Can I Give You My Card?

Taking care of elderly parents is so hard that sometimes you just have to laugh at all the silly things that happen. If you didn’t, you’d spend way too much time crying. My father-in-law recently had eye surgery, so his vision is terrible right now. His hearing aids quit working last week, too, so he is really handicapped. The whole vision/hearing loss issue is a recurrent one for him. We’re somewhat used to his disabilities but others aren’t, so we often laugh and shrug off things that others find embarrassing or odd. Yesterday, at the doctor’s office, dad sat beside a mentally disabled woman who talked to herself. Apparently, he thought she was talking to him and he tried shaking hands and introducing himself. It seems this lady doesn’t like talking to strangers, but dad couldn’t see or hear well enough to figure that out, so he kept talking, and she kept getting agitated. Mom kept telling him to be quiet, but he couldn’t hear her either, so he just kept talking and talking and talking. The poor lady was a little freaked out by the whole thing, and her family was pretty frustrated with dad. Apparently, their threshold for FITAD (funny incidents that accompany disabilities) is much lower than ours because we got a little chuckle out of it. We really did try to be sensitive to her and her family, but it was a tiny bit amusing.

I once read where a lady printed up business cards that explained that her father had Alzheimer’s, and she handed them to restaurant servers and others when she took her dad on outings, in the hopes that people would have more patience with him and she wouldn't have to explain it in front on him. I think that’s a wonderful idea. I’m wondering if I should print up cards that say, “Be patient with us. We’re not laughing because we’re immature. This is hard on the heart, and we’re laughing to keep from crying”.

My Favorite Turtle

If you need a great dessert to make for mom this weekend, here you go. This one is awesome. It’s a plain looking cake, but sinful when you bite into it. I can eat just the caramel mixture with a spoon right out of the pan. But as my friend Yvonne would say, “Ya might as well rub it on your butt, cause that’s where it’s going”. Enjoy!

Turtle Cake
1 German chocolate cake mix 1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 ½ cups water ½ cup oil
1 can sweetened condensed milk 1 pound bag caramels, unwrapped
1 cup semi sweet chocolate chips 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans

Mix cake mix, butter, water, oil and half of the can of condensed milk until smooth.
Pour half of the batter into a greased and floured 9X13 inch baking pan. Bake in a
350 degree preheated oven for 20 to 25 minutes.

In a saucepan, over low heat, combine caramels and the remaining condensed
milk. Stir until caramels are melted and mixture is smooth. Be careful not to let
it scorch. Carefully spread over the baked cake layer. Sprinkle with pecans and
then chocolate chips. Cover with remaining cake batter and bake for 30 more minutes.

I like to serve it with ice cream or sweetened whipped cream and drizzle it with purchased caramel sauce and a couple of pecan halves for garnish.

Too Pooped For More Kids

I am at an age where people consider this to be my last shot at childbearing if I’m so inclined. With no morning sickness, two and a half hours of labor and no pain medication, I really was made for childbearing, so I probably should have had more than one baby. For a variety of reasons my husband and I chose not to. Many women my age get all misty-eyed and pine for the days when their children were tiny. They yearn for one more little bundle of joy to coddle and sooth, one more sweet little face to feed and read to. I have never thought of myself as one of those women. I have believed for quite some time that I don’t want any more children. I love the one I have more than life itself. I love being a mother. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. It’s the most important job I have. However, just the thought of trying to stay up all night with a newborn wears me out. Fumbling around my knees to find a boob and breastfeed a baby…not pretty. I don’t want anything living in my house that isn’t big enough to clean up its own vomit. I still have flashbacks about the roto-virus that keep me awake at night. And I refuse to go back to Chuck E. Cheese unless they start serving margaritas.

I hear, “Are you SURE you don’t want one more?” a lot. “Nooooo”, I answer with confidence, but I usually do a little reality check in my head, just to be sure. This past weekend I had a moment of clarity that sealed the deal and erased even the tiniest of doubts. I helped in the nursery at church. The cutest little two-year-old crawled into my lap with a book and asked me to read to him. His skin was so soft. His hair smelled of that Baby Magic elixir, and those big brown eyes were intoxicating. I was sucked into his lair of sweetness, feeling a little bad about my “No Child for my Behind” policy, when he turned those calf eyes toward me and uttered two sobering words, “I pooped”. (GROSS ALERT!!) Just to check his accuracy, I stood him on the floor and pulled back the very top edge of his pants. OH MY GOD! This was no ordinary BM. This was one of those virus induced, stink to high heaven, crawl up the back poops. If you have had children, you know what I’m talking about. It’s the kind that makes you want to heave, even if you’re accustomed to smelly diaper changes. I swear, the dead possum I passed on my way to church did not smell as bad as this kid’s britches. And…hang on to your gag reflex….it had crept so high that I ran my fingers into it when I checked his pants. OH MY GOD! I could not handle it. The other nursery worker changed the child’s pants and scrubbed his backside, while I washed my hands. Remember the movie “Silkwood” and how they scrubbed Meryl Streep’s character after uranium exposure? I wanted that kind of exfoliation. As I stood at that nursery sink, surrounded by tiny toilets and the patter of little feet, I knew with all my being that I just couldn’t handle another child. I-AM-DONE. FINISHED. NO MORE FOR ME. I am too pooped to handle the poop.

The Biggest Loser

My Sunday school class wrapped up a “Biggest Loser” competition yesterday. Twelve members participated and lost a total of 237 pounds in four months! Isn’t that amazing? I’m so excited for them. A couple have each lost nearly 50 pounds. Two others have each lost 30 pounds. Several are now exercising regularly, and the eating habits of all have improved. The fellow who won the competition lost 20.27% of his body weight, or 48 pounds. He originates from Honduras, and when I asked him what the secret to his weight loss was, he replied that he was eating the type of foods he ate in Honduras and the portion sizes they eat in that country. What does that say about Americans as a whole? We are some super-sized, buffet loving, meat seeking, all-you-can-eat folks. I am just as guilty as the next guy. How did we get to this point? I’m trying really hard now to pay attention to portion sizes and amounts when I eat out, but it’s hard when they shove two loaves of bread and a bucket of salad at you before you even get the entrée. I have this love/hate relationship with the special at AppleBee’s that allows you to order an appetizer, entrée and dessert as a package deal. That blonde brownie caramel concoction is the devil on a plate. The blessing for my meals should probably start out with “Lord forgive me for what I am about to do….”

"Prom"enading

Proms are in full swing in this corner of the world right now. I noticed that many of the dresses have the full, southern belle skirt this year. That was the style during my senior prom in 1982. You know you’re not so young anymore when you see a clothing style for the second time. It’s been 25 years since my senior prom. I remember:
-A hoop skirt that was so big my date and I barely fit into the front seat of his parents’ Buick. He borrowed the Buick instead of driving his old blue Hornet. Scarlett O’Hara had nothing on me y’all. I heard a noticeable “pop” when I finally wrestled that big ole’ hoop out of the car. (I still have the dress and hoop, by the way.)
-60 hoop skirts bouncing around on the dance floor at the same time and LOTS of blue tuxedos—very funny. One thing about those hoops, you couldn’t get close enough for any dirty dancing.
-We double dated with another couple for our meal prior to the dance. We picked them up at the guy’s house, and his parents were hippies who never got over the 60’s. They lived in this big old gothic house. They were listening to the soundtrack from Rocky Horror, and I noticed a roach clip in the ashtray on the coffee table. This naïve country girl was terrified of being arrested before we could get out of there and yet oddly fascinated by those city folk. They WERE arrested a few months later for growing large amounts of marijuana in their home, which was no doubt germinating in an adjacent room that prom night. Apparently, my fears were justified.
-We went to a great seafood restaurant for dinner but weren’t worldly enough to eat anything other than fried shrimp.
-Our theme was “An Evening in Paris” because it matched the backdrop our prom committee could afford. Our pictures were taken in front of a fake Eiffel Tower.
-My date and I were both so skinny we looked like we had rickets. However, he thought I looked like Audrey Hepburn, and I thought he had great hair (it was feathered).
-We must have danced to Eric Clapton’s song “Cocaine” 16 times. And we parents complain about the content of today’s music.
-For some reason, about three hours into the evening I thought wearing my garter around my upswept hair (glorified bun) was cute.
-Most of all it was the first of a month-long round of activities that launched us into the world with excitement and big dreams. May 1982 was a great time!

Adventures in Babysitting

My 14 year old drama queen is so funny. She babysat a 4 year old and 7 year old brother and sister this weekend. She did a four hour shift early in the day and another four hour shift that evening. They are good kids but naturally had their sibling squabbles. They kept her busy. My favorite five quotes from her:

5. “Can you imagine, throwing a fit whenever you don’t get your way?”-This from an only child who used to embarrass me plenty in the checkout lane of Walmart.

4. “Two kids are a LOT of work”-Tee hee

3. “Can you believe he acted like it was my fault that he fell off the swing?”-Why yes dear, I’m familiar with the “you’re ruining my life” theory.

2. “I finally told him to go to his room if he was going to throw a fit. I didn’t want to see it.”-Where did she learn that? Must have been her dad. It certainly wasn’t me.

And finally…1. “Can I get my tubes tied?” Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. When she said that I laughed and told her to remember our conversation if at any time in the next four years she even contemplates having sex. I also reminded her for the 10,000th time that birth control is never 100% reliable. Can I say that enough? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m going to text her right now.

Not Quite Sixteen Ounces

I’ve noticed a trend in liquid products lately. I use the word “trend” because it’s happened to me four different times in the last three weeks. The cynic in me believes I’m getting ripped off. The optimist in me hopes it’s just a coincidence. Honestly, I’m feeling more cynical than optimistic. I’ve taken the lids off of newly purchased items such as hair spray and shampoo to find noticeably less product than I would expect in a full bottle. I realize they never fill those things to the top. However, this was much less than it has been in the past. These bottles were all dark colored, and I wouldn’t have noticed except I was draining the dregs of the old bottles into the news ones because I am my daddy’s girl; tight as the bark on a tree. The first time it happened, I said, “Hm”. The second time, I said, “Hmmmmmm.” The third time, I thought, “This is getting ridiculous”, and the last time I became really suspicious because the item was a tea purchased at a highly automated fast food restaurant that has it’s dispensers programmed to dispense a specific amount according to the button the server pushes. I had opened the lid to add sweetener to the tea. By the way, I had to practically promise my first born to the server just to get the sweetener. I KNOW some people waste condiments. I am not one of them, so please do not shame me and ask me for a resume before determining whether or not I am Splenda worthy. It’s reasonable to ask me how many packets I need, just don’t grill me like a prisoner of war. In order to get some ketchup I almost feel compelled to confess about that Milky Way I stole from the IGA when I was five. I digress.

In the past some companies have made their packaging smaller to avoid raising prices. Are they now keeping the products the same size and putting less in them to keep profit levels the same? I would rather they just be honest with me instead of shorting me a couple of squirts of hair spray. This sneakiness has me ripping off the lids of everything I buy and shouting “Aha!, Gotcha”, instead of considering that maybe Inspector Number 7 was having a sleepy day on the assembly line.