Goldie’s Red Balloon

Goldie has a pet balloon. It’s a helium balloon and has lost a little of its original heliumatic strength, so it tends to hover and bob between three and six feet off the ground. And, it does seem to float about as if perhaps it were following Goldie – which might be considered creepy – but is seen by Goldie as signs of its affection for her. (Hey, as I typed that I recalled that Red Balloon movie we watched in elementary. Did everybody see that? This boy becomes pals with a large red helium balloon – it’s basically his best friend. Probably his only friend. Then some mean kids pop it. And it is very depressing except that then all the other helium balloons in the town unite and come flying to comfort him. And it ends with him being lifted away by the bunch of them. I’m not making this show up. I guess that ending was supposed to be happy, but I believe I always left the showing feeling rather empty inside.)

Anyway, I just mentioned Goldie’s balloon because it makes for a rather low maintenance pet for any of you who can get one to behave similarly. Of course I fear that old balloony’s life expectancy might be rather short, and I may soon find myself outside with a shovel conducting a small balloon funeral to a backdrop of Goldie’s sniffling tears.

Happified

Awhile ago I heard, or saw, or maybe read the word "happify."

Well, I guess "saw the word" and "read the word" would really be the same thing. Unless, of course, I saw the word but didn't read the word. I think that to get away with that though one would need to either:

a) not be able to read -- isn't that weird that combined letter symbols become so ingrained in us that we can't really ignore a word -- that our mind sees it as a word and not just nonsense symbols? Hmmm.

or

b) have seen the word from a great enough distance or with bad enough eyes to not have been able to make out the word.

Anyway, somehow -- read or heard -- happify entered my conscious brain and I kind of liked it and wondered if people could really be happified (grammatically speaking). So, I went to the library and searched the periodicals.

HA! Periodicals. Those were the days.

I googled, "happify," and what I found was most happifying. It was this: Many people are enraged by the use of the word happify -- in any of its various forms.

Here's a little of what I found:

I regularly read a periodical written in the US which makes frequent use of the word "happifying" meaning, apparently, something which makes one happy or generates a sense of happiness. I loathe the word. . . .

And, for your enjoyment, several of the responses:

I think this periodical should be named and shamed. We could deluge them with letters from unhappified logophiles until they promise never to do it again.

and

I am mortified not happified.

Back in 1895, Austin Phelps (a writer on English style) said this about the word:

"Happify is a barbarism which I have never met with but in the dialect of the Methodist pulpit. Even 'dictionaries unabridged' do not contain it."

(Apparently the Methodists weren't the ones preaching the hellfire and damnation sermons that we read in 10th grade English -- you know, the ones about how we are like spiders dangling from a tiny thread over a burning pit of fire and lava and the like? I mean, that certainly isn't the kind of sermon you'd expect to find anything happifying at all in).

Anyway, despite Austin's disdain for the word, it turns out that it actually has been around since at least the mid-1600's. So there is no way of getting around it.

And isn't it ironic that all those people feeling so disgusted with the word happify is something that I find quite happifying? They all expressed themselves so well that I feel they completely deserve to dislike any word they choose.

P.S. Spellcheck is not happified at all about all of the happify business in this post.

Our Old Mixer

Once, when I was little, my mom and I were making brownies or cookies (or some such) with our good old mixer. I can still see that white metal mixer. It is long gone now, but it lasted for years and years. At some point, as it aged, it began to give you a nice little electric shock if you put the beaters in or took them out while it was still plugged in -- or maybe it didn't matter if it was plugged in -- I don't remember. I just recall getting the startling zap every now and then. Plus, I don't know much about electrical conductivity (as you will soon see). It also began to overheat so that if you were holding onto the top arm as you mixed, before long it would get toasty hot and you'd have to let go.

Anyway, on that day long ago when I was mixing something with my mom, she suddenly warned me that I must NEVER put the plug of the mixer in my mouth. She then reinforced the importance of taking this precaution by telling me about a girl who had to be taken to the hospital with electrical burns all down her throat for putting just such a plug in her mouth.

The thing is, never, in my wildest and strangest thoughts, had it occurred to me that I might want to put the plug of our mixer (or any plug for that matter) in my mouth. Yet, now that I knew what could happen, I was seized with a terror that at any moment my self restraint might fail and I might feel utterly compelled to grab the plug and stick it in my mouth. I hoped I wouldn't. I didn't want to. But who knew whether or not I might become possessed with such a reckless and uncontrollable desire. It was there now -- a terrifying possibility.

Now that I think about it, I am not sure if putting a plug in your mouth would do anything. Would it? It seems like the plug would have to be plugged in for it to actually electrically burn you, and if it was plugged in, how could you put it in your mouth? But, as I said, I don't know anything about electrical conductivity (except of course that you can do something with a potato and some wires to turn on a light bulb -- but who doesn't know that). I don't want to try it out because I still remember the story of that poor girl rushing off to the hospital, but every now and then, when I warn my own children of some random danger, I find myself wondering if I have done nothing more than plant a dangerous idea in their little heads.

Why did I write about this? Well, I don't know.

Risks We Never Took

Here's something interesting (or not I suppose, depending on the viewpoint of you, the reader), but it is this: We were not the safest of children growing up. We ran about the neighborhood never thinking to tell a parent of our whereabouts. We walked to the store when it was dark outside. We spent many days running around on our roof (which makes me shudder to think of -- my parent's roof is very steep and high). Etc.

Despite our careless ways however, we did know that there were certain dangers you simply did not toy with. Certain risks you never took. How, or even if, my parents meant to impress only these things upon us, I am uncertain, but the impression was made, and the terrifying deeds were never done. (And as for the other areas where we were careless . . . well, that was in another time . . . a time when kids weren't kidnapped, and they didn't fall off roofs). Here are some of the things that were no joking matter in my family.

1. The lid removed from a can with a can opener. One sure fire way to invite trouble was to remove a lid with a can opener and then simply toss that lid in the garbage. Or worse, leave it hanging on the edge of the can. That simply was not done. You ALWAYS put the severed lid in the bottom of the can it was removed from. Otherwise later, when you were reaching your hand deep into the garbage (for some unknown reason) one of these razor sharp lids would most likely sever your hand (maybe your whole arm). It wasn't until I was married and on my own that I once in awhile threw one of these lids away not in the can, and even then, only if I was feeling especially bold and rebellious.

2. Plastic bags. I don't actually know if this came from my parents or school teachers, but I do know that if a plastic bag was put over your head . . . maybe not even put over your head, maybe just somewhere near your head . . . you would immediately suffocate. No no, you couldn't use your hands to remove the bag, you would be far too terrified and confused for that, and you would only have about five seconds before you were dead anyway, so . . .

3. Look for rocks before diving. Ironically, my dad had given us that advice for years BEFORE he himself dove into a sandbar or rock or something at a lake in Yellowstone -- nearly killing or paralyzing himself. I still recall seeing him come stumbling up the hill leaning on my brother and covered in blood. We certainly didn't question or mock that advice after that event.

4. Giggling so much with our friends that we didn't watch the road while we were driving. This advice may have not been heeded as well as the others . . . and it may have been given solely to me. I'm not sure, but ohhh my friends and I loved to laugh and laugh and laugh . . . and my dad lived in constant fear of the danger our giggling would subject us to.

5. Bang toys on the piano. OK, nothing dangerous would happen to you if you did this (other than incurring the wrath of my mother), but that was also one "forbidden" thing that came to mind. We may have jumped on couches and hung from banisters, but we did NOT bang toys on the piano.

Anyway, that's all. It just made me wonder about what things I am most adamant that my kids avoid. Perhaps I should just stick with those five because steering clear of those things did land me safely here -- in adulthood.

Haunted Dryer?

I do more laundry than you can shake a stick at. Where did that come from -- more than you can shake a stick at? I don't know, but I like it. Anyway, loads and loads of laundry (no pun intended).

So, with all that laundry, I was more insulted than spooked when my dryer turned "haunted" the last few days. You see, I have a little switch on my dryer that you can turn to "signal on" or "signal off" -- you know, depending on whether or not you want to hear a really loud buzzing sound each time your laundry is dry. I do not want to hear that sound, so mine has always been set to off. But a few days ago, out of the blue, my dryer began ignoring my wishes and buzzing when it was done with its job. Why was this insulting? Well, because I felt like my dryer was suggesting that I am a slacker. Perhaps hinting that I ought to be up and folding a little more quickly. "Hey Lazy," the dryer seemed to taunt, "I've done my job of drying now get crackin' on your part. What, can't handle a few clothes to fold?" But I always do manage to get my laundry done at some point (see all those folded clothes on top). It isn't as if the laundry is a casserole that will burn if I don't take it out the minute it is done. It may get a bit wrinkly, but I've come to accept and love wrinkly so that doesn't matter so much, and I find it highly offensive that my dryer thinks that just because he dries the clothes he now has a say in when I do my part.

Then today, I checked that little knob again -- even though I've checked it a few times since the buzzing began, and lo and behold, it was turned to signal ON! SO now I am left to wonder if dryer ever was truly haunted and judgemental or if I have simply gone crazy . . . which sadly would not be a totally implausible option. You leave me alone, dryer!

P.S. Dear Dryer, Please do not get offended and quit drying my clothes. I really like how you do that.

Little Soldier

I mentioned the little army guy I keep vacuuming up? He was vacuumed up on three separate occasions. Each time the vacuum would do its little crackly sputter of "I don't like this type of thing" and spit him out. He is puny -- not the size of your normal army guy. He is actually only about 1/2 inch. Anyway, after the last close call, I put him safely (or so I thought) on a dresser upstairs. Next thing I know, I am downstairs and I step on something a little poky. Sure enough -- it is the young sniper again. He matches our carpet and it is a bit shaggy, so it really isn't a safe place for the soldier -- unless he is trying to hide from the enemy. The trouble is, contrary to what he might think, the enemy is not other small carpet dwellers who he must hide from. The enemy is a very loud large thing that sucks carpet hiders up and away. His only safety lies in being visible. I bring the fellow to Abe's direct attention -- mentioning just how close he has come to death and that Abe really ought to keep him somewhere safe and I think that is that since Abe is not one to be careless with his precious earthly posessions. But then today, I am doing laundry and I pull out our long lint filter thing only to find the brave little hero hidden in masses of lint! All I could say to the little guy is, "Are you serious!?" We have collected billions of toys by this stage of our kid's lives and many of the toys are very very small. What is going on with this little soldier that it is he, and he alone, having all these close calls? After this final lint episode I find myself feeling oddly protective of him and nervous that soon the hand of fate will neglect him just long enough for his number to be up.

And, in other news -- nice snack, Penny (that's right, she somehow managed to get her hands on a nice block of cheese).

Buillion, Slivers, and All Around Crazy

Note to self: bullion is by the soup. Remember this so that the next time you need it you won't walk very slowly up and down, and up and down the isle where the taco seasoning is and then up and down, and up and down the isle where the salt, pepper and other spices are like you do every single time you need bullion as you think to yourself, "Think think think. Where was that bullion."

And another thing -- does anyone know what happens if a little tiny piece of wood . . . like say the size of the very end of a toothpick gets lodged deep in the bottom of your foot? Because, well, that is where a very tiny piece of wood is. Very deep and very very tiny. Only my foot is all swollen, and I limp like a little fox whose paw got caught in one of those scary traps (well, at least how he would limp were he to get away from one of those traps with his paw still intact -- if he'd gnawed his paw off to get away, well, I wouldn't be able to compare myself fairly because it is not that bad -- yet). Tia, ask your doctor friend will you. Sure he may be a neurosurgeon (oh, I am so sorry I forgot just what type of a doctor your husband is), but what good is that if he doesn't know anything about slivers? I think they would have to cut my whole foot open and search and search to find it . . . which seems like a lot of misery for one very minuscule piece of wood. OH!! Oohhh . . . I totally know you are all going to use this in a lesson now about a little festering sin.

Anywho, toodle-lou. I'm clearly all crazy in the head right now and should not be blogging. No, this would be a much better time to work on my church talk for tomorrow. Hahaha. Oh how they'll love it.

P.S. MMmm, I love Maddox Turkey Steaks. Just the kind you buy at the store and cook yourself. The kind that don't exist in other states. I'm going to go eat one right this minute.

Hearing Myself

Long ago I got tired of finding random notes scattered in drawers or tucked in books here and there through out the house – you know – thank you notes, birthday cards, notes from kids, notes from Mike to me or me to Mike, etc. So, I designated a special little box for my notes and a special little box for Mike's notes. My box is actually a nice little Tupperware, but then there wasn't another of those handy, so Mike's are in a Hillard and Hansen shoe box. I don't even know who or what that brand is, or whether it would have been a box of male or female shoes, but neither does Mike, and I don't know that he even realizes how nicely I have saved his scattered notes and carefully preserved them in that shoe box anyway – even if it has been in his nightstand drawer for some time now. Still, Mike does place a fair amount of sentimental value on things and would never intentionally throw a nice card or note away so I assume it would make him happy, were he to pause and open that shoe box, to realize I have done this. . . . Though, truthfully, he was probably fine with them scattered through out the house (just so long as they weren't in a garbage) . . . which is why, I guess, it is only fair that I get the Tupperware and he only gets the shoe box.

The point of all this was to say, that as I was unpacking the other day and came upon these note filled boxes, I began going through them because a note is such a happy thing (as I mentioned in this post about notes last year). As I read over some of the notes I'd written to Mike, I noticed something. What I noticed was this: I could hear me in those notes. No no, not me talking like on the movies when someone is reading a letter and suddenly you hear the sender's voice. I just mean, I could hear my writing voice. You know the one. The one you can hear RIGHT NOW! It was me, the writing me, right there in every one of those notes. And, to be honest, it tired me a little. Must I always sound – well, how I sound? You know that you know what I am talking about. The voice that I have cursed for being so hard to punctuate correctly. That same voice that is present in my emails or blog posts or any other thing I write. And that is fine, but when something is . . . how can I explain this. . . when something is so certainly a certain way each and every time, it can get old. If you like that way, fine, but what if it isn't really your style or you simply feel like something different that day? Then perhaps that voice can become maddening or even worse – annoying. Maybe once in awhile I'd like to type up something with a different voice. A voice that could be anyone in the world. A voice that wouldn't rub you wrong if you were tired of that same old voice. I used to worry the same thing when I taught Relief Society. What if sometimes you didn't want a distinct style. What if you just wanted good basic – something.

Anywho, maybe I'll try writing a few posts with different voices. I could even name them – I'll be like “A post about moving written in Beverly's voice” or “A post about life with five kids in Fernando's voice” – but who knows if that would even work. Even me writing that sounds to me like the voice I was talking about. Plus, you might just all start to think I have multiple personalities and that might even be more disturbing than hearing ME and exactly me each and every time I write. Oh don't get me wrong. I like me just fine and I'm sure you all do to, but do you know what I mean? Sometimes I don't want to be so predictable or even so pinned to one way of sounding. I want to be a little more versatile.

Still, I have written Mike some pretty good notes (and one day, when I am dead, and he finds them there in that shoe box, he will miss me all the more) and hearing my writing voice loud and clear was NOTHING as disturbing as when I was young and first heard my talking voice on a tape recorder. I liked the sound of my voice so well in my head, and then to hear it from someone else's perspective – not at all how I thought I sounded was quite disturbing! Blah blah blah . . . and this is all I have to say after my long blog absence?!

Enrique, Ricky and The Le Leche League

I know we shouldn't judge others, but somehow the topic of hell and just who was going there once came up between my husband and me. Here is who he thought was going:
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1. The La Leche League. Oh that makes me laugh even to type it. For those of you who have no idea who they are, much less why it would make me laugh so hard that Mike thinks they will be headed straight for Hades, well, I'll tell you. They are the league that supports mothers breastfeeding their babies, and I'm sure they deserve nothing but gratitude for what they have done for mothers and their infants but for some reason whatever information we received from them in the hospital seemed to give Mike the impression that if we didn't nurse our children to their liking til they were about ten years old, we would be taken out into the street and stoned -- even if our children were adopted. This naturally made him terrified of the vengeful La Leche League.
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2. Enrique Iglesias. What? I am laughing again. I know nothing about Enrique -- except I think he sings that "I can be your hero baby blah blah blah" song. I have no idea why he in particular will be fairing so poorly at the day of judgement.
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Oh, now this is even better. I typed the above post a few days ago but never published it, then I told Mike about it tonight. Here was our conversation:
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Mike: Enrique Iglesias? Did I say that? Why would I have said him?
Me (laughing): I don't know, that's why I thought it was so funny.
Mike: Well, I don't know if I said him or not, but if I did, I'm changing my vote to Ricky Martin.
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And then I remembered that it was always Ricky Martin who was going to h-e-double toothpicks. Never poor Enrique. And now it seems even more funny to me because why is Ricky Martin any more doomed than Enrique anyway? I confess I know nothing about him either (apparently not even the difference between him and Enrique Iglesias) -- but, I trust Mike's sound judgement (well, except maybe about the sweet La Leche sisters) so Enrique, your safe . . . for now, but Ricky, well, you better watch yourself.

Of Breakfasts and Lunches

I know, I know -- the cardinal rule of healthy eating (well, maybe not the cardinal, but, you know, a major rule) is: never skip breakfast. I don't know who would want to skip breakfast anyway (except truthfully sometimes stomachs just aren't quite up for any digestive work first thing in the AM), but, if you do skip breakfast, you know what will happen. Your body won't start the day right -- running on empty and all, so you will overcompensate and eat way more all day (you might not think you are, but the studies say you are, so you are) and soon you will weigh 100 pounds. Oh, for heaven's sake, sometimes in my attempts to grossly over exaggerate, I accidentally under exaggerate. No, you will not suddenly weigh 100 pounds. That is only if you eat no breakfast, lunch or dinner -- or snacks. What I meant was: you will suddenly weigh ONE MILLION pounds.

So, I know all of that (I'm sure everything I wrote above is pure science), but I have not been able to eat breakfast for nothin' lately. Really, it is just not happening. I wake up and try to quickly get five kids ready and fed -- hair done, coats, backpacks, shoes, "What? You don't want to eat school lunch today?! I have to make you one?" and all of that. And all the while I am doing this one handed as I try to nurse the youngest one to fullness because I don't want him crying miserably in the car for the entire 20 min. drive to my kid's school. Then, the three youngest and I go straight to the new house since there is no point in driving back to my parents and out again, and we (by we, I mean I) clean what we can before Penny or Jesse, or even Goldie or I can't take it anymore and we head back to my mom's. Where does breakfast come into play I ask you?

So, the point of all of this is I am pretty ready to gobble up everything in sight when we get back. I still haven't grown the third hand I am wishing for, so I just make do. And, if Mike knew what I ate for lunch today, he would maybe leave me. No, he wouldn't leave me -- too much a man who fulfills his obligations for that. But, he would definitely have a hard time ever kissing me again unless or until he had watched me wash my mouth out with bleach . . . and you know the cardinal rule of mouth hygiene: never wash your mouth out with Clorox (and of course, that may not be thee cardinal rule either -- it may not even be a rule at all, but it probably . . . no, certainly should be).

Anyway, it was just a convenient combination of most left-overs in our fridge plus a few items my kids were having for lunch and included funeral potatoes, tomatoes and some nice pork-n-beans thrown in for good measure. I know all you non-food mixers are shuddering, but it was great. I had seconds, and I didn't even care because no one was there to see what I was eating. Except now I've told everyone. Dang. But really, I have been run ragged lately so leave me be. I'll blog again soon -- when I weigh one million pounds and am swishing some bleach in my mouth.

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And, lest I sound whiny with all this "I'm run ragged blah blah blah poor poor me," I do realize that I am lucky that I CAN be run ragged. Does that make sense?? I just mean as crazy as things have been since signing on a crazy foreclosed house about the day Jesse was born, I realize that I can do it (so far), and tired as I am, I know that is a blessing. What if I just broke my leg or was suffering from severe depression or even had the flu right now? I don't know. Mike has heard . . . maybe a tiny tiny bit of less than perfect attitude from me . . . maybe . . . but I am grateful that I have been able to handle all the insanity of life right now even if it means I can't fit breakfast in and must eat crazy stuff for lunch.

Of Pumpkins and Patches

I was thinking the other day (as it is Halloween time and these things are about) that I am really fond of the word "pumpkin" -- particularly when it is paired with "patch." There is just not much that sounds nicer than "pumpkin patch," and that is why, with these thoughts in mind, I was extra shocked and upset to see this headline (along with this picture) in the news this morning: Farmers offering reward after pumpkin patch is vandalized.

Really, things like that make me so sad with our world. Especially because I can imagine it might not have been anyone super evil, possibly just some goofy teens thinking it was funny -- taking the old pumpkin smashing (where you take pumpkins off of porches and smash them on the road) to an extreme level . . . maybe not fully realizing that they were actually destroying some poor farmers entire little Halloween season income. It made me sad and mad. And, I don't think it was just that it involved a pumpkin patch (which is such a pleasant thing) because I would have been just as upset had it been a watermelon field . . . of course I love watermelons too, so let me think honestly . . . a cabbage field? Yes, just as upsetting. Just needless and thoughtless ruin.

Well, with that big to do over the pumpkin patch, let us move on with the topic of liking words. I imagine there are lots of words I love but don't consciously realize (like pumpkin patch). I also like the word "riddled" -- sadly that always seems to go with "riddled with bullets" which, naturally, I don't like so much, but I liked the sound of it just fine when I told Mike that something I wrote was "riddled with mistakes" the other day. What are some more words to love? If I gather enough maybe I can compose an entire post about patches riddled with pumpkins and a bunch of other things that will make the entire post just sound so pleasing even though it won't actually talk about anything particularly great. (I also seem to use the word "particularly" a lot. Do I like that word? Hmmm . . .).

Brave (and lucky) Mr. Megablocks

The other day I was holding Penny whilst doing the dishes (that is the kind of thing you learn to do when you have a few kids -- nurse while making dinner, do your hair and make-up while keeping a small child next to you on the counter). Penny, herself, was holding Mr. Megablocks (as I fondly call him). He's the little guy who came, as you may have guessed, with my children's Megablocks (large Lego's basically). He has a little button on his shirt and when you push it he says, in the cutest electronic voice imaginable: "megablocks, " "uh-huh-huh" (that's a cute little laugh), or he makes a happy whistle sound. Penny finds Mr. Megablocks quite entertaining now that she has mastered the little button -- which is how she came to be holding him, while I was holding her, washing dishes.

For those of you who have read my previous posts, you may recall how horrifying I think it is when something has been left in the disposal as I unknowingly turn it on. So, I had just finished the last dish, cleaned up the sink, and turned on the disposal when poor Mr. Megablocks (perhaps startled by the sound) fell from Penny's hands (it may also be that he had become a bit slippery from being chewed on by said Penny). It was almost as if things went into slow motion. I couldn't catch Mr. Megablocks with my one-handedness, so he fell, hitting the divider in the middle of the sink, bouncing back up for what seemed an immeasurable amount of time before tilting toward the non-disposal side of the sink and falling directly into it's fairly safe drain. And there he lay, looking as you see him -- the ever cheerful Mr. Megablocks, waving his perhaps final goodbye to the world with his bravest face on. I was unnaturally relieved to see him there, in that safe drain. I quickly turned off the disposal and wiped the sweat from my brow. Brave little Megablocks. I don't think Penny even knew what his fate might have so easily been. I'm glad this situation didn't end (as it so easily could have) with a trauma that might have caused her to develop my disposal phobia at such a tender young age.

Possum Wheels

I generally don’t listen to the radio these days, but I was driving home from Visiting Teaching in our little black truck and it only has a radio. Anyway, I am glad I was listening because the John Tesh show was on and he was telling us all about this cool company that makes carts for dogs who have lost limbs. They have wheels and harnesses and the dogs are so happy because it gives them their life back again, and one German Shepherd was so depressed that all he would do was lie there looking out the window at all the other dogs playing until he got his little cart, and then he ran off down the driveway like a new dog ready to play. At the end of the show they mentioned the web site (which I have unfortunately forgotten – maybe something like Ed’s wheels?). They also added that they have made wheels for dogs as big as 220 pounds right on down to Chihuahuas. They have even made carts for cats, guinea pigs, hamsters, rabbits and AN OPPOSUM! Now, there could certainly be some interesting things to think about here. . . . Interesting how much some folks love their rabbits, interesting to think of how much money was spent on medical bills for these hamsters before they were ready for their little carts, interesting to wonder how much longer the hamsters will live anyway. We could go on and on. I won’t however because I don’t know how everyone feels about this. I will only say that while my husband does love animals, he loves them in a little more of farmy sort of way – you know, the sort of love that shoots a horse when he breaks his leg (I’m sorry if that type of love offends any of you). That means there will likely be no wheels on any rabbits around here – though he will certainly mourn with Abe over the loss of any rabbit (not that we are getting rabbits – but you can never be too certain) and, I must admit that personally, I’d love to see a little hamster carting itself around. I also think it would be super cool to get wheels for a chicken.

BUT, the thing that struck me most was the reference to the one opossum cart. My first thought was, “Who keeps a possum for a pet?” Then the whole thing laid itself out perfectly before me. There can be little doubt how this possum came to lose the use of its back legs (if you are unsure of what I mean, please refer to my previous post on the possum). This opossum wasn’t a pet to begin with. He was a plain old possum, but then he got hit by a car (like so many possums before him), only this time, the driver of the car had likely been reading my possum post! Because I had raised possum awareness, the driver did not speed off as he otherwise might have. Rather, he stopped to check on the little guy who, it turns out, was not dead at all (though he might have been playing dead as also discussed in my post) merely deprived of the use of his back appendages. You can probably guess the rest of the story from here as well as I did, but I must say, it just warms my heart thinking of that little possum and his new owner going on little walks with his little leash and tiny little back wheels (at night of course since possums are nocturnal), and I like to imagine that I am wholly responsible for this happy relationship.

Poor Jim

Jim called us several times the other day. Of course, we don’t know Jim, and Jim doesn’t know us. Still, he called. He was looking for someone . . . someone he didn’t seem too surprised not to find. I wasn’t able to talk with Jim (which might explain why he called more than once). I only heard his lonely voice on our answering machine. He sounded so sad. He left no name of the person he was seeking – obviously assuming he’d reached the correct number. He merely said that he didn’t know if they’d be home or not, and then later, “It’s Jim again . . . I called earlier (sad pause) hoping to catch you (more pause).” Poor Jim. Why won’t this person call him back? Why won’t they talk to Jim? Well, I guess part of the problem is, they don’t actually know Jim called as Jim was accidentally calling us instead. I wish I’d been there to answer Jim’s call. To assure him that he wasn’t being ignored by the person he sought, that it was all a big misunderstanding . . . he’d simply dialed the wrong number, and surely, the individual he was seeking was likely waiting anxiously to hear from him! I should like to have given Jim that hope. Alas, I fear it would only have been false hope. From the sound in Jim’s voice, I have a suspicion that it came as no surprise to him that his calls weren’t being returned. I have the feeling this person might very well have no concern at all for poor lonely Jim trying so forlornly and with such little hope to reach them. I am rather upset with this mystery individual for being so thoughtless with poor Jim. I’m sure Jim deserves much better.

And there you have my assumptions over two incorrectly placed calls sadly blinking away for some attention on the answering machine in my empty kitchen.

The Disposal

One of the most disconcerting things is what occurs when you turn on your garbage disposal (if that is what that thing in your sink that grinds up stuff is called -- mine is actually called the "in-sink-erator") while there is some non-food item sitting in it. Usually, I find, these non-food items are kitchen utensils, spoons in particular seem to enjoy a good visit down the disposal. Anyway, it makes a horrible sound (those of you who do this as regularly as I do know what I’m talking about). It rattles your nerves, like someone jumping out from behind a door to scare you, so even though your hand was right on the switch, it has now leapt to your mouth or your frantically beating heart in panic, and it can’t seem to register, with all that grinding noise, how to quickly turn the thing back off. All in all, it is probably only a matter of seconds before you come to your senses and realize what you must do (no, not reach in and grab the spoon! Turn the disposal off), but it seems much longer because the affect lasts a good deal longer.

It is almost as damaging to your nerves to turn the disposal on, even with nothing lodged in there, if you think you are turning the light over your sink on. I am not certain why these two identical switches must always be side by side, but a hesitant little guessing game must be played each time you go to turn the light on. Still, that isn’t quite as bad as the aforementioned because at least you are not left with a chewed up spoon which you don’t throw away because that would be ridiculous -- even though you can’t bare to use it ever again because it is so rough and disturbing to your palate.

Back to the spoon in the disposal, knowing how upsetting it is, I have to wonder why I always turn my disposal on with out checking for anything first. Each time, just as my hand is flipping the switch, I hunch my shoulders, grit my teeth and close my eyes – waiting for the worst. Is it simply because I forget to check each time? And the fearful posture I take as I flip the switch is something akin to slamming your car door just as you realize your keys are still in there -- your mind thinks, “noooo! Stoppp!” yet your hand continues to slam the door? Or is the truth simply that I can not bare to put my hand down that dark hole to check the disposal? I mean there is something in there that no one has ever seen (well, except for whoever put it there to begin with and maybe lots of other people, but it sounded more mysterious to say no one had ever seen what was in there). Whatever it is, it grinds food up in seconds and even chews up metal spoons. Giant spinning blades? Sharks? It’s unnerving. Once I saw a small scene from some shrunken woman show where she fell into the garbage disposal just as it was about to be turned on. No wonder I’m so horrified of the whole thing. Those of you who check your disposals faithfully, with-out batting an eye, have my admiration.

Marshmellow Peeps

Who in their right mind would write about marshmallow peeps? No one is the answer, but I never have claimed to be in my “right mind.” I’m not even sure I know what my “right mind” is since I keep writing about things no one in their right mind would write about – meaning I must generally be in my “wrong mind;” and when put that way, it is very disturbing for me to think about – being in my wrong mind . . . obviously that is a place no one would ever want to be.

But, here I am, all in my wrong mind, (starting not only a sentence, but an entire paragraph with a conjunction!!) writing about marshmallow peeps. I will say, in my defense, that rather strong feelings seem to exist out there concerning these little treats. I once read an article about how many are produced and about web-sites devoted to doing crazy experiments, etc. with marshmallow peeps (the more I type that name, the sillier it sounds). So, I’m just saying that I am not alone in having thought about the little guys. Apparently loads of people are in their wrong minds when it comes to the sugary bunny shaped delights.

Now, to the meat of the matter (though there is probably no meat in the peeps): I couldn’t quite understand how I could have such unreasonable differing opinions about the treats when they are the same whatever the color or shape. Here are my feelings:

1. Marshmallow peeps are good at Easter time only. They are awful and not even worth considering when made as Halloween pumpkins and ghosts or as Christmas trees.

2. Even at Easter time, the only acceptable colors for peeps are pink and yellow. It makes me shudder to think of consuming the blue, green or purple varieties.

3. A peep, even one that meets all the above criteria, is only good if it has sat out and gotten a little hard.

There you have it. That is how I feel about the fellas. I confronted these thoughts the other day when Goldie had me buy some marshmallow peeps at the store. I was happy to oblige, it was Easter, they were pink, but they are still sitting down stairs in an open container waiting to harden. All at once I realized why the craziness of my thoughts. It is this: marshmallow peeps are really not very good. That is why I don’t like them at other holidays or in other colors. The soul reason I like them as I described in my three points is that in that way they are associated totally with happy childhood memories – before peeps started expanding their horizons with other holidays and other colors, when they were simply the two colored Easter variety that my parents would hide for us to find on Easter morning – after they’d sat out all night getting a bit crunchy. It makes me happy to remember this and it makes me laugh that I could like a treat purely through association with a happy childhood memory. Thanks mom and dad for all the happy holiday memories I have! I will always remain loyal to the pink and yellow Easter peeps because I will associate any attack upon them as an insult to my happy childhood.

With that warning said, you may as well all comment because I know every last one of you has something to say about the very odd little treats.