Friday, October 31, 2008


Feet, dressed up like a skeleton.


Trick or treat, Smell my feet,*

"No, smell MY feet!"

Someone forgot to tell Roger Federer that he should have
left his SKELETON feet at home and put on his real feet. Oh my.
"Roger, get those scary feet out of here or at least put on some shoes. Is this who I've been playing against? Skeletor? I'm gonna hurl. Projectile hurl. It's gonna be ugly. but not as dang ugly as those feet."
Give me something good to eat.

So, Trick or Treators don't want pickled beets and pickled onions but that's what I made this afternoon which morphed into the evening which meant Phil answered the door forty-'leven times.

He was so cute with all the kids and even the big kids. He never once said, "Aren't you a little old to be Trick or Treating?" to the junior high kids and even the high school and--ahem--college kids. He commented on their costumes and always wished them a Happy Halloween. He's such a nice guy, my Phil.

Hope your Halloween was great.

Don't tell anyone but I miss my little kids. They were so excited that they changed their minds about what they were going "to be" about ten time before Halloween actually got here. When they got home after the great treating-hunting-gathering-fest they spilled all the candy on the floor and sorted it by types and kinds. And they always complained that one family gave pencils. Honestly, they had so much candy that they couldn't even eat it all and they complained about one stinkin' pencil.

But, perhaps they aren't so different from their mom who remembers one family in Annabella who always said, "What? It's Halloween? Lloyd!"--names changed to protect the cheap--"Lloyd, did you know it's Halloween? See if you can find something for these here kids." Which meant we were going to get a wrinkly apple. Now, I tell you, every year we'd get a wrinkly apple. I guess each time some kid knocked on the door she'd yell, "Lloyd, did you know it's Halloween?" because we weren't the first ones there.

If they were still alive I'd take them a pencil.

* Those are not my feet. I "stole" that photo off someone else's blog. I found worse photos, disgusting photos of feet but I was nice to the world and didn't post them. I didn't want more projectile hurling. Honest, they were a-word-worse-than-ugly, whatever that would be. Bad. You should thank me for not posting them. Seriously. Thank me.

Thursday, October 30, 2008


The witch left home without it.


This is a magic broom. It was brought from our neighbor's house to poke into the tree to, hopefully, retrieve the football the broom owner's son and his two friends threw up there. One poke and the tree burped two footballs. I took the broom over to the owners house after waiting to see if it would fly there by itself and while there I took a picture of their Jack-O-Lanterns. Phil and I looked at the ice cream lid and saw a ghost and, at the bottom, a goblin. Not as impressive as a weeping Madonna statue, is it? But still. A ghost and a goblin.

I wonder if I could sell it on ebay for a thousand dollars. Too late, it's in the garbage.

And then, to round out our exciting evening we watched to see who had the heaviest pumpkin in Cooperstown, New York. The winner, One thousand two hundred some odd pounds.

I tell you, our life is just one round of excitement after another around here. Try to keep up.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008


If you emailed me today and I'm ignoring you it's because Minkey stood on my computer and permanently deleted about 20 emails and I have no idea who they were from. Resend.


We have freedom to go places.


Yesterday,Pam and I ran to the Creamery on 9th to pick up a bottle of ranch dressing--made by the BYU Creamery--the BEST ranch dressing I have ever tasted. Well worth the drive, unless you're in California or Outer Mongolia, like Gilmore Girl.

While we were there we found this wee lad, abandoned in the pumpkin patch. A very sad lad.
Because he had been replaced in his mother's heart by this orange fellow. Of course that isn't true. She had forgotten her camera and I told her I would post these on my blog but I doubt she remembers my blog name of it so if you recognize them let her know so she can pick up her photos.Then we dashed to J-Dawg for our weekly fix. While there we saw these wasp traps but no wasps are inside. Bees! Bees? Why?Because the bees have found the Mountain Dew and the Pepsi. They seem to prefer the Mountain Dew best. How perplexing for J and his Dawgs. Today, I went on a clandestine drug buy. We cruised by this car. Gilmore Girl rolled down the window and said, "Are you Wendy?" or maybe it was "Kathy." I've blocked it out of my mind. No, it wasn't Wendy-Kathy, it was someone else, waiting for a different clandestine encounter. When Wendy-Kathy DID show up she and Gilmore Girl exchanged merchandise--right out of the trunk--for money.
Okay, it was a yellow swing-thingie for a toddler. But it made a good story for a minute.
Then we went to Cafe Rio. For some reason the thrill is gone. Not as good as it used to be or maybe I'm just a J-Dawg girl now. We did eat outside and that part was nice, kind of. We wiped the table after we ate and our napkin became black. Glad that happened after we ate. Well, maybe not.
Tuesday said, twice or three times, "I want to see Aunt Julie." Aunt Julie is her great aunt--my sister.
After we got home to swing a bit, because the lawn swings were calling and who knows how much longer we are going to have such divine weather--who should drop by? Aunt Julie. Who gave Tuesday some good cuddles.
And then tonight, after Phil and I slept through my newest Netflix movie--I really should be banned--Robin Hood, Men in Tights--don't tell me--you love it--our good friend Shannon dropped by to tell us of her exciting life. We lapped it up because we are boring and she is not. Isn't she cute? And she's available, if anyone knows a forty-ish-fifty-isn dishy man.

And now Phil is watching Good Neighbors and I'm blogging and just getting ready to go blog watching.

See you in the funny papers. Or on your blog, whichever comes first.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008


A punch, a whack, and laughter.


I had sent Kraut to the spooky basement in our Richfield house. He was trudging upstairs with the needed item for dinner when I got a brilliant idea. It was an old joke but I was pretty sure he hadn’t head it. He was the only one old enough to get the joke so I told The Brown Dot and
Gilmore Girl, “Watch this.”

Kraut opened the ten-foot—or so it seemed—door and came into the kitchen trailing cobwebs—or so it seemed. The basement was a primitive place. The home was seventy years old then—it would be one hundred now and the basement seemed as old, and as spooky, as the tombs of Egypt.

“Hey,” I said. “How would you like a nice Hertz Donut?”

His eyes lit up. I could tell he thought it might have been a specialty pastry from Parson’s Bakery. He deserved a treat after going to the basement-of-dark-unmentionable-horrors.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding and grinning.

I balled up my fist and punched him on the arm. “Hurt’s, don’t it? I said.”

The look on his little face! I regretted my actions immediately, The other kids thought it was hilarious and I encouraged him to laugh—after all, the advice my mother gave me most often was, “Learn to laugh at yourself, Lynne.” If I heard that once I heard it one thousand times. Thank you, Mother. I finally got the message.

Kraut did laugh. A little. And then he plotted his revenge. For years he plotted.

One day, when he was a teenager he came to me and said, “I’ll bet I can pull a hair out of your head and you won’t even feel it.”

No way. I have a tender head. I feel any little tug of a hair. Of course he planned his demonstration when everyone was in attendance: The Brown Dot, Gilmore Girl and there was a new audience member, Lord Bumhampton.

Kraut carefully picked out his favorite hair and just as he yanked he hit me on the other side of the head with his other hand. He was right. I didn’t feel the hair being pulled out. I may have seen stars.

“See?” he said. Of course I couldn’t hear him over the hysteria of the other three children and had to lip read. And then I couldn’t help it. I exploded with laughter.

He plotted for years and he was a success. We ought to keep this going, don’t you think? So, I’ve been plotting re-revenge for years, too. It’s almost time.

PS Twice, or maybe even three times I have taken a dozen of the best donuts I could find to Kraut as an apology. He looks at them with lowered eyelids. Can we say, "It's all right, Mom. It was a pretty good joke." After all, it's not brain surgery—which I may need someday from the whack on the side of the head. What sort of apology do you suppose I'll get?

I like "cream filled" and "lemon," Kraut.

PPS Kids, do you remember those "Alligators" from Parson's Bakery? They may have single-handedly been responsible for Gilmore Girl's romance with frosting.

Monday, October 27, 2008


Are you disturbed? Eat some cake.


I got an email today from Terri Weidman a totally crazy friend and the subject of the email said "International Disturbed People's Day." Why she thought I would be interested in such an email is beyond my comprehension. So I started plotting revenge thinking about it and decided she just wanted me to get a tiny peek into an alien world that I have no regular contact with. So I put the crazy glue and the chicken pluckers and the electric hand buzzers thoughts of tricking my crazy friend on the back burner and got back to serious business of looking for new educational movies on my queue at Netflix.

I clicked on a movie called "
Sherlock Holmes' Smarter Brother" and added it to my queue--the description said things like "...a new level of absurdity"--which I can't even spell, and "literary farce." which sounds pretty much like an oxymoron to me. And since Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman are in it how I could go wrong? I mean, it's no "Gone With the Wind," but the title of that movie raises suspicion on several levels.

Then I see, since I ordered that movie, which Phil will shake his head in dismay watch with lively interest, Netflix recommends several others. Among them is "
Twelve Chairs." Now the sound of chairs, and twelve of them, perks me right up.

Phil does not perk up at the word "chairs," having had that encounter with the disobedient wife great bargain hunting wife and her
chair purchases. In fact, last week he kept asking, "Can I get rid of the four ugly black chairs in the garage yet?" And, if Kraut and The Soap Queen keep having kids I think we will need the four darling black chairs for family dinners, so I himmed and hawed and said, "Look, a flying saucer," to which he said something about if he knew then what he knows now he would be living in a different state, with a normal woman and an empty garage. He really didn't say that but we've lived together such a long time I can read the thoughts he doesn't have.

I see by reading the blurb about "The Twelve Chairs" that there were jewels hidden in one of them and so you never know, I could be providing a wild and irresponsible nice retirement for the two of us. Besides that. it is directed by Mel Brooks and has Dom DeLouise, two giants of serious movie productions.

Dom once wrote a cookbook called, EAT THIS, IT'LL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. I'll bet there are great recipes for cake in there. Now if that won't cure disturbed people, I don't know what will. I should buy a copy for my disturbed friend, Terri my friend for Christmas.

Then, because I might be interested in the "Twelve Chairs" Netflix suggested I might also be interested in "Vincent and Theo," which is the story of Vincent Van Gogh. The final line in the description is, "Vincent's disturbed mental state worsens, and both brothers sink into despair."

Now I ask you, do I seem like a person who wants to watch two brother's sink into despair? If you answered, "yes," then give me your email address and I will forward you an email with the subject "International Disturbed People's Day." It will be helpful to you, I'm sure of it.

And if it's not enough, come on over, we'll pull up a couple of chairs and have a good visit and it will be fun. We'll invite Terri and a couple of other mentally disturbed friends and I'll make cake. It will be Dom's recipe. You'll love it.

PS. Here are the darling black chairs that my equally darling husband is trying to get me to give away.
And these are Mom and Dad's chairs from their chrome kitchen set that is now practically an antique.
And these are the "Chair Fairy" chairs.
And just in case you think I have totally stupid things in the garage well, lookit here. A drawer full of onions and a bike I haven't ridden since 1974--when I was a four-year-old.
And just in case you think all I do are stupid things, like rescue chairs, these are some of the domestic kitchen things I did last week. Of course there is no room for them in the basement because, guess what? I have 12 dining room chairs down there but no table to go with it and no dining room, either.

And yes, Phil is a saint. And I love him.


Disclaimer or maybe it's just a "claimer": Gilmore Girl and her friend, I forget who--sorry Hillary's friend--said they don't get my "six words," but Tierney, who is smarter than a pod of dolphins, and we all know dolphins are smarter than most humans, says she does get my six words so I will continue. So here's today's six words so you don't have to read the entire post below.

Love. Hurt. Realize God loves completely.

Sunday, October 26, 2008


Today, in Sunday School, the teacher, Jeanne Inouye, said she had a friend who once said she thinks we were all born addicted to love. She said we left our Father, who loves us so much that we cannot comprehend it, and when we are born we are in withdrawal. Well, I don't think she actually said that last part but I think that's what happens.

We get here and we bond with someone, for me it's my Mom--"I miss you Mom, every dang day I miss you," and then we spend the rest of our lives trying to prove our Independence because we think loving someone that much is a sign of weakness so we do stupid things to show we will run our own lives, thankyouverymuch, and we end up hurting the one we love the most.

Sometimes it's hard to love completely because things happen:

Some rottenlittlestinker children, who do what a rottenlittlestinker children do, make fun of you in one way or another or exclude you or do some other rotten-stinker-behavior to you and you shut down a little bit.

Then a teacher belittles you because her husband said she burned the eggs and, "yes, those pants make your rear end look big, because it is big," and so she takes it out on you and you shut down a little bit more.

Then the boy you like in high school likes the cheerleader, who obviously is not up to his standards and you are, but he can't see it. He doesn't ask you out to Prom and you shut down a little more. The cheerleader won't give him the time of day, by the way, and so he shuts down a little bit too and thinks he's not worthy of a decent girl, when there you are, all decent and waiting. This actually happened to a boy I know. It took him YEARS to get the courage to even date.

And time passes and other things happen and then you fall in love and the one we love stores memory and then uses it later--not in a good way. "Well, you told me that you..." and then they tell some embarrassing PRIVATE thing you told them that they shouldn't use against you. They might say, "I didn't know that would hurt you," or "Don't be so sensitive," or some other nonsense. So, you shut down a bit more.

Then someone at work pulls a dirty trick and takes credit for your idea and if you make a stink you will be branded a trouble maker and so....

You get the idea.

And then the children come. And, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, you love them totally and completely. And they think they are supposed to be independent and they pull away and you love them completely anyway and then you understand God a little bit and you are amazed. After all, he is God and he must love you way more than you love your child and then you can't believe the good luck you have, to be loved like that.

And then you forget it and let the world interfere and so, I am here to remind you. Don't you forget it. Don't make me come down there.


Cranked toe, stuffed in pretty shoe.

Saturday, October 25, 2008


Tuesday had lovely polka dot shoes on yesterday.

So did Curly Sue. She is my "story hound" granddaughter--always "hounding" me for a story so I started one about two girls. One girl was called "Miss Socks"--that would be Tuesday, as she has socks with her black-and-white polka-dot shoes...
...and the other girl was called "Miss Toes," as Curly Sue's black-and-white polka-dot shoes showed, well, toes.

We got one chapter done and now I am thinking about chapter two.

While I was thinking I sat on the step with Gilmore Girl. She had her toe "cranked" by Dr. Cranky, who filled her pain prescription out WRONG so she couldn't get any pain meds today for her poor hurting tootsies. And of course, Dr. Cranky with the incompetent prescription-filling-out-skills, was NOT in the office today.

He did some surgery on her several months ago and her big piglet still wouldn't bend so he had her come into the office yesterday, he poked her a hundred times trying to find a vein--never did--and then deadened her toe--somewhat--and then bent it, using his elephant weight until she heard things pop and tear inside. Oh, it was not pleasant. He had her bring "heels" so her toe would stay bent. Here are her piggies, being brave.And here are "Miss Socks" and "Miss Toes" being protected by their Grandpa's feet. And, since this is a foot show-and-tell, here are my clodhoppers. I guess I can hop clods. Not that I want to, mind you, but if the opportunity ever comes along and there are clods available, I'm prepared.

And as for Gilmore Girl, with the cranked toe, she was not feeling so chipper last night and was having a bit of a pity party, all alone, up late and so we talked via email and I said, "there, there," but I'm not sure that was enough. She needed me to come down and read her a story and run her a hot bath, just like I used to do when she was little and in need of comfort.

How I wish I could have. And I would have made sure she wore her shoes to bed, too. Just in case. That's what mother's do, all kinds of stuff, "Just in case."

So, Dear Gilmore Girl, I hope you make it though the week-end and then we will beat up on Dr. Cranky, with the incompetent prescription-filling-out-skills, on Monday. I might even hop a clod for him, just in case he thinks I'm a wuss don't mean business.

PS Tell Miss Toes that Chapter two is almost ready.

Friday, October 24, 2008


Phil, funny Gilmore Girl
and granddaughters.


The tree in the back yard is loosing its leaves.
Here's Poppa leaf, Momma and baby leaf and even Uncle Fester. He's the black leaf of the family.
The trees in the front yard are slower to give up their bounty, but bounty they do give. Ten thousand acorns.
Curly Sue and Tuesday came by for some popcorn, lunch and a spin or two--or ninety-five--up and down the sidewalk.
A neighbor, who blogs here and here and her funny husband blogs here, said, "Will you put me in your blog?" Of course, although I certainly should have gotten closer.

It was a lovely day. Hope your day was lovely too.

Thursday, October 23, 2008


Phil has been watching TV. All of a sudden I notice that I'm hearing a bunch of static and occasionally two Russian voices, saying three or four words in Russian followed by more static.

I looked up. Phil is watching the Russian Mission Control Center--aired January 4th, 2002.

Do you think he is bored?


Snoozing, plotting Halloween tricks for midnight.


Halloween must be almost here.
There's a cat asleep in the pumpkin patch.

And this one is dressed up as "Road Kill."

ExCUSe me? You are interrupting my beauty sleep.