- Three year old JCountry eating the Christmas tree bulbs. Not so funny at the time but we now laugh a lot about all the things he ate back then: 1/2 tray of brownies while sitting on top of the refrigerator; dog food out of the bin, at the store and the bag, at home; and, light bulbs. For a while, we followed him around with white bread (poison control said that was all we could do).
- While we are on food, the joy of throwing up on Christmas even because I ate the whole package of chocolate covered wafer cookies, while everyone else decorated the tree. Hey, I was a kid and it beats me eating so much liver sausage at grandma’s house that I threw up in the car, on the way home.
- Last year, at Teacher daughter’s, watching her new shelter dog lick everything in sight. Mia especially liked the new grandchild, whose mother so patiently bit her tongue at dog spit on her child for days. We love you Francis!!! Okay, maybe that was last summer, but it was still fun.
- Mia also entertained us with her immitation of a short range missle tracking a lazer point on the floor. When said lazer pointer was turned off, Mia spent the next hour/s trying to find the missing red dot. ‘Sniff, Sniff, Oh, it’s not between the chair and the cabinet, it must be under the rug. Dig, dig, dig, nope, not there either. Where’s the dot? Where’s the dot?’
- There was the Christmas that we had to turn back from visiting my sister’s house as the snow was too bad so we joined my aunt at her house instead. Her turkey ended up on the floor, but she had a great story about her husband’s temper. Seems he got really mad about the floor not being clean and waxed , so on the way to work, he went to get his lunch out and yanked the refrigerator door really hard and pulled the whole thing over on himself. (he wasn’t hurt and that’s not the funny part), he was late and only had time to change his pants and not his underwear. When he got to work, and went to change into work clothes, he realized the beets had done quite a spill on his boxers and his fellow employees ribbed him for months about it. But, the floor was clean enough we could eat the turkey.
Posts Tagged ‘brownies’
Posted in Christmas, Home Again in Indiana, Humor in Life, tagged beets, brownies, floor, JCountry, lazer pointer, lick, refrigerator, shelter dog, tree bulbs, turkey, vomit on December 22, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
Posted in Home Again in Indiana, My Weird Family, Reasons I'll need Therapy, tagged baggies, brownies, bullets, dad, gun, Tell me Lies by Jennifer Crusie, twist ties on August 25, 2008 | Leave a Comment »
It really is incredible the things you find, or find out, when cleaning.
One of my favorite books is a mystery; Tell Me Lies, a novel by Jennifer Crusie. Any book that starts with “One hot August Thursday afternoon, Maddie Faraday reached under the front seat of her husband’s Cadillac and pulled out a pair of black lace bikini underpants. They weren’t hers.” Is gonna be good. And, I read it when it was labeled a mystery (which my copy is), not a romance. Of course my copy doesn’t have candy hearts on the cover. At least I don’t think it does, since it is one of the things I keep cleaning in the hopes of finding.
The scene I love in this book, and I am very much digressing because it has nothing to do with cleaning, is Maddie Faraday, going in and finding the only comfort food that is available to her is a centuries old brownie in her freezer. I have gotten desperate enough to toast a marshmallow, with a steak knife, over the stove top but who thought of toasting a frozen brownie? Brilliant!
Get on topic again, Sheryl. — Okay, I helped my parents clean out my aunt’s apartment, when she had to move into a nursing home. We found baggies and twist ties in every drawer. What we did not find was one single thing she had put in her will to leave to other people. I am hoping she had already passed on some of these items, to their new owners, long before.
When I was cleaning out some of my father’s things, after his death, I found a little tag on a string, like those you put on an item to price it. This tag, with my dad’s tiny scribble on it, lay at the bottom of a small box of assorted items, with bullets (yes, gun bullets) rattling around in the bottom. The tag read:
“Do not even think of looking for the gun.
I took it with.”
I am wondering how long that tag was in the box and why my paranoid father, even in his wildest dreams, ever thought a burglar would listen to this warning on a mini tag. Actually, why would he even take the time to read it?
Or–did my dad somehow find a way to actually take the gun with him, on his final journey? If so, I assure you, I would have taken a frozen brownie before I ever took a gun.