Grandma’s Revenge

March 25, 2012

Bomb Boy.  That was my middle child’s nickname.  If it had anything to do with fire, electrical sparks, explosions – you name it – he was all over it.  Come to think of it, both of my boys were like that.

I remember well a phone call from my oldest son while I was away at a conference in Phoenix.

“Mom, the good news is that we cleaned it all up.”

“OK, so what’s the bad news?”

“Well, we were trying to make our own snap ‘n pops …”

“Snap ‘n pops?”

“Yeah, the kind you throw down on the ground and they spark and pop.”

“OK …”

“We had to use iodine as one of the ingredients …”

“Oh no …”

“Well, it kind of exploded in your bathroom.”

My bathroom?!  Why couldn’t you do it in your bathroom?  Why did you do it in mine?!”

“I don’t know.  That’s just where we were.”

Long story short, we had to repaint the bathroom.

And then there was my brainstorm to get them a root beer making kit for Christmas.

Again, I was at a conference in Phoenix, when I got the call.

“Mom, we cleaned most of it up.”

“OK, what happened now?”

“Well, the root beer kind of exploded.”


“On the ceiling in the kitchen.”

That was many years ago, and I can still see the spots on the kitchen ceiling.  Ah, the lovely mementos our children leave behind.

Explosions aside, they were also ingenious with pranks and attempts to not get caught.  Like the time they rigged the bedroom doorknob to the light switch with a string.  I’d hear them horsing around past bedtime, but whenever I opened the door, the room was pitch black darkness.

The prank which topped all, though, was masterminded when we asked a friend to stay with the kids while we spent a week in Maine.  We left our four-door Mitsubishi sedan for her to drive the kids around to their various activities.

So one day while she was driving them around, they pulled down the seat back section which opened to the trunk.  One by one, they all climbed into the trunk, and then pulled the seat back section up to normal position.

So here’s our friend driving along … and she glances to the back seat to check on the kids … but no kids!  She freaked.

When we returned home, her entire report for the week was about that little drive.  She would never babysit for us again.  Never.

I thought it was pretty funny … how clever the kids were.  But yes, I also understood how it could have induced a heart attack.

Poor, dear friend.

Funny one, kids!

I can’t wait to see what their kids pull on them!

When You Must Do The Seemingly Impossible

February 19, 2012

My Black Friday Special arrived by UPS, signed delivery.

I can’t deal with this now.

I tucked it away … in a back room.  Rationalizations ran wild.

I just moved, and need to unpack … and Christmas is coming, for crying out loud.

It sat in the corner … silent … unmoving … unrelenting … taunting me …

You know you have to set me up.

I couldn’t deal with it … and I couldn’t find anyone else to deal with it … until my maintenance man said he’d give it a try.

Whew!  I’m off the hook!

We hauled the silent monster from its dark corner and set it in the middle of the living room … surround sound system with compatible Blu-ray player – “Easy Setup!”

Yeah, right.

In my purchasing decision, reviews said I’d need better speaker wire than what came with my system.  (Of course, I didn’t know at the time that wireless speakers even existed!)  At a garage-sale serendipity soon thereafter, I was given over 200 feet of very good 4-wire speaker cable.

My maintenance man climbed to the attic with confidence, superior cable in tow.  I pretended to be busy in the kitchen … while the silent monster taunted me from the living room.  The cable was strung through the walls, and the holes were drilled.

No turning back now.

The time came to turn on the monster, and I held my breath.

Funny how the maintenance man didn’t pay much attention to the instruction manual.

It worked!  … for a minute, then cut off.  No matter what we tried, same scenario – a few seconds of audio bliss, then click … silence.

The monster is still taunting me with his silence.

I called the company I ordered it from, and received return instructions.

The new monster arrived promptly … and I tucked it away in a back hallway.  I searched for someone to take away my pain – by installing it for me – but to no avail.

So today I rose to the challenge.

This silently screaming beast isn’t going to beat me.  I can do this, by golly.  There’s a quick-start chart … and an entire instruction manual, for crying out loud.  If others can do it, then so can I!

I hauled the dreaded monster from the back hallway and unpacked it in the middle of the living room.  I read the manual … and read it again.

Something’s wrong about how this speaker wire was set up.

I called the guy who gave it to me.

“Hey, Ron!  Remember me?  I’ve got a quick question about this speaker wire.  Am I supposed to use all four wires?”

“No way!  Did he run all four wires through your attic?”


“Dang, he should’ve split it in half.  What a waste of good speaker wire!”

“So I should just use two wires?”

“Yeah … just make sure you use the same two colors for everything.”

I hung up with new-found confidence.  An hour or so later, with a lot more reading of the manual, mumbled muttering, untwisting and plugging in wires, the moment of truth arrived.

Time to turn the power on.  Hold on to your butt!

To my complete and utter amazement … it worked!  I conquered the beast!  Pounding rock with throbbing bass pulsated throughout my living room.  I danced wildly.  I put in a Blu-ray disc, and stood motionless while the movie encompassed me.

This is freakin’ awesome!

I feared the beast … but tackled him anyway … and won.

Any other tales of doing the seemingly impossible out there?

Cell-Phone-Induced Stupidity

January 21, 2012

While driving through the neighborhood a couple days ago, my eye caught a pretty young lady walking her dog. She was on her cell phone, oblivious to her surroundings, while her dog sniffed and prepped around a mailbox with a prominent sign which read, “NO DOG WALK.”


Dang, if I only got a photo!

What is it about cell phones that makes us lose our minds?

I remember when Bluetooth ear pieces first came out.  I was minding my own business one day, shopping in a clothing store, when I spied a lady with long hair talking out loud to nobody there.  My mind drifted back to years ago when I saw many who walked the streets of New York City doing the same thing.  But that was before Bluetooth.

Is she nuts? Oh … she’s talking to someone on her cell phone!

I must admit, I am guilty of the brain cell loss caused by cell phones.

“Oh, no!  I just missed my turn!  Gotta go!”

I reel around in a U-turn, with fellow road warriors muttering, “Crazy lady!”

Yes, cell-phone-induced stupidity.

Any other cell phone stupidity admissions out there?

You Are The Potter …

January 16, 2012

At a friend’s insistence, I called the hair stylist she referred me to – Susie.  I went in for a trim.

“What would you like, hun?” asked Susie.

“I’m not really sure … what do you think?”

“I think we should go a little shorter – that would look really cute.”

“OK.  You are the potter … and I am the clay.”

“I love you!”  Susie proceeded to give me more than a trim.  After a while, she commented, “You’d make a great redhead.”

“What?”  I was dumb-founded.

“I agree,” said a fellow client.  “You have the perfect complexion for red hair.”

Why is everyone such an expert on something I never heard before? And hey, if I was meant to be a redhead, wouldn’t I have been born that way?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If you don’t like it,” chimed in the fellow client, “you can always change it back.”

“OK – why not?” I said.

Susie made me a redhead, and I liked it.

Next visit, she said, “We need to go a little brighter.”


“I went easy on you last time, but you really need to go brighter.”

“You are the potter …”

After she made the change, she asked … as I looked into the mirror in amazement … “Do you want me to do your eyebrows?”

“I think you’re going to have to.”

While home that evening, every time I passed by a mirror, I did a double-take.

Whoa! Did I pass through a nuclear-waste site?  What have I done?

But it’s easy to adjust and change … doesn’t phase me a bit now.  It’s only hair – and it can easily be changed, right?

I like Susie … she’s more daring than me.  I think I’ll keep her.

The Potato Gun Secret

January 3, 2012

“Mom, I want to build a potato gun,” said my mechanical-genius son when he was middle-school age.

“What on earth is a potato gun?” I asked.

“It’s made from pvc, and it has a pressure gauge on it.”

“And what is it for?”

“For shooting potatoes!”

“Well what are you going to shoot potatoes at?”

“Mom, it’s fun!”

“OK.”  I’m such a pushover for fun.

This turned out to be quite a project … and a pricey one at that.  But heck, it was all in the name of science … and scientific endeavors took top priority at our house.

I had no idea what a potato gun looked like, but my son knew exactly how to build one.  I must admit, I was a little scared when he loaded the potato, pointed it at the fence, and pumped up the pressure to the max.

Boom!  Splat!  It was a roaring success, and we all cheered.

After a few potato missiles splatting on the fence, however, my boys got bored.

“What if we load paintballs in it?” said the mechanical genius.

Against my better judgment, I let the boys explore their curiosity.  They loaded a pile of yellow paint balls and aimed for the fence.

Boom!  The paintballs overshot the fence … as well as the empty field next door … and landed with a SPLAT on our neighbor’s shed.

After a bout of everyone laughing hysterically, I went into solution mode.

“Kids, the neighbors aren’t home!  Run over there and wipe the paint off their shed!”

The clandestine operation was carried out immediately, and soon the evidence was eradicated.  The neighbors would never be the wiser for it … or so I thought.

A couple days later, my neighbor was out in her yard, and we engaged in a friendly chat.

“It’s so weird,” she said.  “I found some yellow gooey stuff all over my back yard!”

“Really?” I asked incredulously.  “That is weird!”

That was about ten years ago, and it still bugs me.  I’ve got to ‘fess up to my dear neighbor.  The potato gun secret has to come out of the closet!

Life Is Too Short, Not To Have A Little Fun

December 3, 2011

I pulled up to the red light, first in line in the left lane.  I heard a bizarre, hokey tune to my right, and turned my head, expecting to see an old ice cream truck from my childhood memories.  (Gee, are there any more ice cream trucks anywhere?)  Nope, it was a classic, white convertible with the top down, with a wide-smiled kid at the wheel.  (These days, anyone under thirty is a kid.)

The windows were up in my silver Corvette Coupe, but I could still hear this kid talking and laughing with his friend in the car behind me, zany horn going strong throughout his lively conversation.

“… Yeah, I’m going to race this lady in her Corvette!”

Hmmmm … he wouldn’t have a chance …

The light turned green, and I floored it.

The kid caught on, and caught up to me.

I floored it again … and this was right in the middle of town.

I let him catch up to me.  We exchanged wide smiles.  It was a conservative, small race … in a small town swarming with cops looking for someone to catch doing anything questionable.

I’m pretty sure I proved my ride’s superiority, and he respectfully smiled in acknowledgement.

We went our separate ways into our days – filled with our own priorities – I, with a big smile, and I’m sure he wore one, too.

Life is too short, not to have a little fun.

We do need to place more priority on having a little fun once in a while in this life, don’t you think?

Sparks and Wonderment of Angels

December 3, 2011

Sometimes things go seemingly wrong, but when we catch a glimpse of what could have gone a lot worse – we become very thankful for the “seemingly wrong.”

Such was the case with a recent power outage in a couple rooms.

Dang, why is this happening now?

I called a trusted electrician who had done work for me before.

“Miss Judy,” he called in southern gentleman style, after a thorough investigation.  “Take a look at this.”

He jiggled the suspect outlet, and wild, two-inch blue-white flames shot out.

“Holy crap,” I said.  “That could have burned the whole house down!”

“I can’t believe this house hasn’t burned down already!” he said.

I pray for this house and our tenants every day. 

“There must have been an angel standing here!” I said.

Who knows?

As for me, I’m truly thankful for the “seemingly wrong” power outage, which prompted me to call a trusted electrician to fix the problem.

I can’t help thinking – when things go wrong, how often are they really a blessing in disguise?

How ‘bout you?  Any blessing-in-disguise experiences?

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

November 15, 2011

(My own little version.)

I recently attended a workshop in New York, and found a cool room in Manhattan on, and the hosts were warm and generous, offering me a free extra night.  With hours of free time the next morning in New York City, I planned to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  But alas, it was closed, along with most museums on Mondays in NYC.  So I hailed a cab and headed for something open – the Museum of Modern Art.  While waiting for the museum to open, I stumbled upon a Cuban restaurant and enjoyed a heavenly cup of café con leche.  Heavenly, I say, because it was my first cup of coffee in a long time.  I’m wired enough without the stuff, so it will remain a rare treat.

Once inside the museum, I headed for the fifth floor to relish in the thousands of brush strokes by the masters.  There’s nothing quite like beholding an original piece of art, imagining each painstaking stroke of genius splashing on new canvas.

I caught a cab back to my room to pick up my luggage, then hailed a cab to take me to the airport.

“Can you take me to the White Plains airport?” I asked the driver.

“The what?”

“White Plains airport.”

“I gotta find that one,” he said, flipping through his book.  “Here it is – it’ll be one hundred dollars.”

I flew for free, got an extra night for free, and wasn’t about to let a cab driver spoil my fun.

“I’ll take the train.  Take me to Grand Central.”

“Which train do I take to get to the White Plains airport?” I asked the lady at the Grand Central ticket counter.  I was getting a little nervous about catching my flight in time.

“You can take the train to White Plains, but will have to find a ride to the airport,” she said.  “Track 111, down the stairs to the right.”

I commandeered my 45-pound suitcase, backpack and small backpack purse down the stairs.  (Backpacks are easiest in New York, with all the walking you do.)  At times like this, I make endless promises to myself about traveling light next time … knowing full well they’ll be broken.

Once on the train, the conductor started collecting tickets.

“Which stop do I get off to get to the White Plains airport?” I asked him?

“First stop, Ma’am.”

So, first stop I raced for the door with bags flying, and managed to shove one into the closing door, so it would open enough to let me out.

I lumbered down two very long flights of stairs and out onto the street … 125th Street, that is.

No, it can’t be.

I hailed a cab.

“Can you take me to the White Plains airport?” I asked the driver.

“Where’s that?”



“Well where am I?”

“You’re in Manhattan.  This is Harlem.”

I’m still in Manhattan, just as I feared!

I called my sister-in-law.

“Zinora, I’m in friggin’ Harlem!” I said, bursting into tears.

“You’re where?”

“I’m in friggin’ Harlem!  The conductor told me to get off at the first stop, and I’m in friggin’ HARLEM!”

(Now, don’t get me wrong.  The only thing wrong with Harlem at the time was that I simply didn’t need to be there!)

“Jude, calm down.  Get back on the train and go to White Plains.”

I dragged my bags back to those daunting two flights of stairs, looked up at them, and started to cry.

“The station is right there across the street.”

I looked toward the voice and saw a smiling gentleman peacefully pointing toward the station.

How did he know where I needed to go when I didn’t even know?

“Thank you,” I said with composure.

Inside the station, I got on line for the only open ticket window.  I looked at the time and started to quietly panic.

“I came from Grand Central and need to get to White Plains,” I explained to the man behind the window bars.  “The conductor told me to get off at the first stop.”

“That was a miscommunication, Ma’am.  He meant the first stop after Harlem.”


“So how do I get to White Plains?”

“If you have your ticket, I can refund it and give you a new one.”

I rummaged through my bag.

“The conductor took my ticket.  Just give me what I need to get to White Plains!”  I was still ahead of the game, refusing that one-hundred-dollar cab ride.

I loaded up my packs with bag in tow and made it up the two flights of stairs across the street.  Next stop … White Plains … finally.

I wonder if that smiling gentleman was an angel.

I got a cab ride to the airport, just in time to hear the announcement of my flight boarding.  I checked my bag and was making it quickly through security until the TSA agents started having a lively conversation over my backpack.

“Ma’am, is this yours?” asked an agent.


“There’s something sharp in it, like a corkscrew.”

Sure, I’m going to try to kill someone with a corkscrew.

“It’s in the front pocket,” I said.  “My flight’s boarding.  Just take it.”

He pulled out the corkscrew and examined it, opening the ¾-inch blade.

“Yep.  That’s a sharp blade,” he said.

Like I’m going to carve into someone with a ¾-inch blade.

“Just keep it,” I said.  “Are we through?”

“Stay calm,” he said.  “You’ll make it.  I just need to pass this pack through security again.”

My imagination runs wild with what I could do with that ¾-inch blade right now.

Now I need to get Zinora a new corkscrew.  Maybe she’ll forget about it.

If I can count on my family for anything, it’s that they’ll never read my blog.  But yes, I’ll buy Zinora a new corkscrew anyway.

I made it to the gate just as they were making the last call for all zones to board.

I’m finally in the air, and all is well.

Moving Again … And The Worst Move Ever

October 23, 2011

I doubt anyone dislikes moving more than me.

Unfortunately, I had to leave the hubby in May, and am going through lots of changes … for the better, I trust.  I moved into this tiny, one-bedroom apartment to save us both some money, and it was like moving into a camper.  Space is at a premium.

Let’s see, where can I set this iron to cool down?  Ah, I have about a 1.5 square-foot space on the kitchen counter!  Now where should I put this 12-pack of toilet paper?  Where else but in the one closet I’ve got?

I don’t like living out of boxes – not at all.  So when I moved in, I put everything wherever it would fit.  The cable guy came the next day to hook up the internet.

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“Since yesterday.”

“Wow, you’re amazing!  I can’t believe you’re already moved in!”

In my mind, I wasn’t moved in at all, but I guess it looked like that to him.  A couple of months later, a friend stopped by from out of town.

“Wow, you’ve got everything up on the walls – you’re all moved in!”

I should hope so, after two months.  Don’t other people unpack?  I knew this move would be temporary, but I can’t stand to live in chaos, so I made it livable – even if just for several months.

And now I’m packing boxes, carefully labeling them, hoping the movers will actually READ where the boxes go.  If they’re in the right room, I can more easily find whatever I’m looking for, without going nuts.

My thoughts drift back to one move in particular, which was a nightmare.  Our first baby was six months old.  I knew we were moving out of state, but I didn’t know exactly when … until one morning, when there was a knock on the front door.  It was a handful of our employees.

“Hi, we’re here to move you,” said one guy cheerfully.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes, your husband sent us over here with this truck, and we’re here to move you.”

Why am I always the last one to hear about anything?!

“Well,” I said, “I guess you can start with the big stuff, while I pack up boxes.”

And that’s how the day went.  Keep the baby in the swing … pack up a bunch of boxes … crank up the swing again … which wakes the baby … Oh, maybe he’ll go back to sleep … pack more boxes … try to stay one room ahead of these guys … crank the swing … “Waaaaaaah!” … nurse the baby, put back into swing, crank it up … pack more boxes …no labels … Oh well, I’ll figure it all out in the new place

In the new place … Where on earth is that fying pan?  And the dishes?  Rumage through boxes … crank up the swing … I sware it was in this box … open more boxes … crank up the swing … “Waaaaaaah!” … nurse the baby, put back in swing, crank it up … go through the same boxes again, using a few choice words … The baby IS asleep, right?

I think he swung in that swing for a solid month, as I hunted and unpacked and hunted some more.  Forgive me, my son!

So, no more last-minute moves for me, no thank you.  Give me a couple weeks to pack up, and a couple weeks to unpack, and I’m good to go.

The upside of moving is that it forces you to get rid of all the stuff you don’t need.  So I guess moving twice in one year should keep me fairly uncluttered.

How ‘bout you?  Your best move?  Your worst?

Beware of Wormwood

October 17, 2011

Wormwood plant

No, I’m not talking about wormwood’s dire biblical implications … even if they are a little scary.

My doctor put me on a parasite cleanse because “everyone has parasites.”  I don’t know if that’s true, but I trusted him and went along with it.  (Yes, it’s the same doctor I’m no longer seeing.)  The cleanse consisted of a few herbs, one of which was wormwood.  He assured me there were no side effects.

Hmmm … if it can kill parasites, it must be pretty potent.  I should have done my due diligence by reading up on it.

After starting the cleanse, I couldn’t sleep for days.  Days turned into weeks with insomnia.  Not a pretty picture.  I finally got some sleep medication, but it didn’t work.  Got a different kind, and that didn’t work.  Third try, no cigar.

Then it dawned on my delirious little mind, “Hmmm … the beginning of my sleep troubles strangely coincided with starting the parasite cleanse.”  I looked up the ingredients and discovered one of the side effects of wormwood is insomnia.

I stopped taking it, but still can’t sleep.  So I looked up how long wormwood stays in your system.  All I could find was a doctor’s comment in a forum, “For a long time.”  Not very helpful.

WebMD says wormwood is also used to increase sexual desire, and to stimulate the imagination.  So if you want to be a highly imaginative, sex-crazed insomniac for an indefinite period of time, have at it.

As for me, lesson learned:  An herb can have side effects.  Read about it before swallowing.  Wormwood – for me, at least – is very bad.

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