My New Favourite Song…”Lesson Learned”

The Horrifically Embarrassing

So I’ve been completely remiss in posting.  I could give you a myriad of excuses.  But alas, thats all they would be… excuses. 

I should be one of these people who make time for things they enjoy.   I happen to be one of those people who think about the things I enjoy, and am always doing the things I detest.

 So, despite my lenghthy absence, I want my re-emergance to blogging to be on a low note (yes – I know it should say a “high note”, but trust me  – keep reading, you’ll soon get the picture).

 Let’s do some catching up first:

1) I recently recieved court ordered custody of my adorable 18 month-0ld nephew.

2) I’ve had no sleep since recieving said custody of adorable child.

3) I have been thrust into the world of figuring out how to become a foster parent (in order to legitimatize said custody of adorable child who causes me to have no sleep.)

 One step in becoming a foster parent is getting a physical. 

Now, if you’ve read my previous post, On Being A Weight Watchers Flunky, you know that I’m not the crowning example of physical fitness.  But that aside, I had no choice – and I couldn’t imagine that a few extra pounds (okay – more that a “few”.  Don’t be so judgemental  – I’m working on it !) would keep me from parenting my nephew.

So, this past Monday, I walked into the doctor’s office.

On Being a Weight Watchers Flunky…

I. HATE. SCALES.

For the past few years they’ve told me nothing but bad news.  Occasionally, they’ll give some small ray of hope – only to snatch it back on the next visit.  They’re intrinsically evil.

 Every once in a while I’ll try to reason with the scale.  I’ll say things like -

Listen – here’s what I’ll do – I’ll go to the gym all this week.  I’ll even give up the sausage and eggs for breakfast on Tuesday, and Thursday.

 (Monday’s don’t count because it’s a depressing day and I need something to cheer me up.  Wednesdays don’t count because they’re a reward for surviving Monday & Tuesday – and Friday doesn’t count, well… because it’s Friday).

So inevitably I go into this bargain, believing that if I hold up my end, the scale will hold up its part.

SCALES. ARE. LIARS.

How to make the Best Muffins…Ever

I’ve just returned from a bruncheon attended by women from my church.  So much fun ! Anyway, I was in charge of bringing the muffins.  Really an exciting task for me, because I have the BEST muffin recipe thats been lurking around my family cookbooks for years.  Very simple, very delicious – and because of that – not the healthiest.  But don’t let that dissuade you.  Ever Everyone deserves a treat every once in a while.  In our family, these muffins show up at Thanksgiving (I know –  muffins at Thanksgiving?  you may ask.  I don’t get it either – family traditions are unexplainable).  Try it out, I promise they won’t disappoint:

1. 1 Package Jiffy corn muffin mix
2. 1 egg
3. 1/3 cup of whole milk
4. 1/2 cup of fresh sour cream
5. 1/2 cup of grated cheddar cheese
6. 1/2 cup of creamed corn

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.  Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl (batter will be lumpy).  Scoop mixture into muffin tins.  Cook for 15-20 minutes.  Let cool (will be considerably hot !) for 5 minutes.

Yields 6 muffins.

 Now I’d like to point out that I’ve been conservative in my estimates of those “good” ingredients (i.e., sour cream, cheddar).  Feel free to up the sour cream by another 1/3 cup if you’re daring ;o).  Makes muffins nice and moist !

Monsters in My Basement

My husband has announced that he’s going camping -I am, obviously, filled with dread.  I have this thing about being alone in the house.  Mind you I’m not technically alone – my 7 year old is with me.  But by alone I mean “without the comfort of an adult who knows how to shoot a gun and/or fight intruders.” 

I unforturnately can do none of those things (and neither can my 7 year old).  I’ve had bad experiences being home alone.  

A few years ago my husband was working graveyard shifts, and I – to avoid being home alone – spent most of my time at my mother’s house.  One Friday, after spending most of the evening in my mother’s company, decided to be a ”big girl”, pack it up and go home…at midnight (my 1st mistake).  

Thirty minutes later finds me walking through my front door (turning on every light – because for some unrational reason it makes me feel safer), and I notice something strange… The outside door that leads to my backyard is wide open. A million things beginning spinning round my mind.  It’s midnight – how long has the door been open?  Do I see anything visbly missing from the house?  Why didn’t I invest in an alarm system? and of course… Is HE still here??? 

Extermination of a Species

So what’s the deal with flies? I mean – what’s their function exactly? 

Just to give you some background – I hate flies.  I know, I know – we all hate flies.  But I really hate them.  I may even take a small amount of sadistic pleaure in ridding them from the planet (nothing clinical -but definetly not normal). 

Come summer, my fly swatter and my water bottle are my constant companions.  I keep the swatter near because I literally cannot have a fly in the house.  Once I’ve become cognizant of one, I become the hunter.  I stalk. 

I move slowly (so not to disturb the “nemesis”), and I creep my way to it’s resting spot.  I raise my swatter in the air (all the while calculating the speed and force with which I should employ in order to sucessfully kill this pest), and in one swoop I bring my hand down and… miss spectacularily. 

Nemesis takes off, and I stand perfectly still – only shifting my eyes to track the its movements – waiting for it to land in another opportune spot.  It goes on for hours.  I’m crippled until the fly is dead.  I can’t think, I can’t sit still (for fear that it will come buzzing by my ear – THE WORST OFFENCE), my whole day is in shambles. 

But now I’ve become philosophical about this…You really out to know your enemy before going into battle.  So here we are – what is a flies occupation? 

Reasonable Doubt

This is a short story I wrote in late 2006.  I entered into a writing contest that was recommended to me by a friend.  The jist of it was that each contestant was to take the 1st line of a published work of fiction (a list of sentences was provided), and create a short mystery story around it.  I wrote this one in about an hour, and spent another hour doing revisions.  It’s far from perfect (umm… probably the reason I didn’t win)- but, it’s at the very least, readable.

The Write Stuff

You will find here samplings of my short stories (mostly mystery fiction), my thoughts about writing, and inevitably, my struggles with it.  I love to write – it’s theraputic, and on the whole, I encourage it.  You can journal and write for your posterity, or you can write beautiful poetry, and bear your soul in prose.  Whatever form it takes, whether good or bad, WRITE! – because everyone has something to say, and there will always be people willing to listen.

Do It Yourself-ers

So I’m completely obsessed with DIY projects, and as I was Stumbling today, I came across this nifty little site that shows you 100 Things you can make yourself.  I’m going to start with the gingerale. 

Impulse theory…

Have you ever wondered how supermarkets decide what products should be displayed around the checkout counters to entice us into that one last impluse purchase? 

 There’s the staples: gum, hard candy, chips, gossip magazines.  Those seem pretty straight forward to me.   But the other day as I was standing in line, I took a closer look at some of the other items on display. 

My observations; dog chew toys, pencils, beef jerky, tampons. 

Very strange combinations of things – and I thought to myself, “why these things?”. 

• Did someone do a survey? 
• Did they find out that when standing in line,  people are more likely to buy these things? 
• Is there a science to the impulse purchase?  

It’s bizzare…but oddly enough, my dogs needed a squeaky ball, my seven year old is constantly in need of a pencil, I love cured meat, and it was that time of the month.  c’est la vie.