Rainy Memories

It's raining, and it's raining hard as evidenced by the water that is rushing in underneath my porch door as it tends to do in heavy rain.  So off I go with one of the bright orange ShamWow towels purchased in bulk from the State Fair last year guaranteed to soak up all that water from the floor in a jiffy.  Although I have watched countless infomercials and witnessed endless demonstrations at the Fair, I can't seem to get the darn towels to soak up much of anything, let alone an entire 2-liter bottle of soda.  (Yeah, I said "soda."  My husband is from Syracuse and he's been a bad influence on me.  I know it's really called pop, but I've grown weary of the argument and have decided to humor him.)
Some people get so upset when it rains.  I don't mind it so much.  Rain smells clean and fresh most of the time.  And for some reason I seem to have a lot of happy memories in the rain.  When I was a teenager I was on a walk with a boyfriend when we got caught in a sudden sun shower.  We started to run for shelter but realized we were already soaked, so instead we jumped in puddles like a couple of little kids.  It was really fun. 

When I was dating my husband we went to the Park Ave Fest.  When we were as far away from the car as possible a horrible storm hit and we were instantly soaked by torrents of rain so strong that I had to cover my face so my contact lenses wouldn't get washed out of my eyes.  Mike took me by the arm and we strolled through the downpour.  People screamed and ran for cover, tents blew over, I remember seeing a hot dog wash down the road between my feet that got me laughing uncontrollably, but we strolled.  While some people grumbled that the storm had ruined the festival and their whole day, I was just happy that I had decided to put the roof back on the Thunderbird before we started out.  Convertibles do not make good swimming pools.

I have been to the State Fair every one of my 35 years.  My family used to hitch our old pop-up camper to the back of the station wagon and camp at the KOA not too far from the fairgrounds.  We would camp and visit the fair for several days at a time, and drive past the "stinky turkey" farm on the way there.  No matter what the weather report said, we would always bring our umbrellas for the first day we were at the fair.  It would ALWAYS rain on the first day.  I liked the rain at the fair.  It forced people into the buildings leaving the roadways clear to browse the various junk tents without bumping into everybody.  And when we would return to our camper I was lulled to sleep by the patter of rain on canvas.  My Dad would warn me not to touch the canvas or it would leak, and every year I would test that hypothesis.  It leaked.  Every time.  I'm sure it irritated Dad, but it was just another tradition like gobbling at the stinky turkeys and mooing at the cows.  Even the year that a tornado touched down and pulled the roof off the 4-H building, we still had a good time.

Just so that you don't think I've gone perpetually optimistic, I would like to point out my slight irritation that I can't hang my laundry outside because of the rain.  Folding the laundry inside isn't as nice or refreshing as folding it out in the bright sunshine and warm breezes.  Plus, I don't like my laundry room.  I dream of someday having a crisp, white, clean smelling laundry room and not what I currently have; a dark, dirty corner of the basement with a spider infestation that my husband is purposely keeping in an attempt to lower the population of even creepier bugs in the house.  Also, we're all trapped in the house, the kids found some kazoos, and I'm pretty much going insane.

So, it's raining now.  And I don't really mind it.  I'll sit by the window and listen to the pitter-patter as nature waters my neglected garden and leaves the air smelling fresh and clean.  In the meantime, I have to sop up the giant puddle on my porch.

Thor the Wonder Dog

My sister has a dog. She got it a few months ago. This has caused a problem in my house. You see, Thor, the blue Chihuahua, is adorable. He's tiny and soft and could probably fit in some of my larger purses. He likes to run and jump and will sit in your lap when he's tired.  I admit I have held his little face in my hands and used baby talk on more than one occasion.

Thor the Wonder Dog with Mya, Alyssa & Emily.

You can see for yourself how stinking cute he is! This is where the problem comes in. When my kids see their friends or cousins with something cute, adorable, and seemingly fun, they can't help but pester us for the same thing.

I don't want a dog. I admit I wanted a dog when I was a kid, but my mother convinced us that she was allergic and that having a dog would kill her. That turned out not to be entirely true, but it was enough to keep us from pestering her for a dog quite as much. It's an angle I'm considering using.

There are several reasons that I don't want a dog, none of them being that I don't like dogs. I really do enjoy other people's dogs for the same reason I enjoy other people's babies. Namely because I can give them back when I begin to find them annoying. That is something you can't do with your own kids... I mean dogs!!

One reason I don't want a dog is that I have noticed, not in every case, but for the most part you can tell a person owns a dog as soon as you step foot in their house. Dogs have a special kind of stink. Now, my sister's house does not smell like dog and I promised to tell her if it ever became a stink hole. I doubt I will ever smell dog in her house because she follows the dang thing around with antibacterial wipes. My sister and I are not a lot alike. I do not have the energy or desire to follow an animal around cleaning up after it. I barely clean up after my own three human kids. My kitchen floor is in a constant sticky state.  I don't imagine a dog would help with that.

Another reason a dog is out of the question is that, like many goldfish before, I will be the one who ends up taking care of it. And unlike fish, dogs will bark when they're hungry, neglected, or swimming around in their own funk. This is really my main objection to a furry pet and the reason I am trying to convince my kids that a lizard or a snake would be just as fun as Thor the Wonder Dog.

So far I haven't been able to convince the girls that a reptile is a cool pet. For that matter, my husband is not on board either. That might be because as I was falling asleep one night I promised that I wouldn't train the snake to kill him in the middle of the night. Let me explain... no, that will take too long. Let me sum up. I had just finished reading a Sherlock Holmes story called "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." In the story a man trained a poisonous snake to climb into his daughter's bed and administer a lethal bite before returning to him in his own locked room. In my sleepy state I wanted to reassure my husband that my suggestion of getting a snake was not for nefarious reasons.  I don't think I put his mind at ease since he had not read the story and had no idea what I was talking about.  I suppose the sentiment of, "I promise not to kill you in your sleep," isn't conducive to a good night's rest. 

The final reason that I do not want a dog is that my son is not potty trained.  I can only handle one creature at a time pooping inside my house.  My little guy, as cute as he is, can make a horrible smell.  He is the main reason that I went to my friend's Scentsy party and bought one of those flameless candles with the pretty smelling wax.  It's remarkably effective and has added to the quality of life in my house.

But not enough to get a dog.

Stream of Consciousness

I don't have a lot to say today.  Which is weird, because I always have something to say about just about everything.  I'm one of those people who likes to put her two cents in.  But today... nada.

My husband ended up staying home from work today due to the sleep deprivation caused by our screaming son last night.  It was horrible.  There was nothing wrong with him.  He just didn't want to be asleep so, apparently, neither could we.  He finally fell asleep in bed with us.

It always amazes me how much space a tiny person can take up in a queen-sized bed.  Any parent can attest to this phenomenon.  You would think a 30-inch person would be able to fit right in such a big bed.  But not so.  What happens when you have a baby in your bed, even a teeny, tiny newborn baby, is that there is this giant bubble that forms around them and pushes both adults to the very edge, almost to the point of falling out of bed.  (I admit, with one of my kids, I can't remember which, I actually did fall out of bed because they were taking up so much room.)  I don't know if it's because as parents we don't want to accidentally squish our kids in our sleep so we move ourselves to the edge, or if it's the awful feeling of baby toes digging violently into your ribs in the middle of the night that send us teetering on the edge.

My kids were playing on the teeter-totter attached to the swing set in our backyard.  My almost five-year-old and my two-year-old were perfectly balanced.  I don't know if that's an indication that I over-feed my baby, or under-feed my kindergartener.

I finally pulled all the carrots out of my garden.  Since, according to the seed packet, they were supposed to be full grown about two weeks ago, I figured they had grown as much as they could.  Most of them were as thin as dental floss, but there were a few that were relatively fat and about three or four inches long.  Regardless of how big they are, they smell great and are surprisingly flavorful.  I guess I'll try to make carrot muffins or puree them and mix them into sauce or something.

I made homemade bread yesterday and today.  It's really very easy to make, especially since I just dump the ingredients into a zip lock bag and smoosh them up.  Fewer dishes that way.  Besides, the absolute worst part of baking is cleaning up afterwards. 

I've been hanging my laundry outside to dry for the past couple of weeks.  I've only turned on my dryer twice in that time, mostly because I don't like my underwear dangling from a string in the yard for all the neighbors to see.  It's just weird.  Also, the clothes are kinda stiff from a lack of fabric softener and quite frankly, I don't want crispy undies.

I guess if I just let my stream of consciousness flow I have more to say than I thought.  I suppose that doesn't necessarily make it worth reading.  But if that's the case, we'll blame it on my lack of sleep.

A Graham Cracker is NOT a Cookie

I recently got an email with a teaser line about making “Quick and Easy Donuts at Home!”  Well, how could I pass up reading more about making a delicious confection that was so quick and easy?  I clicked on the link and was directed to a recipe for "donuts" that involved cutting a hole in the center of a refrigerated buttermilk biscuit, deep frying it and then sprinkling it with confectioner’s sugar.  Now, I like biscuits, they don’t even need to be homemade for me to appreciate them, but a biscuit, even a deep-fried one, is not a donut.  Not by a long shot, my friend.

When I was a little kid my Mom was in a bowling league.  Every Saturday while the moms bowled the kids would be sent down to the basement of the bowling alley to the day care.  (There is either a horror movie or a 20/20 special in there somewhere.)  Anyhow, while in the basement of the bowling alley the baby sitters would roll out these nasty old mats and make all of the kids lie down and take a nap.  A nap… in a bowling alley… with bowling balls and falling pins above our heads.  Really?  Even at the age of 4 or 5 I knew this was a fruitless effort.  Even an exhausted child isn’t going to sleep well under a bowling alley!

The highlight of this weekly misadventure was always snack time.  Once we got popsicles.  Sometimes we got chocolate chip cookies.  There was one woman who made the promise of cookies, but it was always a disappointment.  After lying on the nasty mats for what seemed like an eternity we would be called to the endless row of folding tables for a cookie. 

She called it a cookie, but it was a graham cracker. It wasn't even the kind of graham cracker with cinnamon and sugar on it.  Just a plain old cracker. One day she held out the graham cracker to me and asked, “Would you like a cookie?”  I replied, “I would like a cookie, but this isn’t one.  It’s a graham cracker.”  She told me that a graham cracker is like a cookie.  I don’t remember if I actually voiced my disagreement with her statement or if I just thought, “I don’t know what the heck you’ve been eating all your life, but this is not a cookie!”  Either way, my mom didn’t bowl much after that day.

It’s been about 30 years since the bowling alley incident, but my belief is as firm today as it was then; No matter how it crumbles, a graham cracker is not a cookie.

Baggage

People like to talk about baggage.  "He comes with a lot of baggage."  "She's got a lot of baggage."  "I can't believe I have to pay $50 to fly with extra baggage."  Everyone has their 'stuff' that they bring into a relationship.  Most of it is trivial; carry-ons, if you will.  For example, my husband can't eat dill pickles if he plans on kissing me within the following ten hours.  Also, use of the word "moist" is prohibited in my house.  I, myself, haven't had asparagus in ten years because my husband doesn't like it.  We make little sacrifices to accommodate the baggage of the people we love.

Speaking of baggage, I once saw Dom DeLuise in the Los Angeles airport. I will always remember him getting his luggage off of the carousel not only because of his great stature covered in a vibrant Hawaiian shirt, but also because he had no fewer than 137-thousand tiny little pieces of luggage. He had three or four of those big huge luggage carts you used to be able to find at the airport (back in the days when your luggage got to fly for free) filled to toppling with bags that were no wider than my laptop. Not only did it seem odd for such a large man to have so many dainty bags, I don't think he could have fit more than one shirt in each one, I was also struck by the fact that not a single one matched another. There was one that was a bright, shiny red like the seat cover in a '50's style diner. Another was neon green. There was one that had airplanes printed on it. There were none that were plain black or blue like almost all of the rest of the luggage being pulled out of the bottom of the plane. As my family pulled our own luggage off of the carousel I thought to myself, "Our luggage may be olive green hard cases from the '60's, but at least it's a matched set!" The other thing that struck me about Dom DeLuise was that he was not smiling... at all. Maybe it's because he had to schlep 137-thousand tiny cases around the country when he traveled.

I seem to be a collector of bags.  Not purses, although I have my fair share of those as well.  I'm talking about bags.  My mother-in-law will send us home from her house with several items for the kids and she'll put them in a nice, sturdy shopping bag.  Or I'll go shopping at Ann Taylor (with a gift card, of course) and they'll put my new clothes in a shopping bag with a ribbon handle.  For some reason, I feel compelled to save these bags.  I have no idea why.  I don't think I have ever re-used such a bag.  They mostly just sit around and collect dust until I go insane and finally throw them out in a fit of angry cleaning.  I've also started collecting re-usable cloth or nylon shopping bags, you know, to save the environment.  I have one that folds into a perfect 4"x4" square and one that tucks into itself until it looks like a strawberry.  I have never once remembered to bring any of these bags to the grocery store.  But luckily, I have a very reasonable use for saving the plastic Wegmans bags that I bring home instead.  My son is not yet potty trained and some of those stinky diapers need some serious wrapping before being tossed in the trash.

I heard a story about a bag boy at a grocery store who was mentally handicapped.  Each night before work he would think up a "thought of the day" and print it out on a bunch of strips of paper.  He would drop one of these strips of paper into each grocery bag he packed.  After about a month, the manager of the store noticed that all of the customers were lined up at one lane.  He tried to direct them to other open lanes to get things moving, but they all told him no.  They wanted to be in this boy's lane just so that they could get his encouraging thought of the day.

All this talk of bags reminds me, I need to pick up some goodie bags for my son's birthday party this weekend.  I made a pinata (you heard me, I made it myself!) and it's stuffed full of little treats.  Each kid will need a bag to stash their loot in.  Maybe I just found a use for all those shopping bags!

I wore flip flops to Wegmans....

It's hot.  It's very hot.  And muggy.  The sky wants to rain but there's just something stopping it, as if the atmosphere is biting its lip trying not to cry when it's angry.  Anyhow, it's hot.

I have a general rule... flip flops are fine for the beach or the pool, but they are not appropriate footwear for general life.  I understand that some people "live" in their flip flops all summer, but I just can't do that.  The only exception to my no-flip-flop rule is when I am pregnant and so swollen nothing else will fit on my sausage feet.  Otherwise, there's just something about flip flops that rub me the wrong way.  I feel the same way about people who wear pajama bottoms as pants.  It's just wrong and should be stopped.

Feet, in general, are not at all attractive and, in my humble opinion, should be covered as much as possible.  I also firmly believe that if your toes are going to peep out from your shoes they should be trimmed, clean, and painted.  Toenails are gross in any scenario.  The only acceptable way to show the world your toe is to paint it.  Preferably bright pink.

Anyhow, back to the flip-flops.  Many years ago I had foot surgery and needed a shoe to fit over my bandaged, mangled feet.  I found a pair of bright red rubber flip flops with sparkly red beads on the straps.  They were $4.73.  I remember that because I went back and forth several times before I was willing to pay the whopping $4.73 for a shoe that I was adamantly against wearing.  I bought them and painted my toes red to match.  It worked out okay, but I was glad when I was able to wear normal shoes again.

Shortly before Independence Day this year I went to a family reunion and ended up getting a blister on the back of my ankle.  So the next day I searched the back of my closet floor until I came across my bright red flip flops and decided to wear them to my In-Laws house.  They live on a beautiful lake and my kids would be swimming, so I convinced myself that the beach attire was appropriate.  Also, I don't have a lot of clothes in "patriotic" colors, so I felt I needed to wear as much red as I could.

After wearing them all day at the lake, I decided to wear them to the town parade.  That lead me to wear them to the Independence Day barbecue at my sister's house.  Then I wore them to the fireworks.  When I finally got home, the red flip flops ended up with the pile of shoes by the front door.  For the rest of the weekend and into the week I would slip them on real quick to run outside to get the mail, or to dig in the garden, or to sit in the back yard while the kids played or splashed in the pool. 

And then it happened.  I ran to Wegmans real quick to pick up some diapers and ice cream.  (It's still hot.)  When I got into my car my shoe slid off my foot.  (This happens to me more often than you would think.)  I looked down at the black pavement and saw the bright red flip flop sparkling in the sunshine.  I couldn't believe I had gone to the store wearing them.  It's against my rule!  I'm sure it was just the heat that caused my lapse in judgment, but I'm afraid I may have gotten into the habit of slipping them on before I fly out the door and now I can't stop! 

These patriotic flip flops were the gateway shoe.  If you ever see me in church wearing my slippers, please organize a footwear intervention for me.

Water, Water Everywhere.... but do I really want to drink it?

I am picky about my water.  This is a realization that was a long time coming.  I remember when I was a kid and the tap water would turn brown every spring when the lake would turn over.  I would refuse to drink it and my parents would tell me, "Oh, it's fine!  Stop being so picky!"

But they changed their tune when the Culligan Man came around.  I don't know what that man put in the test tube filled with our tap water, but it turned solid and was full of amoebas, paramecium and other critters I learned about in 7th grade Earth Science whose names I have long since forgotten.  It was disturbing and from that day on we had a special little faucet next to our tap just for drinking.  It tasted like nothing, and that's how I liked it.

Years later, we moved to a new house.  Our skin and pallets had become accustomed to the softened and filtered water.  Within a month we all were suffering from dry, itchy skin and nobody wanted to drink water from the tap because it... well... tasted like tap water!  Another call to the Culligan Man and our skin returned to it's former self.  We were all relieved to slurp up the cool, flavorless liquid that now flowed from yet another special faucet.

My husband grew up in a beautiful house on the shore of Otisco Lake.  The family had a pump that sucked all the water needed for showers, toilets, laundry and drinking directly from the lake.  Now, it's a lovely lake, and fairly clean but I'm a city girl and, as far as I'm concerned, a lake is just a big toilet for fish.  I was assured that the water went through a filter with ultra violet light to clean it, but I just couldn't put the memory of the test tube of solidified tap water out of my head.  If all that gross stuff was in the water that went through heavy-duty, government-regulated filtering through a professional water treatment plant what was a little blue light really going to do?  I drank some once to be respectful, but never had another glass of water from their house again.  It's not them.  It's me.  When we got married and moved into an apartment in the city the problem was easily solved with a Britta Pitcher in the fridge.

Now, I was aware of my sensitive pallet when it comes to lake water.  Clearly, I prefer my own source of Hemlock Lake to Otisco Lake.  What I didn't realize until recently was that I am also a bottled water snob.  Not a total snob, mind you.  My water doesn't need to be French with no bubbles or anything like that.  I don't need water with extra electrolytes or vitamins.  And I don't care for the artificial fruit flavors on the market either.  I like my water to taste like, well, water.  No, not well water.  Just water.  I grabbed a bottle of water from my mother-in-law's fridge the other day and was surprised that it tasted funny to me.  "What is going on?  Bottled water is water," I thought to myself.  Then I read the source label on the bottles.  The 'foreign tasting' water was from Concord, New York and bottled in West Seneca, New York near Buffalo.  The water I usually drink is bottled at the source from Forestport, New York where, when viewed through Google Earth, is just green.

Apparently I am also raising a couple of young water snobs.  A waitress brought us some water before we ordered our dinner the other night.  After one sip my four-year-old announced to the waitress that she needed new water because hers "tastes like bath water!"  I was mortified and apologised.  I drank the water without complaint, but she was right.  It tasted like bath water.

So, I guess I am a snob.  At least when it comes to water.  I can live with that.