The other night I had a dream that I was being attacked by a crow.
The crow was a known serial killer.
And now it was after me.
Exhibit A: Totally a serial killer (Photo credit: Wikipedia Serial Killer File)
Fortunately I utilized my kung fu hand training (because what good kung fu requires you to leave your chair?) and caught the crow with my bare hands. I won’t go into the details of the various ways I tried to subdue this Rasputin crow that wouldn’t die. Members of P.E.T.A. might be reading. One method involved my moving car and the right front tire, but I’m revealing too much!
Anyhow, once the bird was finally dispatched, all its friends and relatives in the tri-state area came after me for revenge, all Hitchcock-like, OF COURSE!
Exhibit B. They’re coming for me. (Photo credit: nahlinse–Swedish for “killer crow file”)
At that point there was nothing for it but to scare myself awake. I do appreciate when that happens, actually. However, once I’m awake in the middle of the night I inevitably discover that I need to go to the bathroom and that, indeed, I will not be able to fall back asleep until I do. So I spent a quarter of an hour lying there trying to psych myself into getting out of the relative safety of my blankets (any child will tell you that you’re safe in your bed so long as you’re under your blankets–even from serial killer birds) and walk the several feet to the bathroom without a murder of crows (that is, appropriately, what they are called) flocking out from under my bed. Read the rest of this entry
I told my three-year-old to wait a while before I put sour cream on her cheese quesadilla because the sour cream would melt if I put it on right away. A minute later, still waiting on her mother to give her sour cream, she complained, Read the rest of this entry
Here’s a quick little something that made me smile. I hope it will for you as well.
As the truly faithful blog follower of mine knows (all two of you), my parents visited recently. Since everyone in my family, including my grandparents, loves to cook except me, (how’d that happen?) I was totally keen to let my ‘rents take over the kitchen during their nearly two-week stay.
When they continued their journey onward from our house, and we all breathed a deep sigh of relief (kidding!), my parents left some excess produce, that I, with my lack of real culinary knowledge or interest, knew I wouldn’t end up using.
This is when I texted a friend of mine who is one of those crazy fools who loves cooking and eats healthy ALL THE TIME. (Darn that celiac disease!) I offered her a bag of onions and some jicama. She was able to come at a time when I knew I would be out of the house, so I left the bag at the front door for her.
When I got home later and entered the house through the garage, I walked around to the front door to be sure she had stopped by and gotten the goods. When I opened the door, I saw this: Read the rest of this entry
My children were watching a cartoon movie. It was one that they’d seen before. As such, I was rather confused when my four-year-old daughter quickly covered her eyes during one part. Usually once they’ve seen a movie for the first time, the scary parts aren’t so scary on subsequent viewings. But when I checked the screen, I saw that it wasn’t at all a scary scene.
“What’s the matter?” I asked my daughter.
“I just can’t watch this part,” she said.
I could hardly believe her answer. Read the rest of this entry
When my parents were visiting, they told me this story about my dad’s parents. I already knew that my paternal grandparents loved cooking. I think I have a picture I took in my childhood of them in the kitchen working on a meal together. Since they lived across the country from us and died when I was a teenager, I didn’t get to visit them very often, but somehow I still knew that their times in the kitchen together were the highlight of their days. In fact, they would even take pictures of their finished products on occasion.
So, it was easy for me to form a picture in my mind as my dad shared this story:
Read the rest of this entry
I don’t know how many times my mother said to my father during their two-week visit, “Michael, language….” Fortunately, my children didn’t add any of his colorful choices to their own vocabulary. In truth, it was Grandma who did the most damage, teaching my sweet, innocent girls the dreaded “p” word.
Read the rest of this entry
At dinner one evening my sister noticed a small white glob adhered to her eight-year-old son’s cheek. She couldn’t understand how he got toothpaste on his face at dinner time.
“Wash that toothpaste off your face,” she told him.
“It’s not toothpaste,” he insisted.
“Then what the heck is it?” she asked. Read the rest of this entry