The steering rack on Jon’s car is threatening to go out again. For the second time in a year. And I’m just so grateful it doesn’t have anything to do with me. (Unlike the emergency brake.) And I’ve been thinking about this ridiculous story. Happy winter weekend everyone!

I’m wondering if you might help me conduct a Little Experiment. I’m going to tell you an interesting true story that happened to me today that I haven’t yet “mentioned” to my husband Jon.

Little Experiment by allie taylor

I’m wanting to find out if he reads my blog. I know he’s subscribed, but I’m just curious if he actually reads it. So mum’s the word, OK? You in?

OK, here goes. So today I head out to my knitting group Ravelry. We haven’t met in a while because I’ve been kind of busy otherwise with the blog, and I usually host it. But one of the other girls kindly offered to host and it’ll be so great to finally see everyone again. We get a group together and carpool over.

It’s a really frigid day, so cold that the local news station says that NH, at the tippy top of Mt. Washington, is the second coldest place in the world right now. IN THE WORLD folks. The NH temperature today is tied with that of Nunavut. I’ve never heard of Nunavut, don’t know where it is. And truthfully I don’t care. (No offense Nunavut-ites.)

But the only colder temperature in the entire world right now besides us and Nunavut is South Pole, Antarctica. WE TUNDRA. Seems like every day is below freezing. And with the windchill, it feels like -30 right now. So yeah, we’re gluttons for punishment, because we go out, carpool to our knitting group Ravelry. I drive, borrow Jon’s car.

We wind through backroads to get to her house, such a beautiful drive. She has a lovely home with a long, steep driveway that’s been plowed, but there’s still quite an undercoating of snow, as we had another blizzard storm just yesterday. So we drive down the long, long driveway, make it in just fine, no problems. I know I’ll have to turn the car around when we leave, because I know I can’t back up the steep with the snow.

We go inside, have a delightful knitting time, chat in her greenhouse family room. Basically a glass atrium with glass walls, glass roof. Thankfully heated and insulated.

Spectacular scenery every which way, an occasional clump of snow, looking up thru the glass ceiling.

But it’s so cozy and inviting inside….great company, knitting, conversation, coffee, even a fabulous sour cream pecan coffee cake. Dense and delicious. I really must share that wonderful recipe with you very soon, because guess what? She gave it to me!!! Yay us! She’s quite the cook, royally spoiled us.

So while we’re chatting, knitting, her husband comes home, parks next to me in the driveway. When it’s time for us to go later, he kindly backs up in the driveway just a short distance on the side, gives me space to turn around. So I pull forward with great difficulty in big snow tracks into their garage, narrowly miss their doorframe. Close call, phew. (Worse, I have an audience.)

Slowly, I back out of the garage, the car seems sluggish. I’m getting ready to tackle that steep, snowy hill. So they coach me to get a good running start before I gun it up the hill. I do what I’m told, promptly get stuck. I’m spinning my wheels dangerously near his car, sliding forward far too close. He’s smiling, but it’s that nervous smile. Know what I’m sayin’?

Remember, my car is chock full of knitting friends. So I let up on the gas, let the car roll back, try again, push the pedal to the medal. Stuck again. I see our hostess outside, wildly motioning to me. I roll down the window.

“Allie, Allie –  your back wheels, they’re not even turning!” she yells.

And then it suddenly occurs to me. Like an idiot, I’ve left the emergency brake engaged. Yes, I’m trying to gun up this snowy, steep, icy hill with a carload of passengers within millimeters of another car with my emergency brake on. Yeah, I think you’re starting to catch my drift why I might not have told Jon this story yet.

So we all weakly laugh, ha ha ha, and I release the brake and we attempt it a third time. Thankfully we have no problem getting up that snowy hill. I drop off the passengers one by one, the last in front of my own house where she parked. I wasn’t even going to go inside because I’m heading north to pick up kids from school. But the snow is bright and I’m really needing my sunglasses for the afternoon sun. So I run inside quick, grab my shades.

I come back out, roll back down the short steep driveway, put the car in drive. The car’s not responding so well.

There’s a lot of snow, ice and frozen slush out in front of our house right now, but I just can’t believe how the car won’t even go. So I lay on the gas pedal harder, sliding sideways. Basically, I’m stuck in the middle of the road, in front of my own house. And now I’m paranoid someone’s gonna come around that corner, hit me hard in the middle of the road. I’m scrambling for the hazard button on the dashboard of his car, pushing the pedal hard, when suddenly I realize the problem. You guessed it. The emergency brake. Yup, twice, in the space of half an hour. Guess I should be hoping (and praying) right about now that he doesn’t read this blog….

Related post: Misery Loves Company

The post Little Experiment appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

True story, happened last spring.

Spring was in the air, and all over the country proud families gathered to celebrate their college graduates. My aunt rode six long hours to attend her granddaughter’s commencement in New England. The trip was long, but she was a great traveler, entertaining the rest of the family with tales, tidbits and delightful conversation.

Sunday Morning Breakfast Surprise by allie taylor

She’s done a lot of living in her eighty years. Kind and generous, she’d give you the shirt off her back. Expressive, she often speaks in emphatic superlatives.

“Isn’t this the most MAR-velous weather you’ve ever SEEN?” She’s passionate, feels intensely…. laughs one minute, cries the next.

Resourceful, she wastes nothing. Especially food. Not a morsel, a crumb or a berry. Leftovers are promptly converted to ”absolutely de-LEC-table” casseroles or smoothies.

She was a guest in her nephew’s home over graduation weekend. Other out of town relatives stayed in nearby homes. She was scheduled to travel back home on Sunday, but would attend church first.

Her host family baked a lovely breakfast quiche. Much as she wanted to partake, she declined, not wanting to cause extra restroom stops, inconveniencing the other passengers on the long trip home.

Something must have been in the air that morning. Because her great nephew Hudson, in a house several miles north also declined breakfast. His eggs were scrambled.

He sat in his highchair, did everything BUT put them in his mouth: smushing, smearing, finger painting, and drooling. He highlighted his hair, then pushed a large mound off the tray. Plop they went, onto the floor. He giggled.

Perhaps he had no appetite because he’d been fighting a terrible cold? A-A-A-ACHOO!!!! He sneezed twice violently, successfully clearing his thickly clogged passages, then returned to the finger painting. It wasn’t pretty.

His daddy had just finished brushing his teeth, and walked into the kitchen to discover the carnage. Time was short, but he whisked the toddler to the tub for an impromptu bath.

Meanwhile, I hurriedly scooped the breakfast mess from the tray and floor, scraping it onto a plate slated for the compost pile. The plate was inadvertently left on the kitchen counter as we rushed off to an early morning church music rehearsal.

Several hours later, Auntie was dropped off at our home to catch a ride with other relatives. She cheerfully spent just a few minutes at the kitchen counter waiting for her ride to arrive, then rode the short distance to church.

She walked through the church doors, greeting us and the extended family with her characteristic exuberance and gratitude.

“Thank you so MUCH for the breakfast eggs. I found them on the counter. You are so hos-PIT-able. They were absolutely de-LIGHT-ful! Not sure if they were for ME, but as I always say….Waste not, want not!”

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Something happened several weeks ago, thought I should tell you about it. My Cali cousin says she loves it when I tell on myself here. Like Busted (Yeah Me.)  So if you’re in good company with her, read on.

Clueless, That’s Me

I was thankful to join a few long time girlfriends in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina for a long weekend recently. We’ve done a summer trip together every five years or so and it’s been a gift to spend the time together, reacquaint.

So we leave the Charlotte airport, stop for lunch on the way, arrive at the main security gate of Connestee Falls late afternoon. It’s a lovely, long and windy drive up up the mountain to the house where we’re staying. Thankfully I don’t get motion sickness (grew up on sailboats) and those that do succumb, have already taken their Dramamine.

I’m sitting in the backseat, and honestly don’t pay much attention to the street names on the drive up.  They’re all Native American names that I can’t pronounce. Many of the homes are on wooded lots set back from the road, barely visible. Tina mentions one street name as we near the house. Salola. And we remark that all the road names are Cherokee.

We arrive at the beautifully appointed home, Shepherd’s Croft, owned by mutual friends. It’s lovely and remote. There’s no cell service, and I realize there’s no wi-fi either. It’s situated in a dip of the mountain that doesn’t get it. We’ll be here for five days, and this will be an issue with the blog. They tell me there’s wi-fi at the Club House about a mile or so away, so that’s good. It’s nearly dark now, and the girls are kind enough to drive me over there so I can post for the next day, do some social media sharing. We wind around on steep roads, and I’m not really paying attention how we get there. We sit on the back veranda of the Club House with the gorgeous vista, see the giant orange orb slip quietly behind the mountains.

Later back at the house, Tina gives me good directions to the Club House so I can get there myself the next morning. I draw a little map. No street names, but it looks fairly simple, just a few hairpin turns. The confusing thing is the house is on a one way circle, maybe a half mile long. So I have to turn right out of the driveway, and double back around the circle just to get to “Go”. (That’s for you monopoly players.)

So I get up bright and early at 5:30 the next morning, head over to the Club House to do what I need to with the blog. Because we have big plans that day. And I don’t want to be the cause of a late start. The girls are fast asleep. I tiptoe out the door, quiet as a mouse. Get out my little map, and with the confidence of Hannibal, set out towards the Club House.

The sky is just getting light, and nothing looks remotely familiar. Trees, trees and more trees. Beautiful mountain views. More roads than I remember, and I don’t recognize any of the names. Cheestoonaya. Dvdegi. Isuhdavga. Kanasdatsi. Yeah. So I’m driving now, basically have no idea where I’m going. I don’t see signs for the Club House, but I do see deer. I make a three point turn on the steep road, turn around. And by some miracle, a little further up the road, see a sign that says Club House. I breathe a sigh of relief and my heart rate slows. By now it’s nearly 6 a.m. and I haven’t seen a human being yet. I drive in and park, get going on my work.

Round about 7:15, I finish what I need to do, head out to the parking lot. Don’t want the girls waiting or worried about me. I spy a beautiful deer and her spotted little fawn near the car. Bambi. I keep coming slowly, and it’s as if they don’t even notice me. They’re obviously used to people.

I take a right out of the parking lot. And glancing at my map, realize I don’t have a clue about how I got here, and even less of a clue about how I’ll get back. Clueless, That’s Me. Strangely, things look even less familiar than on the trip over. Except for the deer. I get nervous, turn around, retrace my steps to the Club House parking lot. Head inside, find a staff lady in the dining area.

Ask her if there’s a map. Tell her I’m a guest, don’t know how to get back to where I came from.

Naturally, she asks me the address of the mountain house where I’m staying. And I draw a blank.

Realize I have no clue what the address of the house I’m staying in is.

Somehow I left the house without bothering to check the address. Hello. No street name, no house number. Clueless, That’s Me. I try texting Tina, just in case she’s awake. But it doesn’t go through. Oh right. There’s no cell service. The only street name that comes to mind is Salola. So I guess that must be it and tell her I’m staying off Salola.

She finds Salola on the map, tells me her husband got lost, drove around the mountain for 45 minutes trying to find their house when they first moved here. (And I’m guessing he knew his address.) I ask her how large the Conestee Falls community is, and she tells me 3,500 acres. Right then and there I’m so grateful for her help. Because that could be me, driving aimlessly around this 3,500 acre gated community on the mountain. For like, forever. Then she offers for me to follow her car to Salola.

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” I say.

I don’t want to be any trouble. And she kindly insists. It’s about 7:35 a.m. now. And so I follow her car the five minute drive to Salola. We take several jogs and turns I would’ve never taken based on my sketchy map, and then she turns on her blinker, signaling a left hand turn for me. I’m so relieved, grateful. I smile and wave, thank God for this dear woman. I drive down Salola, follow it as it forks to the left, still seeing nothing familiar. Folks, I drive up and down the entire length of Salola three different times. Come to a dead end cul-se-sac each time. Then I drive round the curve, do it all over again. There’s just no one-way circle on Salola.

By now I’m thinking, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” Yeah. And I’m worried that the girls are awake, ready to head out for the day. And I’ve got the car, no cell service, and not a clue where I am. Clueless, That’s Me.

More thoughts. Why oh why didn’t I drop breadcrumbs along the way? Eenie meenie minie mo. I turn left out of Salola, wondering where to go next. No address. No cell service. And the only ones to ask are furry, four-footed, and cloven-hoofed.

Then I remember. Either Tina or the kind lady who brought me to Salola told me there are several main roads on the mountain with a single yellow line down the middle. And each one eventually leads you to one of three main gates. It’s 8:15 now, and the girls must be worried sick about me. I nervously check the gas gauge, relieved it’s at half a tank.

So I drive randomly ’til I come to a road with a yellow middle line, Connestee Trail. Aha. The yellow brick road. Relieved, I turn left again, follow the road as it twists and turns, several miles all the way down the mountain ’til I arrive at a security gate. Never in my life am I so relieved to see a security guard.

I park behind the little station, knock lightly on the door and breathlessly recount my ridiculous tale. That I don’t even know the address of the house I’m staying in. And I’ve been driving around now for an hour and fifteen minutes. He keeps a straight face, asks the name of the home owner, which I thankfully know. And he’s able to find an address based on the name. The next confusion is that they own two homes in Connestee Falls, so I once again mention the fateful name Salola, which is all I’ve to go on. He finds the house and address. Pulls out a map. Highlights where I’m going in yellow. Thank God. My temporary address is apparently on Oakanoah, an immediate right hand fork off Salola at the very beginning. Somehow in all the excitement of arriving I missed that significant turn as we drove in yesterday. Sigh.

I thank him, follow his map closely, head back up the mountain. Take the immediate turn off Salola onto Oakanoah, which eventually becomes a one way circle at the end. A missing digit on the house number sign by the road causes me to bypass it the first time. But I complete the circle and start around again. By process of elimination, I pick the correct driveway and I’m “home.”

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

It’s the right house, says Shepherd’s Croft on it. And I’m so so relieved. Inhale, exhale. I can’t even tell you. It’s 8:35 now, and my heart rate is just slowing. Boy do I have an adventure to tell the girls. I feel terrible having kept them waiting, and I’m incredibly relieved to not be randomly driving around the mountainside. Noiselessly, I turn the door knob, quietly enter the mountain house. All is dark, silent.

The girls, are fast asleep.

Other silly tell-all tales: Little Experiment and Busted, Yeah Me

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You remember the children’ book Are You My Mother, right? That hilarious book about a little bird who goes in search of his mother. It’s by P.D. Eastman, author of the Dr. Seuss Cat in the Hat series. Here’s a short synopsis of the book (by Wikipedia) to jog your memory.

“Are You My Mother ” is the story about a hatchling bird. His mother, thinking her egg will stay in her nest where she left it, leaves her egg alone and flies off to find food. The baby bird hatches. He does not understand where his mother is so he goes to look for her. As he cannot fly, he walks, and in his search, he asks a kitten, a hen, a dog, and a cow if they are his mother. They each say “No”.

Refusing to give up, he sees an old car, which cannot be his mother for sure. In desperation, the hatchling calls out to a boat and a plane (they both do not respond), and at last, convinced he has found his mother, he climbs onto the teeth of an enormous power shovel.

A loud “SNORT” belches from its exhaust stack, prompting the bird to utter the immortal line, “You are not my mother! You are a SNORT!” But as it shudders and grinds into motion he cannot escape. “I want my mother!” he shouts.

But at this climactic moment, his fate is suddenly reversed. The power shovel drops him back in his nest and then his mother returns. The two are united, much to their delight, and the baby bird tells his mother about the adventure he had looking for her.”

I’ve always loved this book. And had an interesting moment or two last week reminding me of this funny book.

I was at Hudson’s school waiting outside the door to pick him up. (Hudson is five, has Down syndrome.) Little children are exiting the door one by one. After the door opens several times, out comes Hudson holding his teacher’s hand. He’s got anticipation written all over his face, scanning the crowd.

He’s looking for me. My little Hudson birdie is searching for his mother.

There’s another mom waiting right outside the door, closer than I am. She has blonde hair and wears an  orange shirt. I say that because I often wear orange and coral. So Hudson exits the door, looks around, sees her, breaks into a terrific smile. Bounds right up. There’s no mistaking it. He thinks she’s me. I’m riveted, watching, in shock.

From five or six feet away, I call “Hudson, Hudson!”

He’s right there now, practically under her nose. He’s trying to get her attention. He’s excited. Smiling. Eyes sparkling to beat the band. And the funny thing is the other mom. She doesn’t even notice him. She’s busy looking for her own little person to come out the door. And Hudson’s teacher is gently trying to re-direct him my way. And he just isn’t getting it.

It’s a strange feeling, standing there, watching Hudson giving his joy and attention to someone else. Someone who’s not his mother. Not me.

And in that split second, I realize how very much I treasure being Hudson’s mother. How thankful I am that it’s really me he’s looking for.

How much joy and love and history we share. Hudson and me.

*photo courtesy of DesignsbyLindaNee.com

I call his name again. “Hudson! Hudson, it’s mom!”

And he looks over, confused for a millisecond.

As if to say, Are you My Mother?

And then he gets it. Realizes it’s me. Bounds over. Gives me that big bear hug I crave from that precious little boy.

All’s well with the world. It’s Hudson and me again.

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The post Are You My Mother? appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

Very interesting and unusual things happen to me. (Think Murphy’s Law.) And I really think unusual things happen to everyone. It’s just that my unusual things seem to happen in spades whenever Jon’s away. (Think Near Death by Elephant.)

And they often happen in threes.

So last week Jon was away. He and Jonathan were visiting colleges in the south. They had a great trip from the posts I saw on Facebook. Ha. Yeah, it was a busy and wonderful trip for them, and Facebook was the easiest way to track their trail.

Six colleges, six days, a boatload of friends along the way and 2,900 miles under their belts. Great memories.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we had a few crises. Nothing new. I’ve come to expect it now. The thing is, I just never know what. And it’s not if, it’s when. Know what I’m saying?

Crisis #1

I’m busy at the kitchen counter one afternoon working on the blog, writing. Doing what I do. Charlie (9) comes inside looking for a yellow rope he remembers we have. I don’t know where it is, haven’t seen it in some time. I go back to writing. Not too much later I look out the window, see Charlie with his dad’s orange extension cord in the back yard. He’s wrapping it around the limb of a tree on the back hill. I don’t pay much attention, it looks fairly benign. I’m just glad he’s busy. Not too much later Charlie comes in. He’s not crying, but shows me the back of his hand. It has a big whitish scrape that’s deep and bleeding. Looks like a bad burn. Tells me he’s been “zip-lining” in the back yard. Gulp. Zip-lining? Yeah, he couldn’t find that yellow rope he asked me about, so he tied together the extension cord, a jump rope and another random piece of lightweight rope he found in the garage. He ties them together between two trees. Two trees on a hill with random large granite rocks below. Apparently he climbs the tree with a broom. Places the broom perpendicular across the “zipline”, then jumps out of the tree at the higher elevation, hanging on to the broom on either side. He thinks he’s going to zip-line across and down the hill. But the “zip-line” doesn’t hold. (Can’t imagine why.)

I have four boys. I should expect this kind of thing. But it always catches me off guard. Thank God his head misses the rocks below and it’s a hand injury only. Because I already have more experience than I want with head injuries. ( Almost Is a Beautiful Word)

I seriously think Charlie was remembering when we took him and his brothers to Monkey Trunks on vacation two summers ago. Thought he could recreate it in the backyard with a broom and extension cord.

Crisis #2

So Hudson’s been having a tough time going to bed nights. Not every night, but some nights are worse than others. (Hudson is five, has Down syndrome.) Sometimes he falls asleep in about a minute. Other times he gets up over and over, comes downstairs all cheerful. Demands “ilk” (milk) or a “show.” Most nights we put a baby gate across his doorway, because I have nightmares of him falling down the steep staircase outside his room in the dark. So this particular night I put Hudson to bed, kiss him good night, put up the gate. Apparently he has other plans. From downstairs, I hear a bang. Then crying. I race upstairs. Get to the top of the stairs and the door at the top of the stairs that opens into the hallway won’t budge. It’s jammed shut. I hear Hudson crying on the other side of the door, but I can only get it open a couple inches. Later I discover that he’s pushed the gate over into the hallway. It has pivoted all the way down, completely flat onto the hallway floor, but is still attached to his bedroom doorway at the bottom. The gate is tightly wedged directly behind the hallway door at the top of the stairs.

So I’m shoving the door at the top of the stairs, envisioning the fire department hoisting ladders to the second story, revisiting which windows have AC units in them, which don’t. I shove a little harder, get another inch or two. Call Charlie upstairs, get him to squeeze through that 5 inches of space. The tough part was getting his head through, because Charlie has a big head. (Somebody once pointed that out when he was a baby. Asked me if there was something “wrong” with him because his head was so big. I gently explained that when you have a lot of brains, you have to carry them around somehow.) Amazingly, Charlie managed to squeeze himself and that brainy head through the crack of the door, was able to free Hudson and the gate. Our hero. Hudson wasn’t hurt, just scared. And the loud bang was just the gate hitting the floor hard as it went over.  Thank God for Guardian Angels.

And Crisis #3

So Charlie loves his Gigi’s oatmeal raisin cookies. She brought up a big batch several weeks ago. He likes them so much that he asked her for the recipe. She kindly sent it along in the mail and Charlie busied himself one afternoon making the cookies. I love that Charlie likes to bake, because none of the other boys have interest. (And you know how I feel about baking.) So Charlie did a great job measuring, pouring and mixing up the dough all by himself. He was just about to start dropping teaspoonfuls onto the cookie sheet when I came over to check it out. Everyone needs a taste tester. It looked great, but tasted AWFUL. Bitter with a nasty aftertaste. Almost like baking soda. I asked him how much baking soda he put in. A teaspoon? Oops. A cup. Yeah a cup of baking soda. This wasn’t exactly a crisis for me, but it was for him. He managed to pull himself together, and to his credit, started at the beginning, made them all over again. And I must say they were some of the best oatmeal raisin cookies ever. (Need to share Gigi’s here recipe soon.)

So Jon and the boys are leaving the country this week, on a missions trip to Romania. (If you’re a praying person, perhaps you might think of me? Advance thanks.)

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The post Crisis appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

(True story, unfortunately.) It was a zippity-doo-da New England spring day….the kind you only dream about in the dead of winter. Birds sang, the sun shone, the azure sky was dotted with lazy cotton ball clouds. It was 2004, the first spring in our new home, and we reveled in each emerging perennial.

The red tulips were in their glory, and I eagerly anticipated a spring bouquet.

Spring Massacre by allie taylor

That afternoon we departed for the boys’ little league game, stopping on the way home to pick up pizza. Pulling into the driveway, I immediately noticed a transformation in the tulips. Their heads now drooped, the stems flopped over. With a sense of foreboding, I exited the car and closely inspected a bloom. It was covered with a chalky white film from stem to flower. Very dead. Horrified, I dashed from flower to flower in the front and back yards. They were all wilted. All dead.

“They’ve been chemically altered, killed,” my husband Jon announced ominously.

Killed? Why murder tulips? And who would commit such a heinous crime?

He stepped into the breezeway, tripping on a can of insect repellent as he went.

An empty can of OFF! He sternly faced both boys, four and six, said slowly and deliberately,

“Does anyone know (pause) what happened (longer pause) to your mother’s tulips?” There was a protracted, guilty silence.

“Well boys, Mom and I are hungry and we’re going to enjoy pizza in the dining room.”

“You,” he said to one,” may sit at the kitchen counter. And you,” he eyed the other, “may sit on the living room sofa.

“When someone decides to tells us what happened, you may join us at the dinner table.”

It was a dismal dinner as we contemplated the deceased tulips. Ten slow minutes ticked by, then the sound of tentative little footsteps approached. He peered sheepishly around the corner.

“M-E,” he spelled out.

“M-E what?” I said.

“Me did it.”

“Me did what?”

“Me sprayed the tulips with OFF!”

“Why?” I slowly whispered, my blood at a low boil.

“Because it was really fun to spray the can.”

Spring still comes with reflection on “what might have been.” Rather “what should have been.” The poison seeped deeply into the bulbs. Though the foliage still appears, they never bloomed again. We won’t soon forget the day the tulips died.

And him? He lived to see another sunrise. But he was poorer. We charged him by the stem, the sum total of all the birthday money he’d just gleefully stashed in his piggy bank. (The itemized bill included the can of OFF!)

The post Spring Massacre appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

Ever since posting Ratty Ole’ Bathrobe, I’ve had queries about the Orange Pants. I’m actually wearing them this very minute. (No monkey hat today.)

Orange Pants by allie taylor

It’s blizzarding now and they’re by far the most comfortable, cozy pants I own, don’t know where I’d be without them. Everyone’s home today, I’m holed up in the bedroom, writing. About orange pants.

Writing, in my room with a view.

So here goes. Years ago in high school, my sweetheart’s wardrobe was not to my liking. While I really liked him, the Chess King purple shirt with the white collar and skinny gray leather tie just had to go. So I devised a scheme, a little game, whereby I’d buy him clothes for birthday and Christmas. I called it Give one, Take one; like pennies at the register. I’d give him something new (conservative), and receive carte blanche to delete an item from his closet. It worked out really well. For me.

Well just a few years down the road, I married that sweetheart. We had a few kids, moved back to the north country. Nearly ten years ago, while out shopping at T. J. Maxx, I came upon a pair of Orange Pants on the clearance rack. They were cotton sweat pants, stretchy and soft, draw string. Straight, like yoga pants.

I wasn’t too crazy about bright orange for pants, and I really didn’t care for the brand, Speedo. Speedo conjures up images I’d just as soon forget. But the pants looked comfortable for cleaning, scrubbing the tub, digging in the garden. And it was the rock bottom $5 price tag that really sucked me in. So I splurged.

I wore them as I thought I would…for cleaning the house, craft projects, making jam, etc. Once in a while I’d wear them for pajamas. Super comfy, they were a real bargain. Then I wore them around the house on occasion, you know, just if I didn’t have to go out. It was a slippery slope, almost an addiction. Because then, every once in a while I started wearing them out for a quick grocery store or ATM run. The orange pants, they just grew on me over the years. They did not, however, grow on my husband Jon, and I had no idea how strong his feelings actually were. He suggested that perhaps they had outgrown their usefulness. His little comments and insinuations revealed the orange pants had become an embarrassment.

This past Christmas Eve, he presented me with a festive Christmas package. “You really need to open this tonight,” he said. So I did.

Inside, a pretty set of pink and blue paisley flannel L.L. Bean pajamas. Thrilled me.

Until he said, “Now can we get rid of the orange pants?”

Moral of the story: Don’t manufacture games you’re not also prepared to lose.

(Surely I’m not the only one with orange pants (or equivalent) in the closet… do tell, inquiring minds want to know.)

Related post: Ratty Ole’ Bathrobe

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We’re gettin’ a little restless here in the Northeast, needing some entertainment for our umpteenth blizzard today. This one’s at my expense. (You’re welcome.)

Murphy’s Law by allie taylor

Murphy’s Law says it all. You know what I’m talking about. (And I need to be careful — I know Murphys.) I don’t necessarily blame you Murphys, but it was just that kind of day. It’s only 2 p.m., and I’m not waiting any longer to write this tale. There are miles to go before I sleep, and who knows? The other shoe might drop. And if it does, it’ll just have to go in another post. No room for any more Murphy today. (No offense.)

I was chatting about this with a friend, following the calamities of early this morning. How for some odd reason, it’s funny to laugh at someone else’s calamity. I mean, not the real ones, just the ones that confound, frustrate, and drive us to insanity. The stuff that makes us consider getting committed before things get any worse. So go ahead, laugh. I am. It’s what makes the world go ’round.

So I woke up early today, to discover my post Glimpse of Sunshine: Part 2 didn’t publish on the site at 5 a.m. as scheduled. A little glitch, my fault, fixed that pretty quickly. Big kids headed out the door to school, time to work on the pile of breakfast dishes, make Charlie’s lunch, get him out the door. Sounds simple. But our ancient dishwasher quit a few weeks ago, so we’ve been eating on paper plates, gainfully employing live teenage dishwashers as needed. It worked out ok ’til we ran out of paper plates the other day. One of these days we’ll replace the dishwasher.

Meanwhile, Charlie and I are pulling valentines together for school, lunch packing etc. All of a sudden, I realize time has evaporated, Charlie’s bus will arrive a block away in just four minutes. We race him out the door, he makes it in time, phew. Because that would’ve complicated my morning even further. My heart rate returns to normal and I continue with the dishes. I don’t finish though, stop to empty and rearrange my Bible study bag, pack the i-pad and cord etc.

Hudson arrives in the kitchen, Curious George is over now. He needs a kleenex. Maybe two. I head to the bathroom, grab some. In the brief moments I’m gone, he grabs the full, open box of raisin bran left by the early crowd, dumps the entire contents on the floor. What a mess. The thing is, he did the exact same thing just four mornings ago, also a brand new box of raisin bran. This morning’s box was the replacement for Sunday’s dumped box. (Just sayin’.)

So he’s busy rooting out sugar covered raisins off the less than clean kitchen floor, stuffing them in his mouth. I’m trying to fend him off, scoop the raisin bran into the trash can. Second time around, I’ve got a four-step system going complete with brush, dustpan, trashcan and vacuum. I’m also thinking that a big pile of sugar covered raisins could create an unpleasant diaper down the road. So I’m scrambling and we’re fighting over those raisins.

We get through that fiasco. I return to the sink, wash a few more, smell an overpowering odor. A diaper change is already in order. I know my time is short, really need to get out of the house for Bible study. I leave the dishes, get the diapers and wipes, find Hudson drumming on a drum in the living room with his little hands. Little brown hands. Yes. “Oh be careful little hands where you go.” I know, TMI. What? You don’t want to hear about it? Can’t help that. Trust me, I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy either. But it’s the truth, what I had to deal with today. (Sorry if you’re eating breakfast.)

I march him off to the bathroom, find an old toothbrush in the drawer, scrub down little hands, fingers and fingernails. Hudson, he doesn’t care for it, but we get through. Then I rummage in laundry baskets to find new clothes, also necessary. Meanwhile the clock tick tick ticks.

I go out in the frigid, start the car. Wouldn’t you know, it’s the coldest, windiest morning of the winter, below zero. Driver’s door open, I balance on the running board, lean in to stash stuff in the passenger seat and crank her up. Too bad I left the windshield wipers on yesterday, because last night’s snow sweeps over me. Yeah, it really happened. All this morning. Happy Friday to me.

We only get to Bible study ten minutes late, turns out it’s my turn to lead today. Not that I didn’t know that already. We’re having brunch, it’s relaxed. It’s just that I reach in my bag for the study book to start, realize that in rearranging things prior to the cereal dump, I neglected to put the study book back inside the bag. So that’s just how the morning progressed.

A kind friend brings me a surprise: a 12-pack Lime Diet Coke. Things are lookin’ up. Told me she went to three stores to find it. Think subzero morning. Bless her. She’s remembering the Lime Coke that froze on my porch last week Baby It’s Cold Outside. So despite the craziness, I’m feeling the love with that 12-pack.

So we get home, Hudson has lunch, plays with toys. I head to the bathroom to bleach the sink and counter, throw out the nasty toothbrush. Glancing in the mirror, notice my shirt’s on backwards. No joke, honest to God, I led the Bible study all morning with my shirt on backwards. And you know what? I don’t even care. I leave it. (Probably have spinach in my teeth too.)

The last straw happens as we’re about to leave, me in my backwards shirt, to pick up the big kids from school. I find Hudson in the living room, sitting in a large puddle of milk. He’s somehow managed to separate the lid from his screw-on sippy cup. Never has it happened before, sure hope it doesn’t again. Time for a third outfit.

That’s all she wrote folks. Now I’m headed north, with my clean little guy and a can o’ sunshine. Wish me luck. Maybe the breakfast dishes’ll get done later. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll splurge on a stack of paper plates while I’m out.

Related post: Misery Loves Company

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The carbon monoxide detector was blaring loudly, and they knew they should call the fire department. But they hesitated, these sisters, roommates for seventy plus years. Their custom-built villa on the hill was beautifully landscaped, overflowing with antiques and original artwork. The floors were carpeted with wall to wall pristine white carpet. And the steam cleaner had come only yesterday.

The alarm continued to sound annoyingly, and so they finally dialed the number.

The fire department arrived promptly with several trucks and a herd of firemen. The first responder knocked. The sisters cracked open the mahogany front door and peeked out. The firemen had obviously come directly from another call. They were filthy and dripping wet.

“Oh dear, you just can’t come in with those dirty boots on.”

“I’m so sorry ladies, but regulations require us to keep our shoes on during all calls.”

“Well I’m sorry too, but we just can’t have any big dirty bootprints on our white carpets. They were cleaned only yesterday. ”

The alarm was screaming now. The firemen were lined up and down the front walkway, but all the sisters could see were multiple  pairs of muddy boots.

“Well, if you really must come in, you and your friends will put these booties on over your boots,” one said primly. “All our visitors wear these.” And she pulled out a large bag of medical elasticized slip-on booties from the closet.

“I’m sorry m’aam, but we just can’t put the booties on. We need to take care of your emergency immediately.”

“You either put the booties on over the boots,” she firmly reiterated, “or you don’t come in.”

“Alright ma’am,” he sighed. “We’ll wear the booties if you promise not to tell anyone, because we’d be a laughing stock in this city.” And so the sisters dutifully agreed never to tell a soul.

(Ahem.)

All the firemen trooped in and put the booties on over their boots. Except one particularly muddy one, who was sweetly ordered to remain in the foyer on the tile. He obediently complied.

Multiple tests were conducted by the bootie-clad firemen, but nothing was found amiss. It was a false alarm.

Always (!) Follow The Rules…

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Entrepreneur of Sorts 10/14 by Allie Taylor

She was an Entrepreneur of Sorts, and told me she planned to attend business school one day.

“So what would you do with a business degree?” I asked.

“Yeah, so that’s the challenge. So I was thinkin’ what a nightmare it would be to get stuck at your desk in an office building with a run in your hose. And how it would like, ruin your entire day.

Nail polish on runs is like so overrated, so outdated. So I was thinking. Wouldn’t it be so awesome……. if office buildings, had like, their own (dramatic pause) vending machines!”

“Don’t they already?” (I was confused.)

“Not for pantyhose they don’t. So you joy ride the elevator to the lobby, buy a new pair on like, coffee break. You got choices: regular, control top, thigh high, knee high, nude to tan…the whole gamut. So like, that’s what I’d do with a business degree. Install pantyhose vending machines in local office buildings. Keep ‘em stocked. Collect the money. Do the marketing, that sort of thing.”

I had to hand it to her. She was creative, intense and thinking outside the box. And even without the degree, she was already an entrepreneur in her own right. She was known around town as “The Cookie Lady”. Her jumbo chocolate chip cookies were the size of buttermilk pancakes. She sold them individually or by the dozen for corporate events. She also donated them to the school bake sale. But what everyone really wanted, probably even the folks at Tollhouse, was her secret recipe. And she guarded it like the Holy Grail.

She was in a philanthropic frame of mind today, having dropped by to share some extra cookies. And now she was captive at my kitchen counter. Surely this would be my lucky day.

I poured glasses of fresh squeezed lemonade and added mint sprigs from the garden. A batch of my own homemade gingersnaps cooled on the rack. She loved my gingersnaps.

“So I’ve always wondered about your cookie recipe,” I began tentatively. “So, let me guess. I bet you put…… butter in them.”

“I don’t know.” (pause) “Maybe I do.” (pause) “Maybe I don’t.”

She stared at me hard sidewise, eyebrows raised.

This wasn’t going quite as I’d hoped, but I persevered.

“So how ‘bout vanilla. Surely you use pure vanilla extract?”

“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s not just what you put in. It’s what you don’t.”

And the conversation continued in like manner all afternoon. Sadly, I never did “extract” the recipe from her that day. And I probably never will. But she gifted me with something far more valuable, a life lesson.

It’s not just what you say, it’s what you don’t.

It’s not just what you eat, it’s what you don’t.

It’s not just how you spend your money, it’s how you don’t.

It’s not just what you read, it’s what you don’t.

It’s not just how you live, it’s how you don’t.

And in chocolate chip cookie lingo… “It’s not just what you put in, it’s what you don’t.”

In her very own words. It was my lucky day after all, thanks to her.

And since I can’t have hers, here’s the recipe I use: King Arthur Flour Chocolate Chip Cookies

(So yummy, and many thanks to King Arthur and his VT knights and maidens of the Round Table.)

King Arthur Chocolate Chip Cookies

Related post: Nuts About Her

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