(From Jay) If the Shoe Fits, WEAR It Already

Pamela is normally a responsible person. But she has some blind spots (see my posts about her issues with fire, counters, and power tools.) One of them is an aversion to wearing shoes on our property.

She has footwear of every conceivable type, so her persistence in being barefoot 98% of the time drives me nuts. 

Especially if she's outside. 

Worse, if I'm building something. 

I want her help because she has a good eye and great ideas, but I'm a First Responder firefighter, so I know freak accidents occur with surprising frequency.

She doesn't always handle my safety rules well. Here's a typical conversation:

Pamela (coming into the work shed, all business): Hey, Jay, Rose keeps knocking over the chickens' nesting box. I figured out a solution. If you cut this piece of wood on a 45 degree angle...

Me: Why aren't you wearing shoes?

She (puzzled by the question): It's hot.

Me: I don't care if it's hot; it's not safe to be around all these tools without shoes. 

She (contemplating her bare feet, then shrugging): It's hot.

Me: You could step on a nail or a staple.

She (wiggling her toes): It's hot. 

Me: You could get splinters in your feet.

She (patiently): It's hot. (pause) And I have cute toenail polish on.

Me (patiently): It's nice. (pause) And get some shoes on. 

She (stepping back): Now I'm on the ramp. I'm not in the shed, so I don't need shoes.

Me: Pamela!

She (back to business): If we angle a piece of wood this size to fit between the top and the shelf, it will stabilize the nesting box but also allows us to remove it for cleaning. Here, let me show you.

Me: Stop! You're not coming in here without shoes.

She (rolling her eyes): I'm just going to step on that one spot. It's clear. There isn't a nail, staple or splinter on that spot.

   
Me: No.

She: The chickens come in here without shoes.

Me: If you sprout feathers, I'll reconsider.

She (marching through the doorway): I'm an adult. You can't tell me what to do.

Me (throwing her over my shoulder): Fine. I won't tell you.

She (yelling at my back): Illegal use of the fireman's carry! I'm reporting you to the Chief! 

I deposit her on the deck and walk away. A minute later she comes back to the shed.

She: I'm wearing shoes. Are you happy now? Okay, if you cut right here, this piece of wood will fit right in the...

Me (folding my arms): Those are sandals. You need shoes.

She: Sandals are shoes.

Me: You know what I mean.

She (patiently): Darling, you said I should put on shoes so I wouldn't step on a nail or staple. Please explain to me how I could step on either with the top of my feet. 

Me: No.

She (triumphantly): Because you can't! I win!

Me: Whatever. You're still not coming in the shed without shoes.

She (wrinkling her nose): Your work boots give you a sock tan.

Me: Yes, I have tan legs and white feet. White feet without holes, punctures or splinters. You need real shoes.

She (trying one last tactic): We're married. That means that half of the shed is mine.

Me: The back half is yours. You have to go through my half to get to your half, and my half requires shoes.

Enough said. 


Verse of the day: (Isaiah 52:7-8) "How lovely on the mountain are the feet of those who bring Good News, announcing peace, proclaiming news of salvation, saying 'Our God Reigns!'"


Note from Pamela: I think a more appropriate verse would be Song of Solomon 7:1, "How beautiful are your sandaled feet, oh queenly maiden."

To read a similar story, click here.

To read about how Pamela gives Jay gray hair climbing on counters and randomly starting fires, click here.
Or by trying to use power tools, click here.
Or by reading (yes, reading can be hazardous to your house if Pamela does the reading), click here. 

She Came, She Saw (Almost)--Post from Jay

Today is Wife Appreciation Day, and I would like to state for the record that I truly love and appreciate my wonderful wife.


I will also add that she's given me gray hair before my time.

The other day, Pamela called the Fire Station. One of my firefighters answered the phone. She said, "Do not repeat my question out loud, especially if Jay is around. Just answer 'yes' or 'no.' Can you tell me how to turn on a table saw?" 

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 4:15a) "Don’t even think about it..." 

It's actually a chop saw. And God bless the man who invented the chop saw safety latch. 



Note from Pamela: I would like to state for the record how appalled I am that our local firefighters are flatly unwilling to answer a simple question. Appalled, I tell you.

For more contributions from Jay about Pamela, check out Panic-Inducing Pamela. For stories about Jay, check out Finders Seekers, Delectable Disagreement, Land(fill) of the Free, Preplanned Packing, and She Said, He Heard.  

She Said, He Heard

(Disclaimer: Posted with Jay's approval. He knows he's not the only one.) 

I've heard many women complain that the men in their lives don't listen. But, ladies, it's not personal; it's biological. A scientific study proved that men only hear one-third of what is actually said. So, instead of balking against this apparent reality, just accept it.

I must admit that I'm fascinated by how this works. How do men choose which words to hear and which words to discard? Do they only hear the long words? Do they only hear nouns? Or verbs? How can they hear only a third of a one-word sentence?

After 11 years of studying Jay, my current conclusion is that there is no formula; male hearing is entirely random. 

Which I find rather funny.

To prove the point, following are some conversations that took place between Jay and me. (Which happened, by the way, when all the televisions, radios, phones, and computers were off, so, there were no distractions.)

One fine morning...

Me: Do you want something for breakfast?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: You didn't want breakfast?

He: I didn't have any.

Me: Yeah, I know; we both just got out of bed. I asked if you want some.

He: Some what?

Me: Breakfast.

He: No, I haven't had breakfast. 

One afternoon...

He: I need a snack. I think I'll get a bagel. Do you want one?

Me: Yeah, a bagel sounds good. I'd like an untoasted, plain bagel with nothing on it. Thanks, sweetie!

He: Got it.

Later, he handed me a toasted, blueberry bagel smothered in cream cheese. 

Me (genuinely intrigued): Honey, 'a plain bagel' doesn't sound remotely like 'a blueberry bagel.' How does that get switched in your head? Especially since I emphasized the word 'plain.'

He (shrugging): I guess I heard 'bagel' and stopped paying attention.

At least he admits it.

Me: Yeah, and I could understand if I'd asked for cream cheese and you confused it with something like 'green peas,' because they at least sound similar, but I said I wanted nothing on my bagel.

He: Sorry, I must have only been half-listening. I'll eat the blueberry bagel and get your plain bagel with green cheese. (Pause) What is green cheese? Like sour cream?

At this point, some of you might be thinking, Perhaps the poor man has hearing loss. He does not; I've had him checked. And he has no problem detecting when I climb on a kitchen counter or strike a match. Even if he's outside, he miraculously hears and comes in to bust me. The holes in his hearing only appear during conversation.

I've even tried speaking in two word sentences to see if that helps.

One day, he came home from the grocery store...

Me: Want soup?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: Didn't what?

He: Buy soap. I don't even remember you asking me to buy soap.

Me: I didn't.

He: Didn't what?

Me: Didn't ask you to buy soap.

He: Well, then why would you expect me to get any?

Me: We don't need soap. I said soup. I made homemade soup while you were gone. Do you want some chicken soup for lunch?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: Didn't what?

He: Buy chicken soup. I don't even remember you asking me to buy soup.

When he asks why I burst out laughing throughout the day, I tell him it must be a laugh track because we're clearly on a sit-com. 

Verse of the day: (Matthew 11:15) "If any man has ears to hear, let him hear." I'm not preventing him. Honest!

To understand why Jay can hear a match strike from the other side of the property, click here to read Panic-inducing Pamela.

Four Blunks and Swishy

My mom was born in Romania where she learned to bake astonishingly marvelous desserts. When people are done weeping for joy after consuming one of her pastries, they usually ask me, "Did your mom teach you how to make this?

The answer is no.

 Not because I lack interest in baking. I love to bake.

Not because I lack ability. I'm actually not bad in the kitchen.

And not because she won't share her recipes. She's thrilled to give them to anyone who asks.

The problem, my friends, is that her directions are impossible to follow. You doubt me?

Let me illustrate the point:

Me (eagerly): So, you're finally going to teach me how to make your famous torte.

She (cheerfully): Sure, sweetheart. It's easy. First, get out a big bowl. No, a bigger bowl. Now add a couple of eggs. 

Me (confidently cracking the eggs and then carefully writing): Two eggs.

She: Those eggs look small--add another one.

Me (amending my recipe): Three eggs.

She: Now throw in some flour.

Me: How much flour? 

She: You know. Just put flour in until there's enough.

Me (pause): Yeah, um, how about I just add flour, and you tell me when to stop, okay?

She (watching me pour the flour in the bowl a half of cup at a time): That's about right. 

Me (meticulously writing): Okay, three and a half cups of flour.

She (stirring the batter and then throwing in another handful of flour): Maybe more.

Me: Mom! How much was that? A fourth of a cup? A half of a cup?

She: Yes.

Me: Yes, it's a fourth of a cup? Or, yes, it's half of a cup?

She (shrugging): Sure. One of those.

Me (protesting): Mom, you can't add anything unless I measure it so I'll know how much to use next time. 

She (waving me off): I can't waste time with all this measuring. Now, you need four glumps of milk.

Me: Did you say 'glumps'? 

She: You know, 'Glump, glump, glump, glump.'

Me: Wait, what?

She: Then two bangs of salt. But not from the clear salt shaker--you need two bangs from the silver salt shaker.  

Me (perplexed): Two bangs?

She: And then mix the batter. If it's too thin, add half a handful, maybe a handful, of flour. If it's too thick, add half a glump of milk.

Me (completely confounded): Half a glump?

She (lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper): The secret...

Me (leaning in): Yes?

She (looking deep into my eyes): ...is to stir only in one direction. If not, you confuse the batter.

Me (massaging my forehead): The batter is confused? 

She (resuming her normal voice): Then add a swish, swish, swish of white sugar.

Me (bewildered): How much is a swish of sugar? 

She: No, no! I said a swish, swish, swish of sugar. You need three swishes or it won't be sweet enough.

Me (completely lost): Three swishes?

She: Then a quick wooshy-wooshy of oil and a bloomp of vanilla. 

Verse of the day: (Ecclesiastes 8:1) "How wonderful to be wise, to be able to analyze and interpret things." Indeed.

Anica's Egg Nog Cream Puffs

(the easy version for us mortals)

For the puffs: 

1 ¼ cups of water

¼ tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. granulated sugar
½ cup of butter or shortening (but not margarine or oil)
1 ½ cups of flour
4 eggs 

• While stirring, bring the water, salt, sugar and butter to a boil on the stove.
• Add the flour and stir vigorously. Cook and stir until the dough leaves the sides of the pan and forms a ball.
• Take the pan off of the stove, cover the dough with plastic wrap, and let it cool in the pan.
• When cool, add one egg at a time, stirring well by hand with a wooden spoon. Expect the dough to be difficult to mix. Mix it only in one direction or you’ll "confuse the dough."
• Drop egg-sized clumps onto an ungreased cookie sheet.
• Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes.
• Do not open the oven door, but turn the temperature down to 325 and bake the puffs for an additional 15 minutes.
• Cool.
• Cut the top off of the puffs, making a lid. Scoop out excess dough in the middle leaving the hollow shell.
• Fill puffs with cream and replace the lid. Sprinkle with powdered sugar or drizzle with chocolate glaze.

 

For the Egg Nog Cream:

3 boxes of Instant vanilla pudding (3 ¾ oz. size box)
4 envelopes of dry Dream Whip
5 cups of milk
1 tsp. of rum flavoring (or vanilla)
¼ tsp. ground nutmeg 

• Beat all the ingredients together with an electric mixer for three minutes.

For the Chocolate Glaze (optional):

2 oz. semi-sweet chocolate
1 Tbsp. butter
1 Tbsp. corn syrup
1 tsp. rum or vanilla flavoring 

• Melt butter and chocolate on the stove in a double boiler (or in a regular pot on low).
• Add corn syrup and flavoring, stirring continuously.
• When blended well, drizzle sauce over filled puffs.

Medicated Part One

A few years ago, in March, I sent a cousin several birthday cards. It would have been a sweet gesture except that each card was exactly the same. And her birthday is in July.

My defense was that I was medicated.  

I was trying a new anti-seizure medication for pain-control, and the side effects were dizziness (Whee!), drowsiness (Yawn…) and brain fog (Who is this cute man in my house, and why does he keep calling me his wife?). My doctor warned that it takes a while to adjust this particular medication and that I might act a bit strange for a month or two. Of course, with me, how could one tell?

One morning, I woke to find myself with a nearly-empty cereal box on my lap cramming granola into my mouth with both hands. There were empty wrappers on the bedside table, evidence that my binge hadn't started with nutty oat clusters. 

Another morning, I tried to take a dose of the new pills and at some point lost consciousness. I didn't pass out, I just checked out. When I found myself back in reality, I was leaning on my elbow staring at the medicine bottle. It was filled to the brim with water. 

Incorrect

Something seemed wrong, and I realized that I had to get the water off the pills immediately, but instead of pouring the water into the cup conveniently located on my nightstand, I poured half of the water directly on the nightstand.
 

Also incorrect

That also seemed wrong, so I dumped the remaining water on the bed. 
 

Surprisingly, this, too, was incorrect

I reiterate; I was drugged.

At that point, I knew I was incapable of rationally dealing with the situation further and woke Jay. He patiently took over, spread the capsules out to dry, and cleaned up the nightstand. He left the soggy bedding alone. He figured it would dry on its own, and, after all, it was on my side of the bed.

Jay tried to put a positive spin on my actions. He said, pragmatically, "You came up with viable options. Not normal options, but options, nonetheless." He added, benevolently, "You were thinking outside the box!" 

To this I replied, "What box?"

Then I went back to sleep.  (To be continued next week. It gets worse. Much worse.)


Verse of the day: (Matthew 9:36) "When (Jesus) saw the crowds, He had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless..."  I know the feeling.