Flying the Friendly Skies

We are flying home for the holidays. Oh what fun! We shot out of bed at 6:00 am Mountain Standard Time. Showered, dressed, packed the last minute items. We had no milk left for cereal, no bread left for toast. Score! We have eggs! So I whipped up some scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and we washed it down with some juice.

Jim and I went over our check list before leaving:

turn furnace down - check
turn water heater off - check
take out garbage - check
lock up bikes - check

Our friend offered to drive us to the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, and he arrived precisely at 8 a.m. Traffic was surprisingly light for that time of the morning, and I had hoped it was a sign that the rest of our trip would move smoothly along. Yeah. I'm optimistically stupid that way.

My first chuckle of the day was the sign by security. There were two lines; one for the "VIP's" and one for the "casual" travelers. They might as well have written "Peons Line Up Here", because that's what they really meant, wasn't it?

I obligingly removed my shoes and vest, and put them in the bin to be scanned, along with my purse and camera bag. My poor husband stood there undressing - taking off his shoes, belt, suspenders - all the while I prayed that he wouldn't drop his drawers! Talk about a security breach! We made it through the check point unscathed, Jim got dressed, he grabbed a coffee, and we walked to our gate to wait for a couple of hours before departure. I don't mind waiting though, because I brought things to occupy me - a book, crosswords, and of course, a notebook and pen. My laptop bit the dust, so I feel a little naked without it.

I also like to people-watch. I watched a young, good looking Asian father play endlessly and unashamedly with his two young daughters, who seemed around 3 and 5 years of age. He would pretend to throw one of their stuffed animals, they would turn their heads, then he would quickly stuff the toy up his shirt, with only the head peeking out at his neckline. The girls would look back and fall over in fits of giggles. "Do mine, Daddy, do mine!"

Or else they played the tickle game and climbed up on Daddy's lap and tickled him unmercifully. I couldn't help but grin when I heard the father laugh and laugh helplessly. Then he'd start to tickle the girls. You could tell that they had such a good relationship. I thought that he was brave to be traveling alone with these two little ones, but he seemed comfortable with them and obviously didn't think it was a big deal.

The gate got more crowded as it got closer to boarding time. As soon as the flight attendant announced the rows that could board, the crowd thickened and closed in around the counter. She calmly announced, "No need to crowd, people. This plane isn't taking off until EVERYONE is boarded. So back up, give us some space and wait your turn." I could hear a few chuckles around the concourse.

In order to save a little moola, we were flying from Phoenix to Chicago via Houston. Crazy, I know. Jim and I are not small people, but I like to sit next to him on the plane in case I have to kiss my ass goodbye, at least I'm doing it in front of someone I know. Jim likes the aisle seat, which leaves me squished in the middle. A thin young woman, with beautiful long hair, sprawled out in the window seat, taking up more room then was humanly possible for such a little body. Her skinny arm claimed the entire arm rest and bony elbow poked me in the ribs the whole flight. I was surprised when she ordered a rum and coke - thinking she wasn't old enough, but she produced the proper ID and promptly received her drink. The pilot landed the plane none too gently, and skinny girl slammed both her hands on the seat in front of her as if to brace herself. She turned and said to me, "That drink was totally necessary!" Then she took the emergency procedure card out of the pocket of the seat in front of her and started fanning herself. "I HATE flying!" She continued. As soon as the plane stopped, she popped up in her seat and I let her get in front of me - she seemed like she was going to jump out of her skin!

TO BE CONTINUED.......

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Drunken Fudge and a frustrated Suzie Homaker

Yesterday at my water aerobics class, one of the women brought in some Bailey's Irish Cream Fudge. It was to die for. During the break, (cause even though it's only a 50 minute class, we're old and tired and need a break), some of the women waded over to the side of the pool to taste the fudge. I have to admit, there DID seem like something was wrong with that picture - eating fudge during aerobics - but hey - they needed their strength! (I had a piece of fudge AFTER the class.)

Here is the recipe. It makes a shitload. (Pardon my French, but that's the best way to describe it.)

Bailey’s Irish Cream Fudge

This is an “adults only” fudge.

4 ½ cups granulated sugar
1 (12 ounce) can evaporated milk
½ pound butter
2 (12 ounce) packages milk chocolate chips
1 (12 ounce) package semi-sweet chocolate chips
2 (7 ounce) jars Marshmallow crème
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2/3 cup Bailey’s Irish Cream
2 cups chopped nuts

Follow directions EXACTLY.

Set chocolate chips, marshmallow crème, vanilla extract, Bailey’s and nuts in a very large bowl. Set aside for later.

Bring butter, sugar and milk to a boil and then cook slowly for exactly 11 minutes, stirring constantly. Pour milk mixture over the other ingredients and stir slowly to blend. Do NOT use a mixer. Pour into a buttered 13 x 9 pan and an 8” x 8” pan and chill very well. Cut when cold.


So, I decided to make this fudge and give it away for little gifts to all my friends here in AZ, along with my Christmas card. Now remember I am working in a tiny kitchen, so feel my pain, okay?

I followed the first step and put it into a huge plastic bowl. Did you ever try to get Marshmallow creme out of a jar? Not an easy task, I tell ya! But I got that done and set it aside. And who's says the cook can't have a little glass of Bailey's while she's cooking, right? No rule against it!

I melted my butter in the microwave first before pouring it into the pot with the mounds of sugar and milk. Then you are supposed to stir constantly, wait for it to boil, and stir it for EXACTLY 11 minutes. It takes at least a couple of minutes for the concoction to begin to boil. I do not have a kitchen timer, so I yell out to my husband to give me 11 minutes on his watch. It has a stop watch. I hear beep, beep, beep as he sets it up. I also hear Tina Turner belting out a song in the background. It seems that while Jim was flipping channels, he came across an old concert of hers that had been broadcast live from Amsterdam. This could only mean trouble. My husband absolutely LOVES Tina. Her long, muscular legs to be exact.

Meanwhile, little Suzie Homemaker is busy stirring the fudge in the tiny kitchen.

I yell out, "What's the time?"

No response.

"Uh, hello?" I yell. "Can you tear your eyes away from Tina for one minute to look at your damn watch?!"

"7 minutes, 34 seconds!" he says.

I continue stirring.

Then it dawns on me. I have to pour all this hot mixture into the other mixture that is sitting in a plastic bowl. That can only spell disaster, right? I can just picture the plastic melting and all the ingredients oozing out all over the counter and floor, and all this expensive stuff going to waste.

So AGAIN I yell to my husband. "Hey! Can you come here for a minute? I need your help!"

"What!" He snarls at me!

"Can you PLEASE tear yourself away from TINA for ONE MINUTE and come here?"

I hear him let out a big sigh and he stomps into the kitchen.

"What do you want?"

"I can't stop stirring this fudge. After this is done I have to pour it into that other mixture and I'm afraid it will melt the bowl. So I need you to pour THAT mixture into a big pot. Can you do that please?" I ask, stirring the fudge and batting my eyes.

He begrudgingly does what I asks and goes back to Tina. I continue stirring, but take the plastic bowl and turn it upside down over the pot to get every last drop of the Bailey's cream that is sitting on the bottom. Don't want to waste a drop!

"Time?" I yell.

"10 minutes, 34 seconds, 40, 50, TIME!!"

I quick take the golden liquid off the flame, pour it into the large pot, mix up the wonderful concoction that is wafting orgasmic smells from that pot. Now I have another dilemma. I need a couple of hands to hold the large pot so I can help spoon the fudge into the appropriate pans. Dare I ask for help again?

"Uh, hon?" I say sweetly. "Can you come here again?"

Sigh.

"Please hold this pot so I can spoon the fudge out."

We get the job done. I even volunteer to let him lick the spoon. He refuses. I don't know if he was just being stubborn or what. Who cares? His loss....my gain. Slurp!

P.S. I would have taken pictures of the step by step process of making this fudge, but you can see that there is no stopping while making this.

P.S.S. No husbands were hurt while making this fudge.

P.S.S.S. This is what the husband was watching.

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Weekend Reflections #13

This sculpture is affectionately called "The Bean", located in Millennium Park in downtown Chicago. It's official name is "Cloud Gate", by Anish Kapoor. I love how the skyline is reflected in the sculpture. Obviously this was taken during the summer. If you were to walk by it today, there would be snow on the ground and snow flurries in the air!


For more weekend reflections, click here.

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The Dreaded Christmas Letter

I've haven't got my Christmas cards out yet. I decided it was time to get off my butt and get to it. I happen to have a box filled with boxes of Christmas cards that I bought on sale a few years ago. It is the ONLY thing Christmasy that is in this trailer. Unfortunately, it is stored in a cabinet along the back of the trailer, above the rocking recliner.




This means that I have to do a balancing act on said recliner, to get the box down. Not an easy feat, since the box is buried under various paraphernalia such as six decks of cards, in case we have a large crowd over to play cards, Dominoes, a bag of what's left of tinker toys (in case I feel like being a kid again I guess), a bag full of Mr. Potato Head parts, and a bag full of another game's parts. So, imagine me, if you will, standing on tippy toes, rocking the chair, grabbing on to the wall for balance every now and then, and trying to reach up and grab all this crap and throw it on the couch just to get the damn box of cards. Yeah. So now you know why I put it off. I looked a little like this. Just without the f***ing tutu. And I have more teeth.





You might ask why I just didn't ask my big, strong, 6'2" husband to just reach up and grab the box down? A) Because I'm stubborn; and B) (READ THE REAL REASON) Because I didn't want to hear him say, "You've GOT to get rid of some of this CRAP! We have TOO much WEIGHT in the trailer!"

You know EXACTLY what I'm thinking, ladies! If HE left, there would be about 10 hardcover books, 50 paperbacks, and 5 games worth of weight I could fill right back up with, easily!

Anyway, I digress. I was talking about Christmas cards. Each year I debate whether to send them or not, but then I break down and send them because I really like to receive them myself.

I hand address every one because it seems a lot more personal that way. I don't mind using the return address labels, though. And thank GOD for self-adhesive stamps. Remember back in the days when we had to LICK all those stamps? By the time I was done with my Christmas cards, my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth! I was speechless for awhile. I think those were Jim's best moments, looking back!

I always write a newsletter telling everyone what has happened to Jim and me, and our family during the past year. It's been a lot easier since the kids have grown, and we've been on the road. I can write about the places we've seen, people we've visited, etc.

But back when the kids were growing up, it was hard. Here's why. I had normal, every day kids. Yeah. I'm ashamed. They didn't get straight A's in school, they didn't excel in sports, and they sucked at playing any instruments. I hated when I got those letters from friends bragging about their kids and all their accomplishments. "Why my little Suzie is SO SMART, she has made honor roll all 3 semesters. And she takes tap and ballet lessons!" Blah, blah, blah. Reading it made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I mean, geez, I'm happy for you, really, but can you tone it down a bit? Is it wrong of me to pray to God that that kid is a little shit to her parents? IS IT?

Don't get me wrong. I had (have) great kids. BUT THEY WERE NORMAL, AVERAGE KIDS. My son played soccer when he was little, but didn't continue in school. My daughter started out playing soccer, but quit after the third game after I made her pee in a bush because there were no bathrooms in the park and she had to go potty. She never forgave me for this - she had a stubborn streak and refused to play soccer ever again. She was 5. She was on cross country and track in high school. Was she the fastest? No. But she enjoyed herself.

So, I was at a loss what to write in those damn Christmas letters. Let's see...Hmmm...I could have lied, but that's not me. I just left things out. Like the time my son was a freshman and got suspended from school because he wrote the word "Goofy" on a locker. It was considered vandalism. Yeah. I know. Kind of a rough punishment for that. I mean, he didn't write, "fuck you", or he didn't write, "Why did Mickey Mouse have Minnie committed? Because she was fucking GOOFY." No. He wrote the word "Goofy". That's it. So yeah. I left that little tidbit out of the Christmas letter.

So thankfully now I write about our travels, and one or two lines about my kids. I still get a letter or two from those same people, but now it's about their grandchildren, and how they are such whiz kids, future presidents, blah, blah, blah.

I have to go. I must finish my Christmas cards and write my Christmas letter. Maybe I could make up some good lies about Jim and me......

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Watery Wednesday

For more Watery Wednesday photos, click here.

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My Christmas Card to you and other thoughts

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow bloggers! Here's a little something to bring you some holiday cheer!

Click here.

It's funny if you type in a song they don't know, like "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."

I had a good laugh this morning while singing some Christmas carols. No, I was not laughing because of my voice. I was singing, "Winter Wonderland" and laughed when I remembered that for years my daughter sang, "Walking in my winter UNDERWEAR" because her GRANDPA, (my Dad) told her those were the words to the song. So next time you hear that song, sing, "Walking in my winter underwear!" It will be fun!

I miss when my kids were little and they would come down on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought them. It was fun to watch them exclaim over their presents, their hair all mussed up from sleep, while my husband and I could barely keep our eyes opened.

I bought one of these pickle ornaments from the Christkindlemarket in downtown Chicago.



The German story that goes along with the pickle is to hide the pickle in the tree, and the first one to find the pickle gets an extra gift on Christmas morning. I'd just hand out $5. My kids were in middle school by the time I had bought the ornament. My daughter was always quicker than my son to find the pickle.

Here are pictures of the Christkindle Market in Chicago, all courtesy of their website. Jim and I would always go downtown, and it seemed it was the coldest day of the year, of course, with blowing winds, (they don't call it the Windy City for nothing folks!), snow, etc. But it was fun to see all the treasures from Germany. We'd buy a mug of mulled wine, a warm sandwich of bratwurst and we were good to go for another hour or so.







We have been on the road for 4 1/2 years now - since April 2005. That means I have not put up ANY Christmas decorations in five years. It is very strange. We always go home for the holidays, and this year is no different. It will be a very busy two weeks, as we will spend some time with my family in the suburbs of Chicago, drive down to central Illinois to see my daughter, son-in-law, and grand daughter Lily, and drive up to Minnesota to visit my father-in-law, who will turn 99 in February, God-willing-and-the-creek-don't-rise. I also have some doctor's appointment scheduled and some standard tests. So we will be busy, busy, busy!

I will be happy to be around Christmas decorations, to be with my sisters, see my kids, and to see snow, actually. I'll probably be cold the whole time I am home, but that's okay, because my heart will be warm.

RE: THE FRITO-SMELLING DOG PAWS

At last count, it seems overwhelmingly true that dogs paws smell like Fritos. So now you know. It's amazing the things you learn here, isn't it?

Last night my husband and I were in bed reading. I was reading a fiction novel and I came to this sentence, "Dan was allergic to pet dander and they'd never had so much as a parakeet, but Helen grew up with dogs and missed them, their glad eyes, the way their paws smelled like corn chips."

I yelped and jumped up in bed! Jim thought I was crazy! I said, "You've GOT to read this one sentence!" I shoved the book under his nose and pointed to the sentence. He laughed sooo hard!

Can you believe it? I am going to write to the author, Elizabeth Berg, who is my favorite author, by the way, and let her know that she just made my day!

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I am the Frito Paw Smelling Bandit

Okay. I need all of my readers who own a dog or know somebody who owns a dog to help me out. Listen up. I need you to sniff your dog's feet. His/her pads to be exact. Am I crazy? Well, yes, that's a given, but that has nothing to do with this request. You see, dog's feet smell exactly like Fritos Corn Chips.



You may think I am kidding, but I am not. My twin sister, whom you met in Meet My F***ing Twin Sister first gave me a heads up on this phenomenon. So when I was at my daughter's house, I smelled her two dog's, Venus and Atlas. Yep. Fritos Corn Chips.




So, last Friday night, a group of us are gathered together for a nightcap after going out to dinner. I decided to share this little tidbit with everyone. Well, after everyone finished laughing their butts off, my friend, Rachel, lifted up her little dachshund, Petey, and all of us women sniffed his paws. Some agreed that they smelled like Fritos. Others agreed that they definitely had a smell, but they didn't know what Fritos smelled like.

We were going to get together on Sunday for another Happy Hour. Yeah. I know. It seems that all we do around here is drink. It's true I guess. Well, Carl was going to serve authentic Mexican tamales that were made in corn husks. It was a perfect opportunity for me to bring a chili dip and Fritos corn chips so we could have a sniff off. I wanted to blind fold every one, have them sniff a dog's paw, then a Frito, and decide which one was which. I really thought they'd all be game for this.

Here is the group of the usual suspects.









They must not have drank enough, because they did not want to cooperate and sniff the dog's paws. The owner's didn't have any problems, of course. And look at how cute the puppies were for Pete's sake! How could you not want to sniff these cuties?

This is Pedro. He's a rat terrier. His Mommy is Sandy.



This little one is named Pinky. She is a Chihuahua/Miniature Pincher. She was adopted from a shelter by her Mommy Carol.



Surprisingly, Pedro and Pinky did NOT smell like Fritos. I have no idea why not. Their paws smelled like, well, feet. Imagine that. Here's a photo of brave little ole me sniffing Pinky's paws.



SOOOO, I'm not confessing to a new fetish here, folks. Just trying to take a survey. Smell your dog's paws. Tell me - yeah or nay - Fritos?

So far, my sister's dog, my daughter's two dogs, and Petey are yeses - that makes 4, and Pedro and Pinky are no. So it's 4-2 for Fritos. Let's hear from you!

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