Oh, Yetch!

23 Aug

Last night, I slipped my feet into my boots so I could go feed the fish.

And felt something soft and tender.

Eddie, bless his little black heart, had left a newly dead mouse in my right boot. That or the poor thing had escaped Eddie’s tender ministrations by crawling into the boot to hide. Probably the latter, as I couldn’t find any wounds on it other than a bite in the vicinity of the right shoulder blade. I held it for a moment, and it was still vaguely warm, but definitely dead. Poor baby. I think the thing that disturbs me most about mice and deer is that they don’t close their eyes when they die. They continue to look at you beseechingly.

I threw him into the back forty for the foxes to eat. So much for empathy.

In the future I will shake out my boots before I put them on. No telling what else the dear boy may drag home.

A Sinking Sensation

20 Aug

Recently, I have been displaying some symptoms of the same condition that wreaked havoc with  my grandfather, my dad, and both of his brothers. Other than extreme fatigue and forgetfulness, one of the things that plagues me is stumbling.

Or general clumsiness, depending upon your view of these things.

I also have panic attacks, which makes driving difficult. I used to take Blazer to knitting at church with me, but somebody  objected, and put up big signs that only service animals are allowed. As far as I am concern, Blazer is a service dog, even if he doesn’t wear an orange vest.

Anyway, this afternoon, I had gone up to take my nap and then came back down because I had forgotten my midday meds. The Squire stopped me just before I reached the bottom step and wanted to know if everything was OK. We spoke for a few moments, and then I stepped forward, forgetting I had not gotten all the way to the bottom. I walked off into the air, and made quite a landing, scaring the daylights out of The Squire and adding another bruise or two to the collection I already have. Didn’t do my back a bit of good, let me tell you! Fortunately, the bathroom door was shut, so although I hit my head, I didn’t end up flat on my back.

I was laughing hysterically, but The Squire, for some reason, didn’t find the episode funny.

Wedding Plans

18 Aug

I still haven’t nailed down The Bride on her wedding cake, although we did finally get a number, which is a start. I’ve selected several designs, none of which pleased her. She doesn’t like stripes or dots, but doesn’t want a plain cake, either.  She doesn’t want “ruffles” between the tiers, but kept insisting she wanted lace, instead. After a trip to the Wilton pages, I discovered that by “lace” she meant ribbon. The concept that “less is more” makes no sense to her at all. I did point out how much nicer the girls dresses looked after she had removed some of the gewgaws,  and she agreed so maybe there’s hope.

With all of the doctor’s appointments The Squire and I have coming up between now and Labor Day, I decided to get started on this project as soon as possible. When we remodeled the kitchen I gave all of my cake pans to a friend from church, with the understanding that he would let me use them in the event I needed them. I think they are out of town, as I haven’t gotten an answer to my emails. Their daughter is going to college, and they’ve probably driven her down to get settled in there.

So – today The Squire and I defrosted the big freezer, so we’d have space to put the cake. Piling boxes in the cooler, stacking things on the counter, tossing UFOs (Unidentified Frozen Objects), boiling water (you’d think we were having a baby!) and then replacing it all. Great fun.

We had a lovely well-balanced dinner of mini-pizzas, popcorn shrimp and chicken nuggets, along with a bag of frozen veggies. Grease and carbs. Yum!

When we were finished with the freezer, I leaned over to give The Squire a hug to thank him for helping me, and jerked back with a mighty YUCK!

Is there anybody else in the entire world who can work up a sweat defrosting a freezer?

 

Requiem for a Bread Machine

16 Aug

When I was still working for the Evil Insurance Company, I made bread three day a week. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I took out my frustrations on the dough. Bang, flip, bash! One for you, one for your stupid brother and one for your ugly little dog, too. (Oops, that’s from another story, isn’t it?)

I sent The Squire to the office every day for a month (20 working days) with a different kind of bread – white bread made with egg and honey, whole wheat, cheese and cracked pepper,  fresh herbs, two-toned bread, rye, various sorts of sour dough – you name it, he had it. The girls in my carpool stopped accepting the extra loaves because their husbands wanted to know why they didn’t make bread. The Squire ended up taking the leftovers to his office, where nobody complained -ever!

After I retired, the bread making slowed down; I was no longer so frustrated, and I had discovered the joy of afternoon naps.

About ten years ago, our three daughters got together and gave me (us, really) a DAK bread machine. That machine saw Trojan duty,  working long and hard, turning out countless loaves of bread.

Until yesterday.

I got it all loaded, ready to go, and the motor had jammed. The Squire and I were on our way up to the Laundromat, and there is a brand new Goodwill Super Store in the shopping center, so after we put the clothes in the washers, we wandered down the way to see what was on offer.

Came home with a very nice Corner Bakery machine. Judging from the condition of the accompanying cookbook, it was hardly even used.  The Squire managed to get the makin’s out of the DAK and into the Corner Bakery and away we went.

Not bad for $7.

I Gots To Get Organzized!

14 Aug

When my sister was about four years old, she looked at the wall-to-wall chaos that was our play room, put her hands on her hips and uttered the above sentence, which has gone down in family history.

And this past week was one of those times.

I worked all last week, and have decided, once and for all, that I am too bloody old for this nonsense. Getting up at 6AM and staying up all day without a nap gets really old, really fast.  It’s not just the physical exhaustion, it’s the mental strain of trying to keep all of the pieces together. Within the space of five days, I managed to miss the turn into Loveton Circle twice, once turning too early (No big deal; it IS a circle, after all.), and once going past the light and having to drive a half mile to the next place to turn. I also forgot my teeth one morning. Mind you, I’ve had dentures since I was twenty-two, so there was no excuse for this particular trick. Thank Heaven, The Squire was home and willing to bring them to me. Willing, and more than a little concerned.

The Squire has been wanting to see the meteor shower for decades, but every August, it has been rainy or cloudy. Thursday night promised to be clear and cloudless, if a tad on the warm side. Friday morning, he came staggering downstairs just as I was getting ready to leave the house. “How was the ‘show’ last night?” “Dunno”, he grumped. He’d been reading a “really good book” and had finished it up at 2AM. Rather than disturb my rest, he’d slept in the guest room, but now he had to get pulled together to run to Panera and collect the “Dough-nation” for the food pantry at St. George’s. Normally, this is done around 9:30 on Thursday night, but he’d been in outer space and hadn’t gotten back in time to make the pickup.

Yesterday morning, The Squire  crawled out of bed at 7AM and went over to the shopping center to sell raffle tickets with Mac for a church fund raiser, beginning at 8AM. He called here at 8:30 to ask if I’d heard from Mac – I had not – as he had called both the cell and the landline, and couldn’t get hold of him. “I’m going to run by his house to see if the place burned down overnight or something, and then I’ll swing by the church.”

I don’t know where they finally got together, but Mac had been looking for the vendor’s license, without which they could not legally sell the tickets. At that point, “it was to hell with it, and either go home or to the movies.” They both went home. (The license, BTW, was in the treasurer’s top desk drawer.)

In the afternoon, I went to a baby shower for our grandson and his wife, and had a marvelous time. Matthew is a clown and loves being the center of attraction. He struck “model” poses with the diaper bag, swinging this way and that. Somebody gave the baby a tiny camo suit, with the last name on the hat. (It’s a long one, and I doubt it would have fit on the shirt pocket.) M sat the hat on top of his head and insisted upon “wearing” it for quite a while, in spite of his wife’s playful attempts to remove it.

One of the games they played was to try to guess, on smell and taste, five different types of baby food. The string beans were easy, but carrots, squash, and peaches all seem to taste exactly the same. Of course, M had to be the final taste-tester, and really did “gag it up”. “We are not feeding our son this slop!” was how he put it.

And then the fun started. I was not – still am not – recovered from my week at work, and it was almost 100F, with a heat index even higher. When I went out to my car, I couldn’t find my keys. I don’t normally put my keys in my purse, but the dress I was wearing didn’t have any pockets, so they had to be in my purse, but I just couldn’t locate the fool things. I went back inside to see if they had fallen into the chair, but no luck. By this time, I was so tired and hot I was ready to sit on the floor and cry. Eldest Daughter went out to check my purse again (yes, I’d left it in the car!) and not only found the keys, but started the car and the a/c.

And locked the car behind her.

Fortunately, there is a “secret” way to get into the car, because I think being rescued by The Squire twice in one week would not have gone well.

I came home and went to bed.

Next week, I gots to get organzized.

 

 

 

 

Adventures with Pink Eye

6 Aug

A few weeks ago I developed a lovely case of pink-eye, for which the doctor prescribed some drops. The drops cleared up the conjunctivitis, but my eye lids got really red and itchy. We met some friends for lunch and I had mixed egg whites (which tighten the skin beautifully and can be taken from the shells of your breakfast; you don’t need much) and a dab of makeup just to hid the fact that I looked as if The Squire had finally lost it and belted me one.

We kept using the drops even after the pink-eye had cleared up, but I finally stopped after I develop a blister on my upper lid. I had an appointment on the 4th, and was hoping we’d be able to get this cataract business straightened out, but we need to wait another few weeks.

Anyway, it turns out that I am allergic to Neomycin, which was the active ingredient in the drops, so we are off for more medicine to counteract the side effects of the first one. The doctor told me to smooth it over both top and bottom lids, on both eyes. The Squire, of course, insisted upon helping, but this morning neither of us  could find the tube. Mind you, the silly thing is less than three inches long, not as wide as my index finger, and a fairly dark purple, too boot, so it’s not really surprising that we couldn’t locate it.

“Use mine”, says The Squire. “It’s not the same thing”, says I. “Well, it is purple,” he insists. It’s NOT purple; it’s white with a red stripe, but my eyes were itching like mad, so I gave in. He put a little dab under one eye, and then got to laughing and put enough under the other eye to cover me from hairline to chin.

A few minutes later, I started rubbing at my face, and just as he as about to tell me to stop rubbing my eyes, he told me to go wash my face – NOW. Turns out that the active ingredient in his eye cream is – neomycin!

I washed my face with baby shampoo, reapplied my own ointment, and lived happily ever after.

And that, boys and girls, is why they tell you not to use other people’s medications.

They’re Baaack!

2 Aug

I came downstairs this morning to find the hand vac on the kitchen counter, and The Squire no place in sight.

As it turned out, he had left for a doctor’s appointment, and we have ants – again. I had wanted to go with him for this procedure, but he said when he tried to wake me I didn’t respond, so he just let me sleep. Believe me, if Judgement Day comes and I’m asleep, I may miss it, so I don’t doubt him.

We haven’t had a problem with ants for several years, as we had hired an exterminator who had come around three or four times a year to spray outside and put out bait for the mice indoors, but dropped it because of the expense. When we finished eating on Sunday I had neglected to put away a sticky bun , and the ants were, to quote The Squire, trying their best to carry it off by themselves this morning, hence the hand vacuum.

I went after them myself for a while and figured out that they were coming down from the kitchen ceiling. I found the bottle of Terro* and put a dab on a bit of cardboard and lifted one of the ceiling tile to place the bait within easy reach of the critters. I couldn’t get the tile to settle back into its proper place, so I figured I’d just suck it back down with the vacuum. What I did do was pull all of the plastic off the fiberglass tile, and had to glue the blasted stuff back together. The tile is back in place, but it is still a bit kitty-wumpus, and that’s the way it’s going to stay, thank you very much.

  • Should you ever be invaded by ants, Terro is the only bait to use. The exterminator told us it is the strongest product you can buy without a license. It’s a clear liquid, which you drop onto a small piece of cardboard – a bit of cereal box is fine – and put as close to the entry point as you can. You may wonder what on earth I’ve gotten you into, as there will be ants such as you never imagined, and then two or three days later – poof! – they are gone. They have carried the poison back to the nest, and that takes care of that.

Me and Donald Trump

31 Jul

To say that I am not a great fan of Donald Trump is a massive understatement.

Our eldest grandson is a member of the Air Force, and will be going to the Middle East sometime in October. Matt&Plane When I heard Trump’s dismissal of John McCain’s service to our county, I was incensed. Senator McCain spent five and a half years in a Viet Cong prison camp, enduring God alone know what sorts of torture, and Trump flipped him off. “He’s not a war hero. He’s a war hero because he got captured. I like people that weren’t captured.” (He also dismissed Sen. McCain later because he had lost to President Obama, “I don’t like losers.”)

What sort of sympathy will our daughter and grand-daughter-in-law going to get from this person if – God Forbid – he ever becomes Commander in Chief?

Well, now we know.

This is a person who excoriated the parents of a soldier who died saving the lives of his men. That is the support our grandson’s  family will receive from Donald Trump. A person who thinks he has made sacrifices because he has worked hard, and amassed a fortune. Oh, and he went to military school. Big whoop. He was sent there by his parents because of “behaviour problems”. What sort of sacrifice is a fortune? He has, to quote Khizr Khan, sacrificed nothing, and no one.

What sort of person – I won’t call him a man – makes fun of people who have lost a son who is willing to fight for his country? For the country Trump himself calls home? The country our grandson has sworn to protect, with his very life if necessary?

Mr. Trump has a soul as dark as the inside of Shan-Wei’s boot, and a heart as cruel as any Viet Cong torturer.

And you may quote me on that.

Beginnings and Endings

27 Jul

Yesterday we went up to Eldest Daughter’s to visit with our granddaughter and her two children. Aubrey just turned two, and Wyatt is all of six weeks old, and growing like the proverbial weed. He was 8 pounds, 4 ounces when he was born, and weighs thirteen pounds now.

Aubrey has taken quite a shine to her great-grandfather, calling him Papa, with either a British or French accent. Much emphasis on the second syllable. Pa-pah, she says. She was up on the balcony, looking down and calling him to come up to her bedroom. There are two sets of stairs, and The Squire took the front way up, which she didn’t expect, and he surprised her. “Oh, hi!” (Fancy meeting you here.) She led Pa-pah into her room, showed him her toys, made him a plastic egg sandwich, and then read him a story. Her version was much better than the book.

When we got ready to leave, her mum told her to say good-bye to “Great-grandmother”, and Aubrey blew me a kiss and said,  “I love you, Gran-Mama.” It’s taken two years, but now we have “official” names!

Today, we went to a visitation for a fellow with whom both The Squire and I had worked at Equitable. We’d seen John at the reunion in June, and we both remarked that he didn’t look at all well. His wife, who had also worked at the bank, said that was one of the last good days he’d had. Within about two weeks he’d begun failing dreadfully. He had cancer, and she’d opted for a closed casket because he looked so dreadful.

He was younger than my sister and they had been married less time than we had. Life, sometimes she just isn’t fair.

Be kind to each other.

Baby, It’s Hot Outside

24 Jul

As of 7:30 PM, it is still 87F, down from a high of 93, and only supposed to go down to 77 overnight.

When my parents moved back to Bel Air from Ohio in 1968, air conditioning was becoming much more common, and the contractor had automatically included it in the plans for the new house. My dad crossed it off. He didn’t think it was necessary, and the contractor was only “thinking of his own pocket”, rather than what was actually needed. It took them over a year to sell the place, and even at that, they had to finance it themselves, interest-free.

When they moved to North Carolina in 1983, or thereabouts, the  Vicarage, which was a Victorian building with 20 foot rooms and 12 foot ceilings, had an absolutely ancient heating system badly in need of replacement.  My mum said if it weren’t for the fact that it was oil heat instead of coal, she’d have sworn it was original to the house. I asked if they were going to install a/c while they were at it.

“Summer time is supposed to be hot,” my dad replied.

I just stared at him. “Are you putting a furnace it this place?”

Harrumph.

Anyway, they had a new bath installed off his study, so they could stay there indefinitely, and not have to climb the stairs when they became infirm, so they didn’t need to worry about trying to sell it.

Man proposes; God disposes.

My dad accepted a call to a parish in the UK, then developed a brain tumor, followed by renal failure (He’d forgotten to take his HTN meds.), and they had to move back to Baltimore so they would be closer to my sister and me, and then try to sell the house. It was a lovely home, the sort of place that would appeal to a business executive, but trying to sell a house in North Carolina with no air conditioning meant a replay of the house in Bel Air.

They purchased a house here which dated from the 1930s, so it didn’t have air conditioning, but the doctor told my father his medical condition was such that he simply had to have a window unit in his room.  Much grumbling about that, I’ll tell you!

Well, considering the fact that it was 103F the day he was born, I suppose he was used to it right from the beginning.