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.

Panic-inducing Pamela--Post from Jay

I adore my wife, Pamela. She's sweet, loving, and generous. She's good-natured and doesn't complain (even though she's often in a great deal of pain). She's kind to animals, children, and the elderly.

But, like us all, the woman does have limitations. Her underdeveloped sense of danger is giving me gray hair before my time... 

(Walking into the kitchen in time to see her standing on top of the counter, slightly swaying as she starts to lean over...)

 Me (near panic): What are you doing?!

She (covering her guilty look with a disarming grin): Oh, hi, darling. I didn't realize you were in the house.

Me: What are you doing?!

She (shrugging): I couldn't reach this bowl. It was on the top shelf of the cupboard. 

Me: You're supposed to use a chair. Why didn't you use a chair? Or call me?

She (patiently): I just said I didn't know you were in the house.

Me: No excuse. Use a chair.

She: I don't need a chair; you're here. Catch me.

Me (lunging to grab her before she hits the floor): Next time use a chair. I mean it!

She (agreeably, as she walks away): Next time...you hope I...use a chair. Got it.

Me: I heard that! Use a chair.

I'm not just worried about her falling.

Me: What's that smell?

She: What smell?

Me: I smell something burning.

She: That's a Tahitian Vanilla candle.

Me: I'm a firefighter. I know when something other than a candle is burning.

She (sniffing): Did you change your clothes after you got home from the fire station?

Me: It's not me. Something is burning.

(Walking into the bathroom just in time to grab a scorched and smoking towel before it burst into flame...)

Me: Pamela! You can't put a lit candle on a shelf right below cotton towels!  

She (ambling in, unconcernedly): Oh, was the flame too close? Oops. Relax, darling, next time I'll put the candle somewhere else.

Me: No! Don't light candles!

She (frowning at the burned towel): Great, now I have to buy a new towel. I doubt they still carry this color.

Me (exasperated): Forget the towel, and listen to me. No more lighting candles!

She (agreeably): You don't like me lighting candles. Got it.

A week later... 

(Walking into the kitchen in time to see her with one foot on the steel wiring of the bottom shelf of the pantry, hauling herself up with fingers entwined in wiring of the top shelf...)

Me: What are you doing?!

She (innocently): What? Oh. I couldn't reach.

Me: Then use a chair! Or call me!

She (patiently): Honey, you said I couldn't climb on the counters. This isn't a counter.

Me: Don't climb the shelves either!

She (dismissively): Well, this is your fault, anyway.

Me: My fault?

She (with female logic): Yes. You put the Cheez-It box on the top shelf. If you didn't want me climbing, then you shouldn't have put it out of my reach. See? Your fault.

Me: Use. A. Chair.

She (eying the kitchen chairs dubiously): They're too far away. I have limited energy.

Me: Pamela! Those shelves weren't made to hold your weight. If they broke, then you could get hurt.

She (with a feigned injured air): So, you think I'm too heavy? Fine. I'll lose weight if it makes you happy.

(She walks away cramming Cheez-Its into her month.)

Me (calling after her): Use. A. Chair. I mean it!

In the evening...

Me: What's that smell?

She: What smell?

Me: I smell something burning.

She: Oh, I sprayed perfume in our room.

Me: I'm a firefighter. I know the difference between perfume and smoke.

(Walking into the bedroom just in time to snatch a scorched and smoking scarf off of a lamp before it burst into flame...)

Me: What is this?!

She: Oh, that? I felt bad about climbing the pantry shelves, so I was going to apologize in a romantic way. The scarf was for mood lighting.

Me: Mood lighting? Burning the house down is not the way to put me in a good mood.

She (dismissively): Well, this is your fault, anyway.

Me: My fault?

She (with female logic): Yes. You told me that I couldn't light candles. So, I had to improvise with a scarf. See? Your fault.

Me: Pamela! 

She (frowning at the scarf): Now I need a new scarf. 

Me: Listen to me. You can't put flammable material near a light bulb. 

She (blithely): Relax, darling. Next time I'll use a scarf that isn't flammable.

Me: No! Don't put anything over a light bulb, whether you think it's flammable or not. Just stay away from candles, light bulbs, lighters, matches or anything else that produces light or flame.

She (agreeably): Sure, honey. Don't climb on counters or use shelves as a ladder. Don't light candles or put things, flammable or otherwise, over light bulbs. Got it.

  A few days later...

(Following the odor of smoldering cloth into the kitchen in time to see Pamela standing on the stove, reaching into a top cupboard...)

Me: What are you doing?!

She (patiently): Relax, darling. I used a chair to get up here, and I am not climbing on the counter or up the shelves.

Me: I don't want you climbing on the stove either! You could get burned!

She (clearly offended): I'm very careful. I took precautions so I wouldn't burn myself.

Me (relieved): Well, that's good. 

She: I put a towel over the hot burners.


Verse of the day: (James 1:2-3) "Consider it joy when you encounter tests and trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience." I think of this verse when Pamela casually says, "The good news is that I'm giving you a wonderful opportunity to grow in patience, but the bad news is that while I was accidentally on the roof..."

Shoe Drills

This conversation (based on a true story) is between two people whom we shall call "Pamelina" and "Jayson" (to protect the guilty) while they empty their master bedroom closet in preparation for new bedroom flooring.

Jayson (putting shoes in bags): Here's another pair of black boots. Did you know you have this many pairs of black boots?

Pamelina (puzzled): Of course. I bought them, didn't I?

Jayson: Let me rephrase that. Why did you buy so many pairs of black boots?

Pamelina (even more puzzled): To wear them. Why else?

Jayson: You have two feet, so why do you need more than one pair of black boots?

Pamelina (patiently): I need different boots for different occasions. I wear the medium-heeled, suede boots with casual outfits and the leather, stiletto boots with nicer outfits. I wear patent leather boots when it's raining, and the slouchy boots-- 

Jayson (shaking his head): That's just the boots! I have a pair of black shoes, brown shoes, athletic shoes, sandals, and work boots. Why do you need more than five pairs of shoes?

Pamelina (fondly reminiscing): I guess they've accumulated over the years. I bought most of them on sale. These silver sandals were originally $385 marked down to $25! These jute wedges were free during a buy-one-get-one-free sale. These red pumps were--

Jayson (persistently): I'm sure you got great deals, but I still don't see why you need to keep all these shoes!

Pamelina: Honey, we have a lot to do, so can I justify my footwear later? If you get a drill, we have time to fix this shoe rack before the flooring guy gets here.

Jayson (long-suffering sigh): Fine, Imelda Marcos. We'll talk about your 85 (or is it 185?) pairs of shoes later. I'll get the drill.

Pamelina (muttering as they walk to the shed): If I'm going to be accused of owning 85 pairs of shoes, then I should at least have 85 pairs of shoes.

Jayson (ignoring her comment and scanning his workbench): Where is that drill?

Pamelina (idly): Here's the drill.

Jayson: That's the cordless rechargeable drill. That's not what I want.

Pamelina (holding up another drill): Is this it?

Jayson (rummaging through a cabinet): No, that's my old battery drill. I keep it as back-up for my newer battery drill. I'm looking for an electric drill.

Pamelina: Here's an electric drill.

Jayson: That's an impact driver drill. I want the regular electric drill. Now, where did I leave it?

Pamelina narrows her eyes for a moment as an illuminating thought assails her brain. Jayson doesn't notice.

Pamelina (brightly): My, you have a lot of hammers! What's this?

Jayson (shifting some lumber): That's a sledge hammer.

Pamelina (feigning ignorance): What about this itty-bitty one?

Jayson (briefly looking up): That? That's a ball-peen hammer. Here's the drill I want!

Pamelina (pointedly): And so many in-between sized hammers!

Jayson (sifting through a box of screws): Yeah. I've had some of them for years. That one used to be my dad's. I should get the grip on the handle replaced.

Pamelina (casually): Why do you need more than one hammer?

Jayson (still distracted): Each size has a different purpose. Hey, could you hand me that level?

Pamelina doesn't move. Surprised, Jayson glances at her. She folds her arms and raises her eyebrows. He mentally backtracks.

Jayson: Oh.

Pamelina (brightly): My, you have a lot of saws! 

Jayson (sheepishly): Okay, okay.

Pamelina (no longer feigning ignorance): Let's see, you have a table saw, a hack saw, a circular saw, a jigsaw-- 

Jayson (hoping in vain to duck out of the conversation quickly): Point taken. Let's see! Now, I need that level and a pencil--

Pamelina (innocently): I just don't understand why you need so many tools when the pioneers typically only had a knife, an ax, a hammer, and a handsaw.

Jayson (with a grin, drops a quick kiss on her forehead, hoping to shut her up): Yeah, yeah.

Pamelina (undeterred, she muses): With nothing but hand-powered tools, they cut down trees, made boards out of the wood, whittled pegs to use instead of nails, raised houses and barns, fashioned furniture--

Jayson (laughing): Truce! I won't count your shoes if you don't count my tools. Agreed?

Pamelina (with smile that's maybe a wee bit smug): Agreed.

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 19:14b) "only the Lord can give an understanding wife" or an understanding husband. It cuts (saws, and drills) both ways.

Firefighter Funny

A few years ago, Jay, who is a Fire Captain, was assigned to a different fire station. Because I am such a good wife (and not at all because I was stuck at home, bored), I called the station one evening to investigate his new crew. 

The conversation went like this:

Young, yawning Firefighter (who shall remain unidentified): Fire Station. Can I help you?

Me (in a superficial drawl): Hi. Um, there's like this guy at your station who's like really cute. He's like the Captain or something. Um, he's tall with like brownish-blond hair and killer dimples. He's like really, really hot. So, um, do you think he'd go out with me?

(Long, long pause.)

Firefighter: Uh, just a minute.

Jay: Captain Nastase.

Me (in my normal voice): Put. That. Firefighter. Back. On. The. Phone.

I could hear Jay laughing as he handed the phone back because he knew the kid was in trouble.

Firefighter (thrown by the call and confused by Jay's reaction): Uh, yeah?

Me (archly): For all you know, some hussy is calling the station to see if your married Captain will go out with her, and you put that call through?

Firefighter: Oh. (He really meant "Uh oh.") Um, I'm sorry about that. But...but I was caught off guard and--

Me (with a gasp of mock horror):  You put that call through? You're supposed to be a 'band of brothers.' You're supposed to watch out for each other. 

Firefighter (madly backpedaling): Yeah, I shouldn't have done that. But...but I was in the middle of--

Me: You're supposed to have your Captain's back!

Firefighter: Yes, that was bad. Really bad. But...but--

Me (firmly): The correct response is, 'Sorry, but our Captain is married. Unless you're his wife, he will never go out with you.' Then you hang up. Got it? 

Firefighter (still sweating): Yes, ma'am. I totally agree, ma'am. 

Me (mollified): I trust this won't happen again.

He: No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am. I mean, it won't happen again, ma'am.

When Jay took the phone back, he was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. He might have me repeat that call every time a new guy comes to his station.

Verse of the day: (Luke 11:14b) "Lead us not into temptation..."

Jay and one of his recent crews. They're tough, but I can make them prespire faster than a fire.

Hey, their lives depend on their ability to think quickly, so anything I do to keep them on their toes is a public service. A civic duty. That's right, y'all, I prank call them because I care.

To read how I pranked our Pastor (which is even worse), click here. 

Just Manflu

I once made the mistake of commenting that a certain man seemed to think he was near death when he "only had a cold." A friend (the insightful Robin Peel) quickly corrected me. He said that men are "either well or are flattened by a particularly nasty man-flu." Man-flu, he gravely informed me, covered all male ailments, and the depths of its insidious suffering is incomprehensible to women.

Be that as it may, I learned a few things from years of observing men during their extremely rare bouts of illness.

When a woman is unwell, she forces herself to shower (after making breakfast for the family), lifts her gland-swollen arms to brush and style her hair, gargles, painstakingly applies make-up to hide her pallid complexion, dresses in clean clothes, matches her shoes to her outfit (just in case she sees someone she knows in the waiting room), and pastes on a brave smile. 

The doctor tells her that she looks great, probably has a cold, and to come back in a week if it doesn't get better.

If a man is sick enough to need medical attention, he crawls into whatever clothing he finds crumpled on the floor. He doesn't shower, shave, or brush his teeth. He limps into the doctor's office, groaning. If he bumps into someone he knows, he's gratified to hear, "You look horrible!" He's ushered into the examination room (ahead of all the well-groomed women), gently placed on the table with a soft pillow and heated blanket, and given a battery of tests and chest x-rays. 

To find out that he indeed only has a cold. Ahem, I mean, "the vicious and dreadful man-flu."

I'm humble enough to learn from others, so now when I'm in need of medical help, I let my appearance match how I feel.

Instead of brushing my hair, I let it stand on end.

Instead of carefully applying my make-up, I slap it on. If I get blush on my chin or smear eyeliner across my cheek, all the better to emphasize my peaked condition.

Instead of dressing carefully, I pull leggings on under my sweat-soaked pajama top, put on mismatched socks, and attach a pair of Jay's slippers to my feet with duct tape.

When the nurse offers me a chair in the examination room, I instead crawl onto the table and sprawl there like a squashed bug, moaning. 

When the doctor arrives, I open one eye and croak. I don't have to tell him how badly I feel; one glimpse of me sends him hollering for oxygen and a defibrillator. 

Verse of the Day: (Luke 5:31) "Jesus answered them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.'"

Doctor? Is that you?

P.S. Robin photographs churches in the beautiful English countryside. You can find his unusual, stunning, and funny (like the gargoyle, made by an underpaid stonemason, who moons the village) photos by clicking here. My favorite photo is the wooden cross at Peakirk, probably made by a child for a pet. It always tugs at my heart.

Fun, In Theory.

(Names and a few details have been edited for the sake of those involved. And "Jim" was not Jay, for those who will wonder.)

I went on an awful date in college. Nothing was wrong with the guy; I even felt bad for him because he was quite sweet. And he had a great idea for a memorable first date.

In theory.

It was August, the beginning of the Fall Semester. My friend, Laurel, and her boyfriend, Russ, picked me up from the airport. On the way to campus, Russ told me that he and his friend, Jim, wanted to take Laurel and me on a double date that evening. I was hot and tired from traveling all day, but he was so excited about a surprise they'd planned that I rallied my strength and agreed. We dropped off my luggage and collected Jim.

The guys' original plan was to take Laurel and me for a sunset picnic at a pretty, little river they'd found the previous spring. There was a tiny island in the middle where they could build a bonfire at nightfall and make S'mores for us to eat under the starlight. 

It was a romantic idea.

In theory.  

In reality, we drove (as the air-conditioner struggled) and drove (while night fell) and drove (as the conversation lagged) and drove (while I fought to stay awake) and drove until we finally turned off-road, crossed a field, and came to a bumpy stop at the edge of a copse of trees. 

The guys helped us out of the car like gentlemen. In the failing light, we watched them open the car's trunk to proudly hand us roses that they'd stashed. Giving a girl a rose on a first date is a sweet idea.

In theory.

In reality, roses don't do well in 100 degree weather. 

Without water. 

In a trunk. 

They emerged from their stifling coffin quite dead.

We entered the woods. A nighttime stroll on a pleasant path through a moonlit forest is a lovely idea.

In theory.

We could hardly see the trail in the dark. Especially since the flashlight batteries quickly died. The vegetation was so overgrown that with each step we blindly fought hostile limbs, treacherous vines, and grasping thorns.

"It wasn't like this in the spring," the boys protested, trying to keep branches from whipping us in the face. "It was really nice." Apparently, the friendly flora of May turns into angry, barbed undergrowth by August.

We burst from the forest, panting, scraped, and bleeding, at the edge of the shallow river. Taking us to a cool stream on a stifling, summer evening was a splendid idea.

In theory.

I'm sure the river was refreshing when, filled by gentle spring rains, it flowed freely. But by the end of the summer, the water was rather still. 

And when I say "still," I mean "stagnant." 

Stagnant and stinky.

Malodorous. 

Reeking.

Putrid.

Foul.

You get the picture.

The boys were undaunted. They loaded us on their backs and waded through the odoriferous water to deposit us on the little sandbar island. Which was a nice idea. 

In theory.

There was nowhere to sit except on the barren, moist ground. Which was covered in a black blanket of hungry mosquitoes. I was actually grateful for the smelly sand and packed the damp grit on my bare calves and sandaled feet, desperate for anything to discourage the blood-sucking insect hoard.

Since we'd already missed the sunset, the guys decided to light the bonfire. Rallying around a cheerful fire was a great idea.

In theory.

Did I mention that it was over 100 degrees and muggy? We didn't exactly need additional warmth. The damp wood didn't burn well, but we were thankful that the dense cloud of smoke in which we sat, coughing and hacking, slowed the feasting mosquitoes down a mite (pun intended). 

At least everyone looks good in the soft glow of firelight.

In theory.

When our eyes adjusted, we were treated to the sight of each other mottled with bites, scratched and bleeding, hair frowsy from the humidity, dirty, and pouring sweat like coal-shovelers.

The boys looked less confident at this point, but neither wanted to admit defeat. They thought they could salvage the date by introducing food. S'mores are the perfect snack to eat when sitting around a bonfire.

In theory.

The chocolate bars were melted, the Graham crackers mushy, and the marshmallows congealed into one gluey blob. The guys somehow managed to drip, squish, and mix the goo and served it on napkins. Laurel and I gamely ate the sloppy mess, pretending that the bits of napkin inexorably affixed to the sticky S'mores were actually dietary fiber.

Fortunately, our dates remembered to bring something to drink. After eating all that sugar and madly perspiring for two hours (not to mention blood loss from the mosquitoes), we were desperate for fluids. So, drinks were a perfect idea.

In theory.

They'd brought only one bottle of sparkling grape juice. Which was hot, sugary, and held only enough juice for two people.

If they were really small. 

And not very thirsty. 

With no cups, we swigged drops of the precious liquid directly from the bottle. When it was gone, I would have wept but I couldn't spare the moisture for tears.

At that point, the boys (God bless them) finally gave up. They carried us across the rancid water, helped us fight our way through the hostile wood, and found the car in the dark by smashing into it. 

I breathed a fervent prayer of thanks because I was worried we'd spend the rest of the night stumbling through the field until we passed out from heat exhaustion, only waking in the morning to lick dew off the grass. 

We crawled into the car and headed home.

We drove (blinking smoke-stung eyes) and drove (with swamp-stench clinging to our sweaty skin) and drove (covered in reeking, damp sand) and drove (as I tried not to scratch my forty-plus mosquito bites) and drove (exhausted into silence) and drove until we finally made it back to civilization. 

I wanted to kiss the pavement. 

Russ and Jim walked us to the door to say a glum goodbye. Laurel and I were gracious enough to thank them for the date.

Because it was a sweet idea. 

In theory.

Verse of the day:  (I Thessalonians 5:16-18) "Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances..."

'Preplanned' Packing

Call me sexist or a non-feminist or non-masculinist or whatever you want, but I firmly believe there are certain things women are better at than men: like childbirth.  

And I firmly believe there are certain things men are better at than woman: like using a urinal.

Under Women Only, I also list "packing." Under Men Only, I list "carrying luggage." With good reason.

Ten years ago, my sweet husband-to-be called to tell me that after our wedding he was taking me to a resort in Jamaica for our honeymoon.

When I asked what he'd packed, he said, "I'm still pre-planning it."

If I may digress for a moment...

People, what in God's green earth is "pre-planning"? Jay says it all the time. I don't mind Southern colloquialisms if they make sense. I've even been known to pepper my conversation with "y'all." It's quite useful as a plural second-person pronoun. But I can't wrap my brain around how one plans to make a plan! Or of what pre-planning consists since the minute one thinks, "I should pack shoes," then one is already planning.

Thank you for indulging me. Back to our story...

I suggested (whenever he got around to actually packing) that he include some nice clothes in case any of the restaurants at the resort had dress codes in the evening. He promised to do so.

Since we would spend most of our time on the beach located mere steps from our room, I brought (along with unmentionables) four bathing suits, three cover-ups, and several each of sundresses, t-shirts, tank tops, shorts, and sandals. Oh, and a couple of dresses for the nicer restaurants. Jay grumbled a bit when he hefted my suitcase for the first time, but I wore nearly everything I brought.

The view from our room.
To the right was the beach, where we spent most of our time.

When we arrived at the resort, Jay opened his suitcase (which was significantly lighter than mine). He proudly showed me that it was filled with dress pants and button-down shirts. Even a few ties. It was wonderful of him to remember, and I appreciated how great he looked on the few nights we went out for fine dining.

Unfortunately, he'd also brought only one t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and one swimsuit.

For two weeks.

On the beach.

In Jamaica.

He finally relented and bought another t-shirt (of the overpriced, tourist variety), but he washed his swim trunks and shorts in the sink. 

For two weeks.

We still had a lovely honeymoon, but, based on that experience, when we went to visit family in another state, I considered it my wifely duty to check Jay's suitcase before we left home. 

He was highly offended. 

So, like good wife, I apologized.

"I'm really sorry, honey; I don't mean to be patronizing," I humbly confessed. "Yes, you are old enough to pack your own suitcase. I was way out of line. Please forgive me."

"I do," he graciously replied, mollified.

"...which is why," I added, "I won't mention that the only pair of socks and underwear you'll have for the entire trip are the ones you're wearing to the airport."

"What? You're kidding!" he exclaimed, digging through the suitcase in vain for a pair of buried undies or an overlooked sock.

"Not changing your boxers or socks the whole time might get a bit smelly," I added, "but since you also didn't pack deodorant, shampoo, or a toothbrush, I'm going to assume that you're not concerned with how you'll smell on this vacation."

"You're kidding," he groaned.

"But that's okay," I assured him, cheerfully. "I can work around it. Instead of having people to come to my parents' house to visit us, perhaps we can meet our friends and relatives at the zoo where your odor won't be obvious."

He laughed, shaking his head at his suitcase in disbelief.

"Or rendezvous at a fish-packing plant," I continued.

"I can't believe I didn't pack underwear," he muttered incredulously.

"Or arrange a stroll through a cow pasture," I suggested.

"Okay, okay," he admitted with a grin, "I can't pack.

"Or we could say," I proposed, "that we've always wanted to tour the city dump..."

"This is why I need a wife. Pack my suitcase for me. Please."

"I wish I could, honey," I answered, sadly. "But by the time I'm done pre-planning and then making a plan based on the pre-plan that I'd planned, I won't have time to pack."

Pre-planning definitely pays off--he has all he needs for at least a month.

Verse of the day: (I Peter 4:10) "Each of you should use whatever gifts you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms."

P.S. As usual, this has been posted with Jay's approval. Yes, I did pack for him that day--and for every trip thereafter.

For another Jay story, check out She Said, He Heard. For a story about an unfortunate airport incident, read Our Trip was the Bomb.

Doggy Bags or Daddy Bags

My dad (for whom we can blame my sense of humor) wanted me to share this story on my blog because he thought it was funny. My reaction was a little different than his.

This post is for you, Daddy, in honor of Father's Day.

Jay (my husband), Caleb and Zoe (our dogs), and I visit my parents across the country at least once a year. On our last trip, one of my cousins took Jay and me out to lunch. Caleb is my Medical Alert dog, so he went to the restaurant with us, but Zoe (a little Bichon-mix) had to stay home. 

We ordered barbequed ribs. Delicious. I collected the fatty scraps, chopped them up, and put them in a "doggy bag" to dole out to my spoiled pups throughout the next week (to the Pet Police: we mix very small amounts with their dry food for flavor). I also packed up a ton of fries that we hadn't even touched.

Fat and half-chewed-on-meat for the dogs

After lunch, we stopped by my parents' house. I went in to tell my dad, "We're going to the cabin to watch a movie. I'll call you if we're going to be gone more than a couple of hours. Oh, and I brought food for you," I added, as I shoved the containers in the refrigerator. "They gave us way too many fries." 

As evening fell, I dutifully called home to say, "Dad, we decided to eat dinner here. Zoe's probably hungry by now, so could you feed her? In the refrigerator you'll find two containers. One has fries for you. The other has fat that I brought home for the dogs. Just mix like half a teaspoon of that in Zoe's dry food or she won't eat it."

My mom was at my sister's house, so I expected my dad to be a little grumpy when he found out he'd be eating alone, but I was surprised to hear how annoyed he sounded when he snapped, "You said you brought food home for me."

"Fries are food. I didn't say that I brought you an entire meal. You can make some scrambled eggs. French fries taste good with eggs."

Looks like food to me

"You said you brought food home for me!" he persisted.

"Dad, you can figure out something to eat with the fries. There's lunch meat in the refrigerator. Why don't you make a sandwich? After you eat, will you please feed Zoe?"

"You said you brought food home for me!" was his stubborn reply.

"Sorry, dad, but all we had left were fries. Eat them or not--your choice. Anyway, in the other container you'll find a blob of chopped fat covered in sauce from the barbequed ribs. Just mix a tiny bit into one scoop of Zoe's dry food, okay?" 

"You said you brought food home for me!" he insisted, slowly and distinctly, as if I were the one with a communication problem.

I was getting exasperated when Jay laughingly interrupted me with the interpretation. "Pamela, he's trying to tell you that he thought you brought the fat home for him, and he already ate it!"  

Oops.

Ew!! 

Verse of the day:  (I Corinthians 10:27b, 31) "...eat whatever is set before you, asking no question for conscience’ sake...Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do it to the glory of God."

My dad grew up during the Great Depression when lard on toast was a treat, so he insists the fries with barbeque-sauce-soaked-fat were delicious. I'll take his word for it.