two titties and a funeral

Way back when, the spring before John and I were married to be precise, John's grandparents passed away within six weeks of each other.  This story takes place after one of their funerals.  I can't remember which, though I'm pretty sure it was his Grandma's.  I don't actually remember going to his Papa's funeral, now that I think about it.  But, I'm sure I did... I guess.

At any rate, we'll say it was his Grandma's funeral.  If you were there, correct me if I'm wrong.

It was a pretty day, and after the funeral part was over, John's family loaded up to drive to the nearest Golden Corral.  I don't recall how this place was chosen, but I do know that this was the only instance in which I had ever been around his aunts and their children for any length of time.  The meal has not been repeated since.  Surely it isn't because of what happened, but I guess we'll never know.

The meal was a jolly one, which I thought was strange to follow the burial of the family's matriarch.  But, I guess family needs to let of steam when someone who has been sick and cared for for so long passes on.  Regardless, we weren't having a solemn meal, and I guess that was a good thing.

 Towards the end of the lunch, John finished up his plate of food and went off in search of dessert.  He came back with two sumptuous cupcakes placed atop his plate.  Side by side, they sat, with their perky little gumdrops sitting straight up in the air.  This was before cupcakes were fashionable dessert items, but nevertheless, John had an intense love for them.  And, these... the way they were place side by side on his plate... well... we all looked at one another and smirked.  Then, John's most-proper mother, of all people, exclaimed, "They look just like titties!"

Well, maybe not quite.  But, she did point out, rather indelicately, that John had brought a couple of pink-tipped knockers to the table.  And, she wasn't referring to mine.

* Photo Credit:
Spring has Sprung, Some rights reserved by jurvetson on Flickr
Hearts for Haiti, Some rights reserved by norwichnuts on Flickr

pass the cat puke, please (a recipe for gruel)

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Don't you just hate it when you come down with a cold so nasty that you want to just lay in bed for days on end? Your head is throbbing, your nose is flowing, and you're hacking up random green monsters. The last thing you want to do is cook dinner, right?

On Friday evening, after retiring to bed around 1 PM, I actually gathered up the strength to throw together a meal for my family. Admirable, huh? A few weeks prior, I had made a version of Beef Stroganoff that my friend Hampton had shared with me. According to my recollection, it was a fairly simple recipe to make, and the whole family apparently enjoyed it.

Now, I don't know if I remembered the recipe incorrectly, or if it was the substitution for ground turkey instead of ground beef, or if it was the cooking time, or what.  I don't really know where I went wrong.  But, when the meal was finished, the product closely resembled cat puke.  Yes, really.  It was a gray, chunky mess.  Not quite runny, but definitely moist.  The best part was that I served it up over egg noodles, which make everything better.  So, we had cat puke on noodles.  Yum-o.

The worst part of the meal was that I felt so poor I didn't even notice.  My husband didn't say much about this dish, other than making an interesting little squeak when I told him, in a proud sort-of way, that I had added A-1 this time.  A-1!  That makes everything taste delicious!  Except, maybe, things resembling cat vomit.  But, I still didn't get it.  I put lots of salt and pepper on my meal, after remembering that I had forgotten to season, and ate it up.  My daughter poked at hers.  My husband looked a little green.  But, it was good.  I had fixed a lovely meal, despite the rivers of neon slime running from my nose.

The next morning, I got up after a pretty decent night's sleep.  What did I find on the stove?  Definitely not the gourmet home meal that I envisioned myself preparing in the midst of illness.    Nope, I found a frying pan full of cat puke, and we don't have a cat.  You know how most things, if left out overnight, will get crusty and stick to the pan?  Not this.  Though the top looked funky and a little dried out, the bottom was just as moist as the day it was hacked up.  All I had to do was tilt the pan over the trashcan and, plop!  Out it slid, leaving a gooey, gray trail in its path.  That's when I first realized that the lovely meal I created looked more like something the cat coughed up on her deathbed.  Slimy, chunky, gray vomit.  Oh, the memories.

Later in the day, I apologized to John for feeding him the mess.  "That's okay," he said.  "It was more like gruel."  Gruel!  Oh dear.  Gruel.  Well, that's only slightly less flattering than cake puke.  Gruel is the food of old ladies and ogres.  Maybe a prisoner or two.  My poor family.  I fed them gruel. 

Wouldn't you know, at 4:30 that afternoon, John was kindly in the kitchen preparing dinner.  I guess he didn't want to chance it.  We ate macaroni and cheese and corn dogs that night.  After the previous evening's meal, it felt like we were in a five-star restaurant in the city.  Nitrates on a stick... yummy.

Gruel
Ingredients:
One can of cream of mushroom soup
2/3 pound of ground turkey
A shot of A-1 sauce

Directions:
Brown ground turkey.  Add canned soup and A-1, stir.  Cook over low heat until you get bored.  Serve over cooked egg noodles.  Pinch nose while eating.

**This is not the recipe that Hampton shared with me.  It is, however, my sickie-recollection of it.

mortified mama week six

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If you've stopped by hoping to find out how much I lost this week, you're out of luck. I've decided to change my weigh in day to Friday. Why? Because I can.

I did buy a new scale last week, after the whole flour fiasco.  It is much better than the last one.  It actually repeats the same number if I weigh myself more than once.  That's such an improvement from the old one! Of course, it shows a slightly higher number than the other one did, so I'm a little disappointed in that regard.  Silly me, I thought that buying a new scale would magically make me "lose" twenty or thirty pounds.  Nope.  So wrong.

Get this:  When I told my husband that the other scale wasn't very accurate, he replied that he knew!  Not only did he know this, he had known for years! Funny enough, when I mentioned getting a new scale about three years ago, he insisted that the one we had was fine.  He had purchased it in high school and it had a lifetime battery, so it should work forever.  Um, yeah.  The battery never did die.

On another note, I'm sore as all get out.  I go to bed sore, I wake up sorer.  I sit on the couch to relax, but when I get up, I'm so stiff I can't walk.  What's going on here?  I've turned into an old lady in a matter of weeks.  I've even discovered a few new gray hairs!  I think I need to do some more stretching.  Or take more Tylenol.  Or do less exercise (yeah, right... I have a hard time getting to the gym right now as it is).

Since I'm weighing in on Friday, my goal for the next two days is to work out three times before my weigh in.  Today, tomorrow, and Friday morning.  Maybe I can make my waist forget about the Mexican dinner I inhaled last night.

silly saturday

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I really should have blogged earlier in the day today, but I didn't. I was at the gym, enjoying the new workout playlist that my dear, sweet hubby made for me in a mere five minutes this morning. It was really great. Really. He knows the inner me. I didn't have to skip over even one of the songs. Perfection in a box.

Speaking of boxes, as I sat down to blog, I thought I would do another silly saturday post for you guys.  Turning to my husband, I ask...

Honey, what's the funniest you tube you've seen in awhile? ('cause, like all ignoramous-ites, I call it The Google, The YouTube, The Whatever-the-Hell-you-want-it-to-be).

 I don't know.  Why?

Because I still need to post something on my blog today.

(thinking)

Oh!  I know... I'll post Dick in a Box!

No, that wasn't that funny.  Do the Mother's Day one.

Mother's Day?  It isn't almost Mother's Day..... I guess it isn't Christmas time either...

What about Jizz in My Pants?

(Laughing) Yeah, and I'll dedicate it to you!

What?  That's not cool.  Why would you do that?  (freaking out)

(more hysterical laughing)

It's not funny!!!

No, but your reaction is.  I was just joking anyway.  (more and more laughing)

 Fine.  I don't know.  What about Keith Olbermann's countdown parody?

That's like 8 minutes long!

Yeah, but it's funny.

So, here it is.  Apparently, Saturday Night Live is not cool enough to have everything on YouTube, so we'll all just have to settle for NBC.  Happy Saturday!

Oh, and just so you know, he can last a REALLY LONG time in bed.  No jizz problems here at all.

(bangs head) I don't want to be involved at all... in this blog.

your wife looks like misery

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This is where I spent my weekend, camping on a farm.  It was cold, but it was beautiful. 

 

It was a great Scouting weekend.  Lots of food, lots of fun, lots of laughter.  A water balloon catapult (in near freezing temperatures!), a course in fire starting, and another in orienteering, all held around a much-needed campfire in the company of friendly Scouts and Scouters.  But, oh my gosh, it was cold.

Scoutmaster K prepared a delicious pot of Texas Ranger Stew for dinner.  He threw in hamburger, tomatoes, corn, rice, onions, and some other stuff.  Heated it all up and served it with bread.  This stuff really hit the spot as the sun was going down.  We sat around the fire, ate, talked, and joked with one another.  But, soon it was time to go to bed.

Here's a quick word of advice:  Always look up before you pitch your tent.  Having neglected to examine the trees surrounding my chosen spot, I place our tent underneath a nearly-dead pine tree.  When the wind picked up after the sun went down, and Mr. Hull and I were tucked into our sleeping bags trying to snooze, the tree began to creak.  I spent most of the night praying that the tree would not fall on us or those in the surrounding tents.  According to my husband, pine branches fall like spears and are often called "widow-makers."  Lesson learned.  Always look up.

I can also tell you, with much accuracy, that coyotes have definitely claimed the area in which we live.  Sometime after Mr. Hull woke with a startled shout around 1 AM (he was so cold he thought he had died and gone to hell), I heard the yips, yaps, and yells begin.  The trio of farm dogs charged across the cow pasture towards the sound of the incoming intruders.  After a bit, things settled down and I was
finally able to sleep.

The next morning dawned after many hours of restless tossing and turning.  Upon seeing my morning face, an old friend told my husband that I looked like "pure misery."  Wow, thanks!  Truth be told, I had an enjoyable weekend.  And, I know that the boys that we were with absolutely did.  This was the first camping trip for some.  To know that I have had a hand in giving some young Scouts a memorable experience that will help them continue along the Scouting Trail and further enable these boys to grow into men of character makes the cold, the fear, and the coyotes all worth it.

Would I do it again?  Absolutely.  Next November?  Nah... I think I'll advocate for June!

one down, 29 (30) to go

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Awhile back, I wrote my 30 x 30 list, of 31 things I want to accomplish by the time I'm thirty. I can now semi-officially mark one of the things off that list, so it is a true 30 x 30 for anyone who's actually counting.

This past weekend, I had a shopping day morning at the mall and tackled my scary hairy caterpillars eyebrows.  Now, this isn't something new for me.  I've gotten my brows waxed a bunch, but I never seem to keep them up, either by plucking or return trips.  Within a couple of months, they are back to their fuzzy-wuzzy selves.  But, this time I'm determined.  I'm going to the salon once a month for the horrid waxing.  I'm ready to grow up and look like a woman, rather than a furry monster.  No more uni-brow for me, ladies. 

When I got home from my morning out, my husband looked at me and asked what was wrong with my face.  He later informed me that it looked like I had been burned by acid.  "What is it with you and your brows?" he inquired.  Apparently, he didn't realize that anyone else ever went and got their brows waxed.  Like, I'm a freak or something.  Well, I can agree that I've been a freak, but only because I go from groomed to hairy in a matter of seconds.  So, here's the question.  Does everyone else pluck at home, or do you go in for regular grooming?  What else do you have done while you're there?  'Cause my brows aren't even the hairiest part of me, you know...

i married tim taylor

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I married the tool man.  Really, I did.  You know, the build-it-bigger, disaster-prone, grunting, snorting, car-loving, tool-wielding, master of home improvement.  I must say, it makes life interesting.  Besides, now I can more aptly identify with Jill when I watch Home Improvement reruns late at night.  I think my husband should start his own home improvement blog.  Readers would find it hilarious, but only if he included all his random mishaps.  Since he won't, I thought I'd share some here.

It seems like every time we have a home improvement project going on, Mr. Hull either gets injured, breaks something, or both.  Every project becomes more elaborate than planned.  Nothing is easy.  Nothing is quick.  Everything requires at least two trips to the hardware store.  at least. 

Now, I must say, that Mr. Hull doesn't get in silly competitions with the neighbors over Christmas lights and the such, though I would love for him to hang some lights one year.  Rather, he has two issues:  He is a disaster-prone perfectionist. 

Mr. Hull plans and plans before he ever starts a project.  He approaches everything that he does well-educated and level-headed.  He researched storage sheds for no less than two weeks before he ever broke ground to build one.  He doesn't go about things willy-nilly and he strives to do everything just right.  For example, with this shed he's currently building, he used 6x6 pieces of wood for the floor frame and 2x6s for the support joists.  Last night, he revealed to me that the project instructions only called for 4x4s and 2x4s.   Overkill?  maybe.  Again, where someone else might just level off the ground and plop down their metal building, using some gravel to keep things drained and dry, Mr. Hull took a whole day and a half to properly build a deck foundation.  He either does it all the way, or not at all.  Build it bigger, build it better, build it to last.  He's a good man.

The problem comes when disaster strikes.  I can't tell you how many cuts, blisters, scrapes, bruises, and more Mr. Hull has gotten in the last two weeks alone.  Yesterday, he came into the house holding his hand above his head.  He had sawed into his finger instead of the wood.  Luckily, it was a minor cut compared to what it could have been.  Last week, he bloodied his hands while digging the mortar out from between the tiles in our new bathroom.  When he went to work a few days later, his boss asked if he had a stigmata.  This is in addition to the second degree burns he got while cooking steak a few days prior to that.  The poor man's hands are beaten all to hell.

But, Mr. Hull doesn't just beat himself up.  Check this out:

• On a camping trip this summer, Mr. Hull walked down to the water faucet to fill our jugs.  He turned the knob and it felt a little loose.  He turned it a little more and the whole thing came off in his hand.  A 100 ft. geyser shot up from the spigot.  The camp host and park ranger had to scramble to find the water shut off in a dark field.  It took a couple of hours and the field was flooded.  
• Our bathroom faucet started dripping a little last spring.  Mr. Hull thought he would fix it.  In the process, he stripped something or the other and we wound up with a new faucet.
• During clean-up from our mini-flood that I caused, our other toilet developed a leak.  Mr. Hull spent the whole day working on it, and we wound up with a new tank at day's end.
• While reinstalling our bathroom light fixture, I hear Mr. Hull cry "Oh Shit!"  I reply, "Did you shock yourself?"  He answers, "Maybe... possibly."  It turns out, his father had told him that he merely had to turn the light switch off before playing with electricity.
• Years ago, he smacked himself in the mouth while assembling a China-made computer desk, and nearly knocked out his teeth.

The thing is, though, like Tim, Mr. Hull's heart is in the right place.  He tries so hard to repair things around our house and, eventually, succeeds every time.  One can only learn by doing, and Mr. Hull does a lot.  He may get injured, it may take lots of time, but we always come out on the better side of things.  We've only had to call someone in to clean up a mess once, and that was mine.  So, I guess I'm fortunate.  From what I hear, other men don't do anything at all.

i talk too much

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Why did I start blogging?  Because, at one point, I was talking my husband's ear off.  No, not literally, goof-ball.  It isn't like he was shedding random body parts or anything.  He wanted some peace when he got home in the evenings.  Maybe the chance to watch a television program and actually hear what the characters were saying.  You know, some quiet.

Just a little, he said, not a lot.  But, really, I would make his ears bleed when he came home from work.  I didn't have anyone to chat with during the day.  This was before I was aware of facebook, myspace had grown old, and twitter was brand-new and, thus, deemed useless by the Great One Who Knows Everything (me).

So, he set me up a nice little blog using WordPress.  I called it Mrs. Hull's Musings.  It's still there, if you want to go look at it.  Somehow, we forgot to drop the hosting again, when it came up for renewal earlier this year.  Oopsie.   

I enjoyed that blog for awhile.  I would go on spurts, where I would post three articles a day sometimes.  Then, weeks would go by with nothing.  I had one loyal reader and a whole bunch of spammers.  I began to feel like posting there was pointless because I couldn't actually tell if anyone was reading my blog or not.  I thought that they probably weren't.  I wanted one of those cool google followers widgets.  I wanted my blog to look more real, less like a journal.  I also wanted a place where I could link up my etsy shop, and I didn't know how to do any of that on WordPress.

So, I hopped over here to blogger early this year and I've been so happy with the results.  My blog title has undergone some changes, as has my overall design, but I think everyone needs to rearrange things a few times when they first move in.  I've taken to writing nearly every day, which I'm proud of.  At one point, I even had a back-log of extra posts, but I used those up when I went to camp. 

So, I continue to write.  Mr. Hull continues to read.  I hope you will, too.

___________________
This post is part of the SITStahs Back to Blogging event.  Thanks to our lovely sponsors, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.

The Resident Scaredy-Cat

(source)

Yesterday, Mama Kat wrote about saving her own ass during a recent sonic boom.  Her story reminds me of the time my husband and I heard gunshots outside, somewhere in the neighborhood.  We had just gone to bed for the evening.  The bedroom window was open, as it was a warm spring evening.  All of a sudden, we heard what definitely were not fireworks.  We both hit the floor and headed into the hall.  He went to the phone, to call the police, while I gathered the children from their rooms.  Katie was grabbed from her crib, and then I headed back up the hall for Alex.

Me: Get up!  Now!  [reaches up and smacks at the lump in the loft bed].
Alex: huh?
Me: Up!  Up, up, up!  Get up!
Alex: huh? why?
Me: Just GET UP!

Finally, Alex retreats from his warm and cozy bed and the three of us hide in the inner bathroom while Mr. Hull unlocks his gun.  Sirens blare outside, police cars fly up and down the road.  I make a pallet of blankets for Alex and Katie to spend the night and join my husband in the living room.  Nothing happens.  We wait up for awhile and still nothing.  We weren't attacked.  We weren't robbed.  There wasn't a war.  There wasn't even a civil uprising.  Overreact much?  Yeah, probably, but there have been a couple of stand-offs in our neighborhood in the six years we've lived here.  I guess, in our sleepy-headed minds, nothing is impossible.

So, how about you?  Do you have a harrowing tale of surviving some sort of supposed danger?  Have you overreacted to save your family in the face of an imagined threat?  Please share.  I'd love to know that I'm not the only fruit loop out there.

How Automation Saved the Day

Picture it: Hammock Beach, Florida, late July 2010.  A woman lays on a strange bed, inattentively watching television while on the phone with her beloved husband, who has been left to fend for himself for the week.  A commercial comes across the screen.  She excitedly learns that one of her favorite programs, Project Runway, is set to return for another season.  The problem is, it will debut on a night when she will be unable to watch.  "Honey," she says sweetly, "will you please set the DVR to record Project Runway for me?"  "Of course," her sweetheart replies.  She continues on, giving him the details of the network and time for which he should program the device.

A week passes.  The young woman has returned home.  Out of the blue, she remembers the missed episode of her show.

Did you remember to record Project Runway for me? 

Uh....

You said you would, remember?

I don't think I did.  I forgot.

You forgot?  How could you forget?  You said you'd do it right then, when we were on the phone.  Remember?

You talked too much after that.  I forgot.  I'm sorry.

Man picks up remote, flips through the list of recorded programs, and finds the latest episode of the show in question.

Oh, look, I did record it.

Both breathe a sigh of relief.  The woman, it turns out, had the device set to record all along, left over from the prior season.  Technology, my dear, is wonderful.

Nutty Nonsense

Why do men get so many holes in the crotch of their pants?  This is a recurrent problem with my husband.  He manages to wear holes in all of his pants.  I’ve tried sewing the holes up, using fabric patches, and—finally—just ignoring the problem.  Out of desperation, I googled the problem and found that it is quite common, with multitudes of solutions.  One poor man even went so far as to wear his jeans for nine months without washing them, just to avoid holes!  Eew!  I’m sorry, but Mr. Hull absolutely cannot go nine months without having his pants washed.  I refuse.  Further research indicates that the problem is a combination of the size of his… ahem… “package,” and the weight of his pants.  The second matter can be corrected by more vigilant shopping, while the first issue cannot be corrected, nor would I want it to be…

Post originally appeared in April 2007 on Mrs. Hull's Musings.