about him, because he isn't married and doesn't have kids of his own (yet.) Most single guys aren't interested in children's poetry contests or whether a kid has lost her first tooth.

When David called us tonight, he was on a real live stake-out. Yes, ma'am. He is tough like that.

I can't say what he does because he might hurt me, but he is one of those people you either fear or respect. One of those guys with a badge and dark glasses.


When I overheard that he was on a stake-out, I thought he was kidding. About 95% of the time the stuff he and my husband say to each other is pure nonsense. They convinced me in college that they knew how to speak Vietnamese and that David was born in Vietnam. I was so naive then.

David is the friend who is always sending my daughter really cool presents that require food and water, like sea monkeys.


I would like to announce that I am putting my foot down. No more gifts labeled "Department of Agriculture."

One summer he sent an ant farm. The ants came separately in a brown paper envelope, the kind that Sydney Bristow would leave at a drop-off site. I carefully opened the package and found ants in a little vial. The instructions read to "Place ants in the refrigerator for a few minutes to cool them, making them less aggressive." I told our daughter that the ants were hot from the trip and they needed to cool off.

When I took the ants out of the frig., they were all clumped together, a mass of tiny legs and bodies, huddling with each other for warmth. It looked almost sad.

But then I remembered they were ants and I had to put them in their new home without being stung or squishing any of them. My daughter is the bug whisperer, remember?

And here's a tip. The ant house people and the ant supply people need to do lunch. The opening to the ant vial is much larger than the opening to the ant house, making it difficult to pour the slightly cooled ants into their new home without spilling them all over the table.

Insert pleas and cries for help from the Bug Whisperer.

I managed to keep the ants alive much longer than the sea monkeys. In addition, we have raised butterflies and have a frog house ready for tadpoles this spring.

Stop the madness, Dave. Send Barbies, will you?

I have to say that I do feel a little safer at night knowing David is out there, looking for the truth, protecting families while talking on his cell phone about college hi jinx.



No, really. I do. And if I didn't, I couldn't tell you. David packs some heat. And, if I remember correctly from a college party, he makes a mean pan of Rice Krispies treats.

:>)

Fine Writing Indeed

Linda at 2nd Cup of Coffee is one of my favorite writers- notice I said writer and not blogger. That's what she is, a real bona fide, gen-u-INE writer in our midst.

She makes me laugh out loud. She knows how to arrange words on a page like a good florist can put gerber daisies and orchids together in the same vase.

Just go now and read this post and you'll understand why she's in my blogroll!

New Blogger

Blogger finally made me switch to the new blogger, so if you had left a comment it may now show you as "anonymous." Not sure why. New comments after the switch will show your name.

Getting used to the switch...

Our Neighbors The Rock Stars

We live in an Edward Scissorhands neighborhood where most of the houses look alike and everyone knows when you cut your grass. We even have sidewalks where you can stroll along with your dog (and pick up the necessary deposits when made, Mr./Mrs. Whomever Neighbor Whose Dog Has Left Stuff In Our Yard.) You can say "hi"to your neighbors and if you are retired and have nothing do to all day, you can even nose around and get into everyone's business.

So.

Our neighbors on one side are not friendly, but in a good way, and we have a polite sort of um, relationship, which means that they mind their business and we mind ours. I don't mean to sound rude, but it really comes to survival. These houses are so close together that they are literally a stone's throw away. Like I could lean out of my window, throw a stone and break their window.

When you live this close to people, I think you have to live in some kind of anonymity or you would go nuts. Since you have no literal space between you, it becomes necessary to create personal space.

I imagine that people in prisons live like this:

"Yeah. I don't know the guy in the cell next door. I think his name is Ed, but I can't really say. All I know is that he gets a lot of mail and he goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night."

That's pretty much it. If you knew much more, well, you would be Mrs. Kravitz. Or stark raving mad.

These particular neighbors are in their mid-forties, I guess. One of them drives a Corvette. (I would notice this.) They keep to themselves and they are no trouble at all. On the surface, you would think they are normal. They keep their yard neat, they don't have any cars on blocks, and, as far as I know, none of them have done any hard time. My only complaint is their choice of music.

Their music.

They have a band. Now, before you picture in your mind the She Might Be A Redneck neighborhood we reside in, let me remind you of the kind of place we live in. It is the average, middle income, let your kids ride their bikes without fear of a drive-by kind of community. I mean, this is the same neighborhood where I let my child collect old blankets for the animal shelter while pulling her little red wagon.

Back to Van Halen.

They practice on Friday nights when the rest of us are blogging or watching game shows, or reading Little House on The Praire to our kids. Even though I don't actually enjoy their attempt at a VH1 Where Are They Now? production, I am thankful that they only play for a little while on Friday evenings and they stop at a decent hour of the night. One could say they are trying to be neighborly, or they are, you know, just old.

Tonight they started to play some unknown heavy metal ballad. Just as one of them broke off into a guitar solo, the neighborhood cats started wailing. And wailing, and wailing.

It was quite comical.

Even Maggie raised her lazy head from the chair to listen. Within a few bars, the band stopped playing and the wailing stopped. The cats were quiet and our little cul de sac returned to its suburban dulldrum.

And I thought I would have nothing to post tonight...

I'll be stepping up to my soap box now.

Make it Tide with Febreeze, please.

When I started blogging, I decided to stay away, far, far away from religion and politics. I just didn't want to dive into the ugly comments, snide remarks, judgmental chatter and opinionated discussions.

I'll leave that to the women on The View.

Up to this point, I think I've done a fairly good job of keeping things opinion neutral, but not so benign that you wonder where I stand.

Now on to the post, the meat of my beef. Pardon the pun.

A few evenings ago a very important person had something to say. He wanted to tell Americans about the economy and domestic policies. He wished to share the current situation in The Iraq War and new plans for its future. He requested permission to use the major networks to broadcast his speech, in a effort to reach the majority of the people in our land. All of his cabinet, minus one, were present. Congress surrounded him as he updated the people on a vitally important subject.

The State of The Union.

Whether you voted for him or not, whether you voted at all, the point is mute. When The President of The United States speaks, people should listen.

Some say, "These politicians all say the same thing over and over. They say what will make them popular. I just can't trust any of them."

Point well taken.

A few evenings ago "politics as usual" was not the issue. The main complaint was that people were going to miss Simon Cowell degrade and berate complete strangers as they were trying to catch a break in show business. America missed part of American Idol.

I agree that a Presidential speech isn't very entertaining. Sometimes they are boring, but we take these types of broadcasts for granted.

Years ago, our grandparents would have been seated around their radio listening to FDR reporting the current situation of another war, encouraging our countrymen to unite. Our parents were children then. They were seated on the floor around the family radio. They may not have understood the message being broadcast, but they certainly were taught the importance of the messenger. A certain amount of respect was given to a President, deserved or not, and people cared that their brothers and husbands were fighting for freedom.

Here we are today, 2007, the age of MP3 players and DVR. We go to work or school, then to soccer practice or ballet, rushing home to finish homework and grab a bite of dinner. Some of us are lucky if we are able to have a meal together at the family table. When it's time to sit down, to talk to each other, or to listen to the most powerful leader in the world, we would rather watch Randy and Paula or blog.

In fact, men and women are dying right now so that I can have the freedom to type this post. I'll think of them now as I write it, but I am not sure I'll remember them later when I read something funny on a friend's blog or when I sit down to watch HGTV.

Sounds pretty petty, doesn't it?

How did we get here? Can we go back? Someone please show me the way if you can. I don't like it here. I would give up the internet and TiVo if it meant I could sit on an old rug, in a damp, drafty house, listening to my President, understanding what it really means to be an American.

Technology and Hollywood haven't taken away our patriotism. We gave it away freely, dear friends. We've tossed it aside with our empty latte cups and our People magazines. It's time to pick it back up again, dust it off, polish it, set it back on the mantle- a keepsake to treasure and protect.

Dear Loose Tooth,

Hi. It's me. Her mom. I need to talk to you.

You've been good to us over the years. You helped her with her very first ear of corn, her apples, her popsicles. We are thankful for that. We are.

But frankly, it's time for you to go.

This may sound a little harsh, but we don't need you anymore. She's got bigger, stronger teeth in her future. Sure, you're cute. You're little. You're familiar. But, lately? Well, you've been kind of a pain.

You just keep holding on, no matter how hard she tries to pull you free. She keeps wiggling and wiggling, twisting and tugging and still you won't budge. And that dangle thing you've been doing lately is borderline disgusting.

Your friends have all left without any trouble at all. When it came their turn, sure they held on a little while, but eventually they just let go.

I feel a little uncomfortable talking to you, but I figure you must have some issues or you would have left a long time ago. Is it insecurity? Detachment disorder? Are you afraid of fairies? Come on. Talk to me. I'm here. I won't judge you.

I have to be honest with you. You don't have much more time. My patience is wearing thin. If you don't let go soon, well, fairies will be the least of your worries, Mister.

So. Let. It. Go.

Be free. I've got a roll of quarters just waiting.

Sincerely,
Her Mom

Prayer Request

Kelli needs our prayers.

Her health is declining and she is about to begin a new type of dialysis. Please leave her a word of encouragement on her blog.

The awesome response of the fundraiser last week was a blessing. But life? Life is priceless. Without a kidney, Kelli will die. We need to pray, folks for The Lord to lay His Hand on Kelli and her life. Pray for her husband as he cares for her and their children. Pray for her kids as they see their mom go through what no mother should endure.

Pray for The Lord to do a mighty work. He can. He will.

An Open Email

Would Lissette, Stewart, Ricardo, and Almondo please stop sending me spam regarding weight loss, acne, and bad credit?

You are beginning to give me a complex.

And, just so you know, my credit is excellent.

Because ponytails are cool

When I was in the fourth grade, my life revolved around Encyclopedia Brown, my two best friends Sherry and Janet, and a boy named Paul. I can remember a lot about that year. It was the year I secretly starting working for Charlie under the alias Kelly Garrett and it was the year I had a very special teacher, Mrs. Bradshaw.

Mrs. Bradshaw started the year as Miss Denard. She wasn't an Angel; she got married during the school year. We were all very excited for her. Every girl in the 70's dreamt of being a bride, finding her prince, and riding off into the sunset on a white horse or in a Gremlin. It took us a while to remember our teacher's new name, but after a while it just came naturally.

Turns out, we were pretty special to Mrs. Bradshaw, too. We were her very first class right out of college. Couple that with the fact that she married the same year, our class was quite memorable. Living in Albany for nearly twenty years, I often ran into Mrs. Bradshaw at the mall. She sort of saw me grow up, entering junior high, high school, and eventually college. Every time she saw me, she remembered my name. That is pretty amazing. I always remembered her too. Now I often wonder where she is these days.

So, it comes to no surprise that my own little girl is quite impressed by her teacher. Mrs. J is young, sweet, and very pretty. She also dresses way cool, so I am told. (I'm a mom. I don't know cool.) Because of Mrs. J, my daughter insists on pants that "come over the shoe" aka flare. She also has started sporting a ponytail.

This is a girl who refused to wear bows, even as a baby. She removed them immediately and if they were in really tight, she would pull herself baldheaded to get them out. I finally just gave up.

Even later, after seeing her friends in ponytails and barrettes, she refused. She liked to "be free." Her hair had to be au natural. No ponytail for her, even if it meant she could be at least ten degrees cooler.

Until now.

Mrs. J has influenced my daughter's sense of style so much that my little girl wanted to spend the money B-Pop gave her on ponytail holders.

Last Friday, Mrs. J came to school dressed in a cute tee with an illustration of children on it. She wore her hair in two ponytails to match. As usual, she looked darling. Since then, my daughter has styled her hair in two ponytails, including today at school. I think it is really sweet and I am glad Mrs. J is a good, Christian influence on my daughter.

And I wish we could have met her oh, about 4 years ago when I was struggling to put my little girl's hair up in the middle of a scorching, Southern summer. We could have saved a lot on our electric bill; we both would have been at least ten degrees cooler.

Goofy Golf, Ammo, and Religion 101

Now that I have your attention.

Yesterday was a girls' day out. My husband had some errands and chores to do, so the little girl and I decided to have some fun. The weather was pretty nice (sorry all you ice storm survivors out there), and we were in need of some overpriced entertainment.

Miniature golf and ski ball.

Why is it that making the right choices is so crucial to a good game of goofy golf? We end up standing there for what seems like the span of an epic film to select the correct themed course. Mountain is too hilly, yet Island isn't quite up to par (pardon the pun) for our particular level of expertise. Should we go with the oversized giraffe or the big scary gorilla that is missing a tooth? Red, blue, green, or yellow ball? Which putter?

There are just too many choices! The good thing is that they give you no options regarding the writing tool in which you must record the significant golf score.

The little Barbie pencil sans eraser.

The pressure of no eraser just mounts. Don't they know I am going to make a mistake? I have to add numbers horizontally! No form of recreation should involve math.

After all of the crucial, life-altering decisions, my daughter and I had a good game, complete with the mildewed outdoor carpet and stagnant waterfall. Winter is an off season for miniature golf. I even scored under par. I don't know which is more pathetic, the fact that I remember my miniature golf score or that I blogged about it.

Anyhoo.

Sometimes there are days in a girl's life that remind her of her special talents and skills, moments when she realizes she is capable of things she never knew.

I'm talking about virtual clown annihilation. Yes, I am the Mac Mommy of Knock Down, the game where fluffy, stuffed clown dolls meet their doom at the hands of a gamer with 50 cents, a ball and a puff of air. I scored so well that my daughter had to hold the tickets as they cranked out in a steady, red paper chain.

It's all about the tickets, man.

We scored so well at ski ball, stomp the spider, and clown death that we were able to trade our huge stack of tickets for a string of beads and a bubble charm necklace. Woo Hoo. Score!

All for only five bucks in quarters.

The day ended with a promised "slumber party" which really just translates to "Let's watch a movie, eat snacks, then sleep on the living room floor with every blanket, pillow, and stuffed animal in the house."

It took some time for the giggling to stop. I lay there sleepily, surrounded by pink, fluffy blankets and plush animals. The night became quiet until I heard the following questions in the dark:

"Mommy, can you tell me about Hanukkah?"

"Mommy, what are the blue dots in blue cheese?"

All very pertinent to a good night's sleep after a long day of decision-making, slurpee drinking, and close-range shooting. I've always hated clowns...

Update- Now go see this at Big Mama's, but be sure to visit the little girl's room first.

Random Facts and Follies About My Grandmother

1. Before Alzheimer's and dementia took their toll, Granny always made sure she was "put together." She wore face powder and rouge- the cream kind. She wore pantyhose and heels. Most of the time she would wear her faux pearl necklace I had given her. The most important part of the ensemble- her hair.

2. Granny loved chocolate, especially Reese's peanut butter cups.

3. When Granny was a little girl, she had to protect her little sister Ruby from a bully. On their way to school, the bully picked on Ruby. Ruby would cry, but Granny would just push the bully in the ditch. I have a feeling she may have given him a few shiners, too.

4. When Papa and Granny married, Granny ran away from the courthouse after the ceremony. Papa had to chase her for the wedding kiss.

5. Granny's advice-

Never trust anyone with beady eyes.
What's in the blood stays in the blood. (a person behaves like their family)
If you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas.
Don't ever do anything that would shame the family.
Stay out of other people's business.

6. Everyone called her "Miss Pearl" or "Aunt Pearl." (Yep. Sisters named Pearl and Ruby.)

7. Granny loved, loved, loved fried catfish and shrimp. She wouldn't eat any kind of chicken because chicken made her sick when she was expecting Mama. She would eat KFC. Totally logical.

8. Granny kept her porches swept and scrubbed, and I mean scrubbed with soap. She swept her front walk several times a day because of the pecan tree that just got on her nerves. She hated when it bloomed and all of those blossoms fell on her clean walk, but she sure loved to pick up the pecans.

9. Every night before Granny went to bed she wrapped her hair with toilet tissue. She pinned it in place with bobby pins, put a round, silky scarf on top, then pinned it in place. This kept her hair in place until the next Friday morning hair appointment. All she had to do each morning was tease it a bit. I thought all grandmothers did this. She looked a lot like Mama Harper did on the TV show Mama's Family:



10. Before Papa died, Granny made 2 pans of biscuits for him every. single. day. One at dinner (lunch) and one at supper (dinner.) It didn't matter how hot it was, she still baked biscuits. Papa and Granny didn't have air conditioning, except for the one window unit they ran only when my mama visited.

11. Granny never learned to drive. She tried, but could never get reverse figured out. The sheriff's wife offered to teach her, but Granny declined.

12. Granny worked hard her entire life. First as a child helping her mother at home and helping on the farm. (Granny picked cotton.) Then, as a wife and mother and surrogate mother to her sister's children. She never worked outside of the home, but worked very hard at home. And, she could always find work for those around her. While doing one chore, she would assign me another one, and so on. The next thing I knew, I had been working for hours.

I sure miss those days. And her.

My best post yet!

Here is the prize-winning poem my daughter wrote, without any corrections for spelling. :>)

Silliness is light blue

It tastes like tropa co co ladda

It smells like flowers

And reminds me of giggling

It sounds like laughter

Silliness makes me feel happy

In case you are wondering what I have been giving our daughter to drink, "tropical colada" is her favorite V-8 Splash flavor!

God is Good

Something exciting is happening over at BooMama's- more than we could ever imagine or ask...

I have a feeling the miracles for Kelli have just begun.

Clogging up the internet, one hug at a time.

Be sure to visit BooMama today.

Leave Kelli some words of encouragement.

Make a donation, if you feel led.

Let's burn up the internet highway with lots of love!