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Archives for July 2009

Break Time

I would like to say that I’m going on vacation.

I would like to say that I’ll be spending the next two weeks frying on the beach.

I would like to say that I’ll be jet skiing.

I would like to say that I’ll be sleeping till noon.

I would like to say that I’ll be on ‘Holiday’.

I would like like to say that I have a $5,000 Visa card to spend at shops of my choice.

Unfortunately I can’t say any of those things.

In case you’re wondering what I’ll be doing over the next two weeks, I’ll be painting, sanding, pulling out rugs, cleaning windows, mopping, painting, lifting 1/2 the couch, hauling boxes, packing, unpacking, cleaning, painting, moving furniture, making beds, doing laundry…did I say PAINTING?…painting.

I may pop in, but I may not.  I’ll miss you all of course, but I’ll return with lots of words, many stories, and a few pictures.

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Enjoy the next two weeks as much as more than I will!

Kids, Cats, and Cultures

Last week we spent a few days up at our new house working and my kids enjoyed all kinds of fun and excitement.  There are at least eight or nine other children under the age of twelve that live on our street.  Together they comprise a gang reminiscent of The Little Rascals.

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Unanimously they have decided that we are wrecking our house, but instead of viewing this with the guarded disdain of adults, they are excited.  After all, “they like wrecking things.”

My children fit right in.  Together with their popsicle stained faces and mismatched clothes, they played hard and loud.

From my second floor ladder heightened view, I watched as they overtook the street and neighbor’s yards with their dirty feet and loud voices.  It made me smile as I heard them taunt each other with names like fat head and chicken boy, because in our politically correct suburbs that is considered bullying and may, in professional opinions, scar children for life.  To me it is the sound of children allowed and encouraged to be children.  I’m sure every retired neighbor longs for the gloomy days of January when this gaggle of kids are snowbound, but I hope my own two take advantage of every minute the sun shines.

FringeKid even found a cat or as she insists, the cat found her and won’t leave.  I think that’s probably because she fed him a bowl of milk, made a bed for him under the porch stairs, and gave him more loving attention than he’s seen in any of his nine lives.  I’m not a cat lover myself and if this one is still living under my porch the next time I return to work on the house, I will probably have to figure out a way to cage it, bring it to the vet for shots, and buy it a flee collar.  As I watched FringeKid lay her head on the cat, hair cascading down its’ fur, all I envisioned was a house full of flees.

While sitting stuck in traffic on the return trip home, I experienced a proud parenting moment.  From little voices in the backseat, I learned that my children were watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in English, French, and Spanish.  I now  know they will grow up to have culturally broad minds and I breathed a sigh of relief, because all is well in world of children.
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Summer Side Dish – Macaroni & Cottage Cheese

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Have you noticed that I never post any normal recipes?  That’s why I don’t have a cooking blog.  If this were just a cooking blog, you’d only visit to make fun of me.

100_4155I just can’t help but post a recipe every now and then.  I like to eat!  I don’t necessarily like to cook, but it’s a means to the end and this is a family recipe.

FringeMan won’t eat it, look at it, or smell it.  He has that cottage cheese phobia/food intolerance I’ve mentioned before and these macaroni have cottage cheese.

100_4162I know that probably sounds gross to you and you are probably thinking that FringeMan has good reasons not to like my family’s recipes, but hear me out.

You start this recipe by cutting a pound of bacon into bite size pieces.  I know it’s getting better already.

100_4156Now you fry it up in a pan.  I’m that kind of woman.

I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let him forget he’s a man, because I’m a WOOOOOMAN.

I have faint and very distant memories of a commercial featuring that song.

Ok, I’m getting sidetracked.  Fry the bacon until almost crisp, chop one small/medium onion into fine pieces and throw it in the pan.  Cook till tender and bacon is crisp, because I L.O.V.E. crisp bacon.  Now drain half of the grease, but make sure you keep some in the pan for flavor.

Apparently this is not a low fat recipe, but people in my family tend to live far longer than necessary and don’t get hardened arteries; therefore, I’ve concluded that bacon is good for you.

100_4157Please ignore the crumbs on my stove.  I wasn’t planning on taking pictures while I was cooking, but then I remembered I have a blog and there are lots of people that would love to hate this recipe.

I forgot to tell you that before you begin cutting the bacon, you should put a large pot of water on to boil and let the pasta cook (according to the directions on the box) while the bacon is frying.  You can use any kind of small pasta you’d like.

I purchase pasta solely on looks and I happen to adore the little ruffles on Campanelle.  If you prefer elbows, go ahead and use those.  I’ve never been an elbow woman myself.

Recap:  You cooked the pasta and drained it. You fried the bacon, added onion, and removed some excess grease.  Now dump your drained pasta into the bacon and onions.

100_4159Add lots of salt & pepper to taste, unless you’re on a diet that limits salt.  If you can’t have salt, you’re missing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures, especially if you’re a woman.

Now add your large container of cottage cheese.  I prefer the large curd.  If you’re going to eat it, you may as well be able to see it.

100_4163Mix thoroughly and serve.

[my daughter is hanging over my shoulder and pretending she’s barfing, sounds and all]

Although my children have been corrupted by FringeMan’s aversion to all good cheeses, this actually tastes good.  I promise!  I brought it to a BBQ the other day and all my neighbor’s loved it, even the children.

100_4165It’s perfect with hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken, sausage, pork chops…whatever!

Easy and delicious…don’t listen to my daughter.

This post is linked to This Blessed Nest’s Picnic Party. Go visit for more great summer recipes!

This is free information for you.  I always thought ‘maccaroni’ was spelled with two c’s, but apparently they stopped spelling it that way in the 1600’s.  HUH?  Can I be that far behind society as a whole?  I guess I’m an old soul.

The Stairs

100_4018After I decided that I just could not squat to paint one more baseboard, I got the unfortunate notion to pull up the rug on our staircase.  Now it doesn’t look so bad in this picture, but I’m positive the previous tenants of this house (it was rented our for a while) did not own a vacuum.  It was gross and smelled like an old man’s feet.  For the record, I think my mom’s feet have any old man’s beat, but I didn’t want to write that my carpet smelled worse than my mom’s feet.  She may not forgive me for such a thing.

I must give the carpet people credit because they did a fantastic job of laying this rug.  There wasn’t even a little corner coming loose and that made it all the more difficult to get out.  Thankfully I ate my can of spinach, donned a pair of leather work gloves, and used ever muscle in my upper body.  All two.

Do you know what happens when you sweat and then rip out nasty carpeting?

Let me tell you.

You get clumps of nasty foul smelling, old man’s foot dust stuck to you.  You really, really need a shower, but can’t take one because FringeMan has the entire bathroom gutted and is fighting with the plumbing that you fear may never work again.

That’s what happens.

100_4178This was the end result.

Now I could use a few suggestions here.  I’m definitely not replacing the carpeting.  I have an aversion to wall-to-wall carpet.  Call me crazy, but I hate it.  Thankfully there are hard wood floors lurking under every rug in the house.  I’m thinking about sanding these steps smooth and paiting them, but I’m just not sure what color a person paints stair streads.  Any ideas?

Please don’t suggest that I strip this lovely staircase and unearth its’ natural wood tones because I’d rather pluck my toe nails out one by one.

I was thinking black with a white railing.  All these old houses in the north seem to have that Boston Baked Bean color on the stairs.  I just don’t like it.  FringeMan is more than fine with that color, but he also enjoys a bowl of Boston Baked Beans, so his opinion is jaded.

I once painted a stair case white, treads and all.  I know you probably think that’s insane, but it didn’t get as dirty as I expected.  It just wore.  While others called it ugly, I called it Shabby Chic.

100_4179So what would you do with these stairs, besides burn them to the ground?

The Rose of Romance

FringeMan took me to a Christmas party for our first “date”.  We had been to the lighting of Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center the week after I returned from Florida, but our first official, just the two of us date, was a Christmas party.  As far as first dates go, it was slightly more than typical.

FringeMan didn’t believe in taking things slowly.  On the way to the Christmas party, he told me that we were stopping by his mom’s house.  Meeting his parents was way more than I bargained for on a first date.  Thankfully his mother was kind and didn’t bring up any ghosts of girlfriend’s past like one of his uncles did at our first meeting.

GrammyFringe & Me

GrammyFringe & Me

It was at a funeral that I got to meet the bulk of FringeMan’s family for the first time.  His uncle, a man of stature, took my hand in his big one, greeting me with a smile that warmed his eyes and my heart.  A moment later he looked at FringeMan and said, “Is she the same girl as last time?”

I certainly was not!

The warmth in my heart quickly faded as ice-daggers flew from my eyes to FringeMan’s soul.

But that wasn’t our first date.  Our first date was the Christmas party with the quick stop to meet FringeMan’s parents.  When we left his mom’s house I suspected that dating FringeMan would be anything but ordinary.  Little did I know how quickly I should expect the unforeseen.  The Christmas party proved normal unless you consider the fact we were seated at a table that included FringeMan’s ex-girlfriend.  In fact, I sat right next her.  Making small talk was as much fun as being bitten by a swarm of mosquitoes.

Is it any wonder that while sipping a diet coke at the Red Robin, a placed we stopped to “talk” on the way back to my house, I told FringeMan that I really didn’t want to date him right then.  I wasn’t ready to be serious.  Besides talking to him over a cheeseburger was like being at an inquisition and I was on trial.  He played both the good cop and the bad cop trying to get me to ‘open up’, reveal my future plans, and unwrap my past from birth to present.

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Equipped with too many useless facts from my psychology minor, I tried to unravel FringeMan’s thoughts, dissect his words, and peek into his heart.  I left more confused than ever.

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After our ill-fated first date, a day FringeMan still does not think was inappropriate, we only saw each other in church and in a few group functions; however, it was the holiday season.  There were parties including a Christmas party thrown by me.  I subjected FringeMan to Kenny G’s Christmas CD and then made him watch “White Christmas”.  I guess you could say that I was getting even.

On New Year’s Eve FringeMan invited a whole bunch of people to his house for a little party.  It wasn’t the first time I had been to his house.  He once cooked venison for my cousin Jenn and I.  It was my first deer.  The venison was certainly easier to digest than FringeMan’s bachelor pad.  He had black curtains hanging in the windows that were draped with spider web designs and his once white couch was covered in six inches of dog hair.  I would later, clean for him.  Actually it was more for myself than for him.  If I was going to eat from his kitchen and sit on his couch, soap and a vacuum were a must.

He did clean for his New Year’s party.  He actually painted the inside of his shower in case anybody peeked into it.  I don’t think he’d been introduced to Scrubbing Bubbles yet.  I was actually looking forward to New Year’s Eve, but I had spent the previous two days with a stomach virus, so I wasn’t in great shape and I couldn’t eat anything.  I didn’t want to spend the night in the bathroom, fresh paint or not.  I even had my mom bake me a pineapple dream cake to bring.  Unfortunately FringeMan has a food allergy/intolerance/psychiatric disorder towards cream cheese, sour cream, and mayonnaise.  The cake was laced with cream cheese and so he spent the next two days in the bathroom.

My friend Nat innocently wandered into FringeMan’s bedroom, picked up a rose sitting in a vase on his dresser and exclaimed to everyone in the house, “Oh, it’s so nice, somebody gave you a rose!”

FringeMan turned 5 shades of red and a few shades of pink.  The rose was for me.

to be continued…

I know, I  know, the story just won’t end.  Thanks for putting up with me.  For more love stories, visit Musings of a Future Pastor’s Wife.

Another Year, Another Candle, Another Age Spot

Yesterday was FringeMan’s forty-second birthday, poor fellow.

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Because he was in a plumbing battle this week and the pipes almost won, I think he’s feeling every day his age.  He makes an excellent plumber, however, he says that he’s not ready for another career change.  He’s going to stick to saving houses from electrical fires and souls from hell’s fires.

goofy glassesI embarrassed him for his 40th and threw him a little surprise party, complete with those dorky glasses.  Who could resist?  By the time my 40th rolls around, I’m counting on the fact that he’ll have memory loss.

40bdaypicHappy Birthday my love.  You’ll always be young and spry in my eyes.

Let’s hope my eyes don’t age as quickly as my skin!

I went to the dermatologist yesterday.  It was a quick trip to check on two spots that have formed over the last year.  Now you may be wondering how I would notice two new spots when I look like I’m holding the spots for all 101 Dalmatians; however, I know my freckles, moles, and other assorted brown blotches.

I have them counted, 5,823.

Of course I don’t count them.  That would be like counting stretch marks and I might be institutionalized for that.

Anyway, I have a mark on my face that is larger than my freckles and is accompanied by a rough patch of skin.  I can feel it even if I can’t see it.  The other mark is on my arm.  It’s red and brown and about the size of an eraser head.  I’ve been sporting it for about a year.  Now I never thought twice about my spots until I was pregnant with FringeKid.  I had a mole on my belly that grew and distorted throughout my pregnancy.  To me it made perfect sense and if you’d seen the size of my belly, you’d agree.  My OBGYN was not impressed with the transformation of my belly or mole.  She thought both were too big.

She made me have it removed.  I say made, but threats and minor acts of violence are all it took.  Turns out it did have a few less than stellar cells, so now I’m paranoid over my spots.  Period.  It doesn’t help that, while snuggling next to me on the couch, FringeBoy pointed out the Milky Way on my arm.  My spots are not for constellation gazing.

This story is turning into a melodrama and all I want to say is that after gazing into my face with a little light gadget, the Doctor looks at me and names my spot.  A name I cannot repeat.  Obviously my face belied my ignorance because he then said with a smirk, it’s a wisdom spot.

“An AGE spot!”  I vehemently yelled aghast.   Each word stung my lips as it passed.

With defensiveness and mock shock, he assured me that in my case it not age spot, but a sun spot.  He was laughing at me because I think he was actually younger than me.  A fact that disturbs me as much as spending a $50 copay to find out I’m getting old.  My gray hair does that for free!

The other spot had another name and was most definitely not an age or sun spot, but benign just the same.  Thank God.  I couldn’t handle any more bad news.

FringeMan may be the one who is 42, but I’m the one that’s over the hill.

Do share your anti-aging secrets.  Please.