Comfort Dresses

I was looking through our old family pictures today and stumbled upon these—

Some days (when all your pants feel too tight) don’t you wish this style would make a comeback? 

Tussle Free Turkey

My last victim.  He was fully thawed when I cut him out of the plastic.  What a difference that made!   No need for boiling water or wrangling and tugging--it was a piece of cake getting the “innards” and the neck out.   I think he was happier too!  He’d be smiling if he still had a head, I’m sure.  

                       

A Trip to Marshalls

Some people get paid to plug certain products or companies on their blogs.  Maybe one blessed day that will happen to me!  But for now it doesn’t matter what I say about any product, no one’s giving me one thin dime.  Sigh.  But anyway—I want to talk about a wonderful place, stipend or not, by the name of Marshalls.  Yes, the store.  The Marshalls in our town has a Home Goods section.  Together, they can lift the average shopper from her humdrum existence into a special, happy place.   They have shoes—interesting ones.  They have unusual food and coffee supplies.  They have some wonderful, inexpensive decorator pillows.  They have deeply discounted not your run-of-the-mill clothes.  They have fun dishware and picture frames and odd decorative items for your home.  Do you need some sheets or a bedspread?  They’ve got them.  How about a storage basket (with a lid)?  Yep—there are several styles to choose from.  Socks?—of course.  But what if you want a big, huge picture or mirror to hang on the living room wall?  Don’t be silly, there are aisles of them.  What are those big things hanging on racks against the back wall?  Duh—they’re obviously room-sized rugs.  Do they carry undergarments?   Yes.  Kids’ stuff?  Yes.  Dog beds?  Aye.  Dog toys and dishes?  Si, senorita.  Perfumes?  Oui.  Coats?  Ja. 

Today I stopped at Marshalls for two items.  Coffee and dog toys.  To my shock, the coffee supply was the smallest I’ve ever seen.  Definitely an anomaly.  But there were plenty of dog toys.  And because yesterday, Cambridge had been reduced to playing with a potato, a couple of toys seemed like a reasonable purchase.  But first the shoes had to been perused.  A nice pair of loafers to wear with jeans would be great.  Up and down the aisles I went, checking out one pair of cute shoes after another.  There were a bunch of ‘em, that’s for sure.  The right loafers didn’t appear, but some Minnetonka moccasins did.  I tried them on and walked around the store, contemplating  their purchase.  Ultimately I decided I could live without them and wandered over to the food section.  Granola, jams, chocolate, tea, cookies, and a plethora of other yummy things met my eyes.  Well, what was this?  A bag of bittersweet Swiss chocolate to melt for fondue?  Oh look, it found its way right into my hand!  Isn’t it wonderful that dark chocolate is good for your health? 

Walking past the dishware section, the thought came to mind that we needed a couple of bowls.  It’s been hard to find the right size for making microwave oatmeal.  The oatmeal overflows the sides as it’s cooking in the small bowls.  A bowl that’s too big is hard to eat from after the oatmeal is cooked.  But hey-ho!  There on the shelf were some bowls that looked to be just the right size!  (Kind of reminds you  of Goldilocks, doesn’t it?)  Two would do nicely.

On to doggie world.  Hmmmm, Cambridge needs a new ball.  Preferably one made of iron, so he can’t shred it a minute and a half.  OK, there weren’t any iron balls, but there were some that looked like they might withstand his mighty jaws for a day or two.  One package held two tennis balls “featuring a burst of mint to freshen your dog’s breath while you play fetch”—uh-huh—I won’t hold my breath on that one.  Well, actually, holding my breath might be a good idea….

Now it was time to look at pillows, wander through the clothes, and check out the perfumes.  I stopped at the swimsuits long enough for a tremendously unappetizing image of myself trying one on in the fitting room formed in my mind.  Note to self:  Eat wisely these winter months, they fly by oh too quickly….

Back in the housewares section, I found a clear container perfect for storing The Man’s walnuts. (Omega 3, you know-- Yeah, we’re all about healthy eating! sometimes)

Oh, I forgot about the furniture.  I’d buy one of their upholstered pieces for sure.  They have pretty good stuff most of the time.  The wooden furniture is more useful for inspiration.  A cute little red side table caught my eye today.  I wouldn’t buy it for $139, but I would pick up a piece like it for $10 at someone’s garage sale and paint it red!    

So much to see and think about when you're in Marshalls.  What a great store. 

Today's booty!

On Bangs

Bangs--I’m talking about the hair that sprouts from the top of your forehead and will cover your face unless you cut them or push them to the sides of your head.   Getting them “right” can be difficult.  There have been many prominent bang styles over the years.  Females have worn them really short, really long, swept to the side, feathered, heavy  (think Cleopatra), and light and wispy.  Sometimes the bangs “of the moment” are to be worn straight and flat against your forehead while at other times curled bangs rule the day.  

How many tears have been shed over mangled bangs?  Enough to fill the sea, surely.  If the current style is long, and good old Mom goes a little too short---warning-- the first glimpse in the mirror will result in an explosive crying fit!  There’s not much you can do to remedy that kind of calamity.  Being treated to the comment, “They’ll grow out,” really just doesn’t cut it at the time. 

  

You would think no one but a trained specialist could create attractive (and straight) bangs.   One of the most popular techniques of my youth involved laying tape across the bangs before proceeding with the scissors.  The theory was that the edge of the tape would form a guide which would make cutting a straight line a snap.  Ha.  Guess what?  For this technique to work, the operator had to be able to apply the tape in a straight line first.   Apparently not an easy feat.

No matter what kind you wore, there’d come a time when you’d tire of your bangs.  Then you’d be faced with the long, uncomfortable growing out phase.  What a nightmare.  You’d  try to push them over to the side, but they would have none of that.  They wanted to lay right back where they were.  So you’d go for the barrettes.  Does anything look more awkward than little barrettes an inch from your center part line holding  back the top of the bangs when  the bottom of the bangs are still trying to crowd back onto your face?  I think not.   It was a big day when you could finally tuck those puppies behind your ears! 

These are all memories of times long gone.  I’m not a kid anymore desperately hoping to avoid ghastly Frankenstein bangs when facing a home trim.   I’m actually pretty good at self-trimming at this point.  (Incentive to improve:  being able to avoid running  to the hairdresser between regular haircuts.)  But now my bangs have a job to do.   They have become the curtain that shields an aging forehead from the gaze of curious onlookers.  There are new hazards to trimming your bangs at my age.  The other morning I was trying to snip into the bottom of the bangs to give them  a little texture when I suddenly felt eyelid pain.  The sad but true fact is, I’d caught a little skin with the end of the scissors.  Don’t know if that would have happened a few years ago.  I’d like to believe the injury was related to the fact that texturizing can be a complicated and risky procedure, not because the skin covering my eyeballs has decided it no longer needs to stay closely connected to the eyeball region, but can lollygag around and "play chicken" with the scissors.    

The spoils of War

What do you think of that, Leah?
He's not looking so tough now, is he?

Turkey Wrestling

I just wrestled a turkey.  Not a live one, but one with plenty of stamina, nonetheless.   He caught my eye at the grocery store.  There he was, lying frozen in the case,  much like a 12 pound chunk of granite. A couple of heavy duty carnivores happen to live at my house, so it sounded like a good idea to pick this guy up.     Come to Momma, Mr. Tom turkey—you’re going home to become dinners and lunches, and pot pie and whatever else I can think of to feed these hungry men.

So home he came and out into the garage fridge he went to thaw.  No big deal.  His yummy light and dark meat wasn’t on the menu for a few days.  He could take 2 or 3 days to thaw.  But strangely, when I checked it a couple of days later, no thawing seemed to have occurred.  Maybe we were keeping the refrigerator too cold.  It was turned up a couple of numbers.   But a day later, that bird still felt kind of frozen.  Ok, enough messing around.  We need some meat for dinner—TODAY.  He was coming out ready or not.  Back in the kitchen,  Mr. Tom went,  plop, into a sink full of warm water.  Oh, wait, you say—that’s a no-no!  The water should be cold and changed every half hour or so!  Save it, Sister—I didn’t have time for all that fooling around.   The oven went on.  The roasting pan was lined with foil and the rack placed on the bottom. 

You’re supposed to thaw a frozen turkey while it’s still in the plastic, you know.   So I prodded him around in the sink, trying to figure out if this turkey was really still frozen or just had seriously toned muscles.   I probably should have left it in the sink for a while longer and changed the water every little bit, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.   The scissors came out of the drawer and the plastic was punctured.  There was no going back. The next  task came after stripping off the plastic--get the giblets and neck out.  (Yeah, this wasn’t my first time at the poultry rodeo—there are benefits to not being a young cook—I knew they were in there unlike so many poor unsuspecting first-timers!)   I went for the giblets first.  There was definitely some frozen material back there, but they were eventually wrestled out from under  the tail.  Now for the monstrous neck, wedged in the main body cavity.  I plunged my hand in and grabbed ahold of the curved part of the neck and started to pull.  No use—it wasn’t going anywhere.  It was still cemented by ice to the ribs of the bird.  What to do?  This thing needed more thawing before that neck was coming out, that was for sure.   Here’s where the struggle began in earnest.   “Wait,” I thought, “it’s not a huge bird—it just might fit in our biggest pot.”  A burner went on.   The pot was pulled out.  In went a few cups of water.  In went the bird.  On went the lid.  There’s more than one way to defrost a turkey.  All right, so maybe this method was becoming a little unorthodox—in the heat of battle, you’ll try just about anything.   Now many (maybe most) people would give up on the idea of roasting the bird and be content to cook it in the pot.  Well, once you declare war—you have a distinct and glorious goal in mind.    Anything less is unacceptable.   I waited a few minutes, confident that the result of this steam bath would be a loosened neck (Tom’s, not mine, preferably).   When the time seemed right,  another attempt was made to extricate the neck.  Imagine my amazement and disgust upon finding the neck was still stuck! 

OK—no more Mrs. Nice Lady.  More hot water was required and it needed to be poured directly into the cavity and onto that stubborn neck!  Thankfully we have a Keurig coffee maker which in an instant grants your hot water wish.  Down into the cavity went the almost boiling water.   The bird went back to the stove for a second round in the steam room.  The timer was set.  A few minutes later the bell rang and it was time to reap the fruits of my labor.  Oh, what was this?  Gave up, did you?  Was this an official surrender?  I thought you’d see things my way eventually ….really—it was for the best.   I placed the defeated neck on a paper plate to be dealt with in a moment.  Now of course the big, wet bird needed to come out of the huge pot and find its way onto the roasting pan rack.  It didn’t matter that the handle of a favorite long carving fork was snapped off trying to get the thing out of the pot.   I had won.  The neck was out.  Somehow the turkey made it to the roasting pan and into the oven.  Guess Tom won’t be messin’ with me anytime soon.  And yes, I revel in the fact that I am tougher than a frozen turkey. 

Welcome Daniel!

Daniel.  What a interesting baby he was.  When he arrived twenty-five years ago, little did I know that the “blank slate” theory I’d studied in psychology class was about to be exposed as an absolute farce.  His big sister Aimee was almost two and a half, so I knew the baby ropes.   All things pertaining to babies had been understood and conquered, I figured.  But looking back, an element of Daniel’s personality was evident before Daniel was even born.  Aimee had catapulted around my insides like a gymnast,whereas Daniel rarely moved.  When he did, it was in slow motion.  There were times when I seriously wondered if he was OK in there.

 

Once he entered the wider world, we were treated to a newborn that actually slept!  So, his lethargic incubation period had been a foreshadowing of perks to come!  Score.  Little Aimee hadn’t been much interested in wasting her initial months in dreamland.  

As a baby, Aimee had nursed voraciously; Daniel was as uninterested in nursing as Aimee had been in sleeping.  Aimee was happy to be held by just about anyone, but Daniel didn’t want to be held by others.   He sucked his thumb and clung to a blankie.  Aimee clung to me or her Dad.  We jostled her and tossed her about to keep her entertained.  I remember making dinner with her on my hip, because she was so unhappy when she wasn’t in my arms.  A concept formed in my mind-- Daniel found ways to comfort himself but Aimee demanded to be comforted by others.  Yes, he wasn’t a clone of Aimee--he had his own personality and his own way of doing things.

This fact was highlighted the afternoon Daniel disappeared.  He was less than a year and a half old.  We lived in a flat, so there weren’t many places in which to get lost.  I glanced up from whatever I was doing, and he was just gone.  I looked behind the furniture in the room, checked out the enclosed front porch a few feet away, sped through the dining room, twisting my head this way and that, scoped out the kitchen, and headed down the back hallway to the bathroom and bedrooms.  I can’t tell you how amazed I was to enter little Daniel’s tiny bedroom and find him fast asleep in his crib!  What?  He must have decided in his wee mind, “Hey—I’m tired—think I’ll patter down the hall on my baby feet and climb up into my crib for a nap.”  My astonishment was complete.  That he and his sister were not cut from the same cloth was now crystal clear to this mother.  No wonder he cried when I tried to rock him to sleep.  That method had worked with Aimee because she needed outside stimulation and connection.  As a matter of fact, we tell stories to this day of how hard it was to get her to sleep in her crib.  She would fall asleep with her father holding her and when he tried to unload her into the crib, she’d immediately awaken and start to fuss.  He took to laying her down as if his arms were a forklift—with her riding on top like a “load.”  He’d lean over to put her in her crib, then press his arms down into the mattress and try to gently pull them out before she noticed they were no longer holding her.  It rarely worked.  It was an ongoing battle to get her to sleep alone in her bed.   Daniel didn’t want any of that mess—he just wanted to be left alone when he was tired! Amazing!  As each day passed, the differences between the two became more evident and I realized it was fun getting to know this unique addition to our family.

                       Happy Birthday, Daniel.