Source of agitation

I heard on a tv show years ago that when it comes to giving gifts to the women in your life, one rule is very important; if it has a plug, it’s not a gift. We’re getting a new washing machine. It’s being delivered this Friday. I hastened to point out to my father, just in case there was any doubt, that the new washer is a household appliance and is definitely not part of my Christmas.

“I don’t know why not. Just think how much harder it would be if you had to do laundry by hand,” he said. “Just think how hard it would be if you had to do your own laundry,” I countered. “It would probably be gray,” he agreed.

I’ve been resisting the idea of replacing my old Kenmore. It’s only around 10 years old. When the timer broke, we replaced it. Then all these little flecks of brown crud started appearing in the tub. We had the repairman back. He didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from.

He removed the agitator cover and scrubbed the post. That didn’t help, but the quantity of brown flecks decreased and sometimes there wouldn’t be any. They don’t stain. If you wait until the garment is dry, they brush right off.

Still, the whole point of doing laundry is for things to come out cleaner than when they went in. But every time I read the appliance reviews, I was paralyzed with fear that I’d wind up with something worse than I already had. Better the devil you know.

Then a week or so ago, I used the soak cycle in an attempt to whiten some old blouses. Then I used the handwash cycle to wash them. I don’t remember the last time I tried to use either of those cycles. When the load was finished, I was horrified to discover everything was covered with thousands of brown flecks. Apparently, the unfamiliar cycles had triggered a new rash of disintegration. It was time to face the unavoidable fact that the problem wasn’t going away.

I once again started reading reviews on every site I could find. I don’t know why I bother because I usually still wind up with an appliance that I don’t like as well as the one it replaced. I thought I’d decided on a bare bones, basic, old-style Maytag that still lets you choose your water levels and has an agitator. But there were lots of complaints about Maytags and noise and waiting for replacement parts.

I started seriously considering the Samsungs. At first, I had my doubts about buying an appliance from a Korean manufacturer. Then it occurred to me that I won’t buy an American-made car, so perhaps I should reconsider. The Samsung toploader has glowing reviews. It’s rated #1 by Consumer Reports. It was on sale for 33% off at Lowes. Still, I dithered.

I made at least 3 trips to the store to see the machine. I talked to the salesmen. I measured. I did more loads of laundry to see if they would come out clean or covered with brown flecks. I asked Dad’s advice. He said to do whatever I wanted. I really didn’t want to buy a new washer. The sale was scheduled to end on Monday. My last load had a few brown flecks. I bit the bullet, grabbed Dad’s credit card, and bought the Samsung.

If the positive reviews are to be believed, this machine will do everything except fold your laundry and put it away. It even has a glass top so you can pull up a stool and watch it in action if you have nothing better to do and are desperate for entertainment. Frankly, the new high efficiency machines scare me to death and all the bells and whistles are just more things to break. Crossing my fingers and hoping I made the right decision.

Dad better not try to stick a big red bow on top. No matter how flashy the machine is, it’s still not part of my Christmas. I pointed out to him that if the machine is as smart as they say, he could do the laundry. Then I might actually be willing to consider it a present. He just laughed and shook his head.

Not for the squeamish

Dad has been faithfully applying the hot compresses to the golf ball-size cyst on his neck. He started seeing results when the cyst started to open up and bleed. Surprisingly enough, and luckily for me, he’d been dealing with it all himself. Then on Sunday morning, before we left for breakfast, he wanted me to take a look at it and see if it looked like the core was beginning to come out. It was.

It was almost just about the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen. I was glad I hadn’t eaten yet. He wanted me to put a big piece of gauze over it before we went to breakfast. His reason was to prevent it sticking to his collar. My reason was to shield the sight from all of the other poor people trying to enjoy their breakfast.

On the way to Oscar’s, the tape started to come loose. Luckily, I was prepared. Before we left, I’d put the tape and scissors in my purse. I slapped some more on and we went in to breakfast. “Be careful how you treat me or my head might fall off,” Dad told the waitress in a shameless bid for the poor babies he wasn’t getting from me. She just laughed.

In the car on the way home, he started in with, “If I knew anything about cysts, I’d have you get the tweezers and try pulling the core out.” Gross! “Let me tell you something. Unless we’re stranded in the middle of the desert, days away from help and in danger of imminent death, the only medical care I’m administering is slapping a bandage on something and only then when I can’t avoid it,” I informed him. I don’t understand why he hasn’t gotten that concept through his head yet. “You’re not going to do any nursing?” he inquired. “Absolutely not,” I said definitely.

He tried to discuss the cyst some more. “I just ate and I don’t want to talk about,” I told him. When we got home, he wanted to take the gauze off so he could apply another hot compress. The tape had practically worked itself loose, but I was the one that had to pull it off. I yanked quickly and dropped it in the trash. “Was it bleeding?” he asked. “I don’t know, Dad. I tried not to look,” I said in disgust. For heaven’s sake, if he wants to know all the gory details, he should take his own bandages off and use a mirror.

He made me call the doctor first thing Monday morning to get him an appointment. The doctor said it was doing fine and to keep applying the hot compresses. That’s probably not what Dad wanted to hear. He’s still searching in vain for his poor babies.

Mom would be so proud

Unfortunately for Dad, I’m not my mother and I was mad as hell. Mom was always after Dad to lock the doors. He was bad about leaving one unlocked and she was concerned that some criminal would be roaming the neighborhood and take the unlocked door as an invitation to come on in and rob them blind. On several occasions when I’ve found the front door unlocked, I’ve brought it to his attention myself.

Dad asked me to tape the Carolina basketball game for him since it didn’t start until 10:00 p.m. last night. Although I have an extra DVD-VCR player, he’s never bought the cables to hook it up to his tv. Instead of making him watch the game on the 20-inch set in the den, I decided to be nice and let him watch it in my study. I got the tape ready to go and showed him which buttons to press on the remote.

“Isn’t the sound going to bother you?” he asked. “No because I’m going to be doing other things,” I replied. I planned on taking advantage of the nice weather to do some decorating outside, out of range of the tv. When Dad cranks the volume up, the only safe place to be is outside. He settled in to watch his game and I went outside to get to work.

I wrapped the multi-colored lights around the porch railing last night. Now I needed to put the lighted deer out in the backyard. I dragged the extension cord across the yard. Carried the deer out of the basement and set them in place. Hammered the hooks into the ground to anchor them. Then I wrapped an old tomato cage, that Dad had placed to protect something he planted, in green lights to camouflage it as a tree. Everything lit up and worked just as it was supposed to. I was a happy camper.

Until I tried to go inside to turn off the lights. The back door was locked. I had noticed Dad come out and go down to the basement at one point, but hadn’t thought a lot about it. I don’t know why he came outside in the middle of the game, but whatever the reason, he obviously didn’t notice me and when he went back in, he locked me out.

I don’t react well to finding myself on the wrong side of a locked door. It infuriates me. I had a lot of things I wanted to get done today and being locked out was going to screw up my schedule. Plus, there are no bathroom facilities in the backyard. Since this isn’t the first time he’s done this, I did have a spare key hidden outside. I went to retrieve it, cussing my head off. Trust me, I’m now definitely at the top of Santa’s naughty list.

I found the key and went to let myself in. The key didn’t work. It would go in the lock, but absolutely would not turn. I cussed some more as I headed for the swing. I had a can of WD 40 out there from spraying the chains to keep them from squeaking. I sprayed the key with WD 40 and tried again. Still no luck.

Banging on the back door wasn’t going to get Dad’s attention since he was still in my study watching the game. My best shot was going around to the front door. The only problem with that idea was that all of the gates were locked, so I had to climb the fence. That was easy when I was a kid. Now, my tennis shoes don’t seem to fit into the holes in the chain links. I finally managed to boost myself up, but in the process of trying to go over, I snagged one of the pockets of my jeans. Fortunately, it came loose before the fabric ripped.

Once safely back down on the ground, and still cussing, I headed for the front door. I rang the bell about 20 times in a row. Then I beat on the door with my clenched fist. I opened the mail slot and shouted. No response. I resumed my ringing and beating. I was pounding so hard I could see the door vibrate.

Finally, Dad came and opened the door. “Why did you lock me out?” I asked him furiously. “I didn’t know you were out there,” he replied sheepishly. I stormed into the den, heading for the back door to let Dillon in. The back door was standing open. Apparently, when he heard the beating and ringing, he first went to the back door. Why? I have no idea. There is no doorbell out back. Maybe he was going in search of me so I could deal with the crazy person at the front door?

Luckily for Dad, it was still an hour or so until lunch. He went back to the game. I went back to my decorating. I calmed down by the time we sat down to eat. Until I can get a new spare key made, I’m going to keep my dog-walking set in my pocket. I’m not sure the front door, or my wrist, can survive a repeat performance.

I Believe

Yes, there is a Santa Claus and he still brings presents in the middle of the night when I'm fast asleep in my bed.

When I was at the mall, I used to collect the Disney mini-snow globes that JCPenney gives out to the first shoppers on Black Friday. Maintenance and Security had to be there when Penney's opened their doors, so they'd get me a snow globe before the supply ran out. I line them up on my kitchen windowsill at Christmas.

After I left the mall, I lost my inside connection. I certainly wasn't going to get up at 4 a.m. just for a snow globe. Dad knows I like them and he sometimes wakes up early but will stay in bed until it's time to get up or he falls back asleep. He told me last night that if he woke up, he'd go get me a snow globe. I told him that wasn't necessary, I have more than I can fit on my windowsill already. He insisted if he was awake, he'd go see if he could get me one.

I was in bed fast asleep somewhere around 5 a.m. when Dillon started barking like the Hound of the Baskervilles. He settled back down and I just turned over and went back to sleep. When I got up at 7 a.m., Dad's bedroom door was closed, he wasn't in the den reading the paper, and his car was in the driveway. Obviously he was still in bed. So much for my snow globe.

Then I noticed that his coat was on the hall chair. That's a sign that he's been somewhere. I looked at the chest of drawers beside the chair. Sure enough, there was a new Disney mini-snow globe. He'd gotten up, gone to Penney's, and then come home and gone back to bed.

He came out of his bedroom about 30 minutes later. I thanked him for the snow globe. "I heard Dillon bark when I came back this morning," he said. Since he'd obviously gone back to bed after his excursion, I had a sudden picture of him wearing his pajamas to the store. "You didn't go to the store in your pajamas, did you?" I asked. "I thought about it, but I was afraid I'd be cold," he replied. Thank goodness.

He earned huge brownie points for going to all that trouble. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he lives in North Carolina.

Giving Thanks

We had a very nice Thanksgiving. I had done a lot of prep work for the meal in advance so I didn't have to spend all morning in the kitchen. Dad informed me that the sweet potato casserole was wonderful as usual and the dressing was the best I'd made so far. I finally shook enough celery seed in to make it like Mom's. I prefer recipes that have exact measurements to follow. With Mom's dressing, you go by what looks right. It's not easy for me to tell what looks right, but I do my best.

Here's the recipe for the sweet potato casserole. It's a healthier version, but we think it's just as good as the original that was loaded with fat and sugar. It's Dad's favorite. He claims it's as good as dessert.

Praline Sweet Potato Casserole

2 cans (16 ounces each) sweet potatoes or yams (about 4 cups) (I don't use canned. I bake sweet potatoes, let them cool, pull off the peeling and mash.)
1/2 cup Splenda sweetener
4 egg whites or 1/2 cup liquid egg substitute
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup brown sugar or brown sugar substitute (I use Splenda brown sugar)
1/4 chopped pecans
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons light tub margarine
Butter-flavored cooking spray

What to Do

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease (or spray with cooking spray) a shallow 2-quart baking dish.

2. Combine the sweet potatoes, sweetener, egg whites, salt, and vanilla in a food processor or blender and process until smooth. Spoon into the baking dish. (I use a potato masher and just mash everything together or use a hand mixer just like making mashed potatoes.)

3. Stir together the brown sugar, pecans, flour, and margarine in a medium bowl. Lightly sprinkle over the sweet potato mixture. Spray the top with butter-flavored spray and bake until lightly browned, about 30 minutes. (I forgot to spray the top yesterday and I coudn't tell any difference.)

Serves 12

Nutritional Information
Per serving: 150 calories, 3 g protein, 27 g carbohydrates, 2 g fat, 0 g saturated fat, 0 mg cholesterol, 2 g fiber, 172 mg sodium

Christmas spirit

I've had my eye on this rattan snowman at Target since I first spotted him well before Halloween. I love lighted decorations. After the Christmas decorations come down, January seems so dreary. I try to counter the gray days and long dark nights by leaving snowman-themed decorations, that don't have obvious holly and candy cane embellishments, up until Valentine's Day. This fellow looked like a perfect addition to my collection. When he went on sale last week, admittedly for only $8 off, I decided he was coming home with me.

Dad is once again trying to make me buy my own Christmas presents with the "I don't shop as much as I used to and I don't know what to get you" speech accompanied by the poor, pitiful me look. When he saw the snowman, he decided it could be part of my Christmas. "How much did it cost?" he began. "It was $31.99 plus tax," I replied. "So $32.00," he summed up, reaching into his wallet.

I started punching buttons on the calculator. "Actually, it was $34.06. You have to include tax," I lectured, "but I'll spot you the $.06. Is assembly part of the deal?" I inquired. "No," he said quickly. "Some Santa you are. In the old days Santa presents came assembled," I complained.

"Do you have $6?" he asked, holding out two $20 bills. I scrounged around and found him change. Do you see why I don't like buying my own Christmas? It sounds good in theory, but it becomes an exercise in commerce that takes all the joy out of experience. Still, come January my snowman is going to look very cheery shining brightly at the end of the hall.

My skeleton windsock is still floating around on the shepherd's crook in the backyard. I asked Dad yesterday if he thought I could stick a Santa hat on it and call it the ghost of Christmas past. He suggested I look into hooking up an audio recording of A Christmas Carol to carry out the theme. That sounds like too much work, but he gets points for joining into the spirit of the conversation instead of just giving me one of those looks.

Chrome

I'm no expert on computers. My needs are fairly basic and I know just enough to surf the net safely and handle word processing tasks. For years, I used Internet Explorer as my browser. Then when I was taking on-line classes at the community college, I started using Mozilla Firefox because Explorer would crash whenever I had to take a timed exam on-line.

I'd been very happy with Firefox until the last couple of weeks when it started taking forever to load web pages and I kept getting the page is not responding messages all the time. I finally got so frustrated that I decided to give Chrome a try. If it passed muster with Brian at Krebs on Security, I figured it was worth a try.

I've been using Chrome for about a week now and I really like it. Web pages load much faster and so far, no annoying freezes, crashes, or error messages. Hooray!

What's up, Doc?

Dad has had a knot about the size of a small marble on the side of his neck for years. The doctor said it was a cyst and nothing to worry about. It’s gotten bigger recently and started bothering him, so he went to the doctor yesterday. I was anticipating that the doctor would refer him to someone who would want to slice and dice and remove the cyst, leaving me to once again play Nurse Nancy. Happy Thanksgiving to me.

Last night when I got home, I asked if the doctor had given him a referral. “No,” Dad said. “Well, what did he do?” I asked. “He’s not going to do anything. He says to put a hot compress on it THREE times a day,” Dad replied in disgust. “Well, that sounds like something you can do yourself,” I said in delight. Dad looked even more pained.

Please, there’s nothing to running hot water over a washcloth and holding it to your neck. He’s perfectly capable of doing that himself. From his tone, you would think he was disappointed that major surgery and long term follow-up care isn’t called for. Given my absolute refusal to adopt the poor baby standard of care giving he’s obviously seeking, you’d think he’d be relieved that we’re not going to have to fight that battle again.

They also managed to screw up his prescriptions. He needed new prescriptions for 3 drugs he takes on a daily basis. Dad always likes to try and get prescriptions with enough refills to last him for a year. Actually, he’d be really happy if they just let him refill the prescriptions forever without the necessity of another doctor’s visit. His insurance requires that he use a mail-order pharmacy. For some reason, when the doctor wrote the one-time prescription having to do with the cyst, which he sent to the local pharmacy, he also sent the prescriptions for the other three drugs to the local pharmacy as well and only allowed for 1 refill.

“How do they think that’s going to last me for an entire year?” Dad griped. “And wouldn’t you think the local pharmacist would have realized that wasn’t enough pills for a year?” “I’m sure they just filled the prescription without realizing that you take the pills every day and the prescription was supposed to last you for a year,” I replied.

Really, he thinks people have unlimited time and pay attention to every detail. He’s been out of the workplace for too long. It wasn't the pharmacist's mistake, the fault lies with someone at the doctor's office. The doctor that Dad chose, so he can no longer blame me when things don't go to suit him.

“Now I’m going to have to go back to the doctor and wrestle with them to get this straightened out,” he complained. “Well isn’t it nice that you’re retired and have plenty of time to take care of it,” I said. He was still muttering when I left the room.

Open wide

When I had my root canal and got my temporary filling last week, the hygienist warned me not to eat anything sticky. I tried to follow instructions. My jaw had stayed sore most of the week, so I’d been eating mostly soft foods. Saturday night we had egg salad sandwiches. A tiny piece of eggshell that I’d missed got caught between my teeth. I flossed to get it out.

Later that evening, I had a brownie. I took my first bite and crunched down on something hard. My crown had come off. Wonderful. I was relieved to see that the tooth and filling still looked intact. Now I’d really be eating soft foods until I could get to the dentist first thing Monday morning.

To make things even better, I was scheduled to play handbells at church on Sunday in front of the congregation. Thank goodness, it’s a back tooth because I’d have been mortified to have to get up in front of everyone missing a front tooth. And no way could I not go. It’s not like missing a member of the choir, when a handbell is missing it’s really obvious and throws everyone else off.

Sunday morning, we went to Oscar’s for breakfast as usual. Before we left home, I told Dad that my crown had come off. I figured the scrambled egg, grits and hash browns were safe. I wasn’t planning to test my luck and eat bacon. Oscar’s puts 3 pieces of bacon on the plate and I always eat 2 and take 1 home for Dillon. Dillon looks forward to his bacon and he wouldn’t take kindly to doing without.

I told Dad he had a choice to make. I was going to order 2 eggs to make up for no bacon. He could either pay the extra and I’d take all my bacon home for Dillon or I’d leave the bacon off my order and he’d have to give up half of one of his pieces of bacon for Dillon. He looked pained, but told me to do whatever I wanted. I decided he could give up half of one of his pieces of bacon. When his order arrived, I made him fork over the piece of bacon before he started eating so he wouldn’t forget and eat it all. He looked even more pained, but handed it over.

Dillon greeted me at the door, barking and sniffing, eager for his treat. When I handed over the half piece of bacon, he woofed it down and sniffed my hand for more. He looked disbelieving when I told him that was all there was. If he’d been given the choice, he’d definitely have chosen the 3 pieces of bacon.

Handbells went fine. I ate soup, oatmeal and pudding for the rest of the day and tried to tell myself I wasn’t really hungry. Soft food doesn’t do as good a job of filling you up. I presented myself at the dentist’s office promptly at 8 a.m. this morning. They worked me in and since my tooth was doing okay, they went ahead and put in the permanent filling before replacing my crown. That was good except that it meant more drilling and pushing and prodding than I was anticipating.

I did more praying this morning in that dentist’s chair than I did yesterday in church. My jaw wasn’t happy. I heard it crack several times when I went to close my mouth, and it’s sore all over again. I guess I’ll be eating soft food for a little longer. At least by Sunday I should be ready for bacon again. That will make Dad, Dillon and me very happy.

Arghhhh!!!

Dad has started parching his peanuts in the microwave. He did it that way for years in Baltimore, but hasn’t done it much here. He burned the first few batches. I know this only because I smelled it when I came home from work. This morning, he parched a batch while I was in the shower. He got these right, so the smell was pleasant as opposed to making me think I needed to call the fire department.

I was not happy however, when I went into the kitchen to mix up the cornbread and discovered that he’d parched them in my mother’s perfectly seasoned, metal biscuit pan! You don’t put metal in a microwave and you definitely don’t mess with my mother’s seasoned cookware. I could have killed him.

I marched into the den and informed him that you don’t put metal in a microwave and he should NOT be using my biscuit pan for his peanuts. His round PLASTIC pan is in the cabinet beside the sink. He had better remember or I swear, I’ll start unplugging the microwave whenever I’m not using it. Of course then he’d probably try putting plastic in the oven which would create an even bigger mess.

You can generally always count on my father to get it backwards.

There are no atheists in foxholes or doctors’ offices

It’s been a long week and it’s only Wednesday. Monday I had to get up at 5 a.m. to be at Duke by 8:30 for my annual mammogram and checkup. Falling back to eastern standard time made that a little easier, but Dillon practically levitated out of his bed when the alarm went off. I don’t usually have to set an alarm, so he wasn’t prepared when a Christian radio station blared out at that ungodly hour. I don’t listen to Christian radio by choice. It’s one of the few radio stations that I can tune in on my radio. It does encourage me to get up and slap the off button as opposed to lingering and listening as I used to do when I was able to tune in NPR.

I don’t like mammograms. The radiology tech may claim she’s not trying to hurt you, but there’s really no way around it. Then when they’ve got you in that vise, they tell you to hold your breath. I’m not someone who could ever pass the SEAL test of swimming from one end of the pool and back on one breath. So I always feel as if I’m going to die if I can’t take a breath, but I definitely don’t want to move and screw up the x-ray because that will only lead to a retake. So I hold my breath and pray for the ordeal to be over.

Then when you’re finally released to go back to the waiting room, you sit there hoping for the best and trying not to think about the worst. That’s when the praying gets really serious. The last words you want to hear are, “We need to take a few more shots.” After repeating the whole process, it’s back to the waiting room.

Then I got called into the ultrasound room. More praying while waiting for the radiologist. When she finally entered the room, the first words out of her mouth were, “There’s nothing wrong.” Gee, they couldn’t have told me that 20 minutes earlier? Fortunately, what they’d spotted were cysts and she wanted to map them for future reference.

That should have been cause for celebration. It was, but in the back of my mind was the fact that my root canal was scheduled for the next day. I tried to live in the moment and enjoy the good news, but it was tempered by the fear of the dentist’s drill in my not too distant future. I kept telling myself that I’d had a root canal before and it hadn’t been that bad.

Tuesday morning the alarm didn’t go off until 6 a.m., but it still took Dillon by surprise. I was in the dentist’s chair by 8 a.m. Root canals have changed since I had my last one. Or maybe it’s just that this was a much bigger tooth. Whatever the reason, I didn’t like the process at all. The dentist should have added a prescription for Valium to go along with the penicillin he started me on Friday.

After two shots of Novocain, the hygienist clamped something around my tooth that prevented me from closing my mouth completely. Then she put a rubber shield around the tooth. It covered the entire lower portion of my face. She assured me I would still be able to cough and swallow. She didn’t say anything about breathing. She may have thought that was a given, but I wasn’t so sure.

After she had all that paraphernalia in place, she went out to tell the dentist we were ready. She didn’t come back for a very long time. You really shouldn’t just walk out and leave someone like that. It’s not a pleasant feeling. I prayed for them to hurry back and start before the Novocain wore off, my jaw locked, or I completely lost my nerve and ran screaming from the room.

The dentist came in, immediately was called to another room, and then finally returned and started drilling and drilling and drilling. I couldn’t believe how long it took. It was only one tooth, not a tunnel to China. I have a small mouth, which gives them a limited amount of space in which to work. On top of that, my jaw wants to lock when I open my mouth too wide or keep it open too long.

Nothing the dentist did to my tooth hurt, but my jaw ached and got really tired. I was terrified that it was going to get stuck. I kept praying they’d hurry up and get finished. Maybe that’s another reason for sticking all of that stuff in your mouth. It prevents you from jumping out of the chair and running from the room when you decide halfway through the procedure that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

At one point, the hygienist asked if my jaw was getting tired and if I wanted her to place some type of guard in my mouth that supposedly allows your jaw to rest. It sounded like one more thing that was going to force my mouth open and wouldn’t be under my control. I emphatically grunted what was supposed to be a “No!” It didn’t really sound like no because it’s hard to speak when your tongue is numb and the dentist is working in your mouth with power tools, but maybe the touch me and die look in my eyes got the message across because she didn’t try to put anything else in my mouth. Until they needed to take an x-ray.

Now I’m all for them being thorough and doing it right the first time because I don’t want them having to do any part of the procedure again. But I was not thrilled when the hygienist told me to open my mouth even wider so she could insert a green paddle about the size of a soup-spoon sideways into my mouth. It didn’t go in easily. Surely, they must have a smaller size. Don’t they x-ray children’s mouths? And as if once wasn’t bad enough, they did it three times to check their progress. Between the mammogram yesterday and the dentist Friday and Tuesday, I’ve had so many x-rays in the last week that it’s a wonder I don’t glow in the dark.

They finally finished up by putting in a temporary filling. I get to go back in two weeks for the permanent filling. The hygienist said they don’t normally even have to numb patients for that procedure. Since my lip was still numb on the left side making me look like a stroke victim that sounded good to me. But Novocain or not, God will be hearing from me again as soon as my butt hits the dentist’s chair.

Pilgrims Progress

Dad gets very indignant when retailers try to skip right from Halloween to Christmas. He thinks Thanksgiving isn't accorded enough respect. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays too, so we've started collecting pilgrims, Native American Indians and turkeys to decorate the house for Thanksgiving. We have them in all shapes and sizes from the bobble-head pilgrim above to the more refined figurines below.





I even found a couple of really vintage pilgrim and turkey candles that Mom had stored in the secretary. I'm thinking she probably used them for bridge club in Charlotte in the 50's.

I'm starting to crave pumpkin pie. I baked Dillon's latest batch of dog biscuits in the shape of turkeys. No one can say that I don't give Thanksgiving it's due.

It'll be nice not to wake up in the dark every morning, but I swear when the time changes back to eastern standard time, it seems like the first Sunday lasts forever. I've walked the dog and wrestled him to the ground in an attempt to clip his nails, charged and added minutes to Dad's phone, done laundry, mowed the grass, straightened up and decorated the house, and it's still not even 4 o'clock. Dillon thinks I've been behind all day. His internal clock takes a while to reset.

Pillow talk

This is my newest holiday purchase. The reindeer games pillow from Pier 1. I wanted it last year, but made the mistake of waiting for it to go on sale. They sold out at my local Pier 1 before I got there. I was delighted to discover that Pier 1 brought the same pillow back again this year.

I try to learn from my mistakes. This time I bought the sucker even though it was full price. I figure if I've thought about the pillow wistfully ever since last Christmas, it's worth it. I just love it. The North Pole scene is embroidered on the pillow and those are bright red jingle bells at each corner. It makes me smile every time I see it nestled in Granny's old platform rocker in my study.

I haven't seen the poinsettia pillow in person, but on-line it looks like it would be beautiful on the red velvet Victorian loveseat in my living room.

Houndstooth

My deal of the day! I picked up a great houndstooth scarf from JCPenney. Between the sale and my $10 savings certificate, it cost me a grand total of $3.19. It looks sharp with my black winter jackets.

I used to scoff at people wrapped up in scarfs. I rarely ever even button up my coat. But last winter, I discovered that wrapping a scarf around my neck was cozy and fashionable. I have an old red tartan plaid that's great for weekends when I usually wear my dark green corduroy shirt under a black leather jacket to run errands. The houndstooth will be a more sophisticated look for work days.

Heath Bar Blondies

These are fabulous. I made a batch last weekend. I ate the last one Thursday and have been craving more ever since. There's another pan in the oven baking right now. Yum!

Heath Bar Blondies

1 stick butter
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
1 egg
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup Heath bar crumbles (Bits 'O Brickle Toffee Bits)
1/2 cup roughly chopped walnuts

Preheat your oven to 350 and butter an 8-inch square pan.

Brown your butter by melting it over medium heat on the stove until it becomes a golden caramel color. Be careful not to burn the butter - you only want to brown it. This will take several minutes and it's easiest to keep swirling the pan with your hand while it browns.

Pour the browned butter into the bowl of a mixer and add the brown sugar. Beat for about four minutes, until creamy. Add the egg and beat again. Then, add the flour, salt and vanilla extract. Beat until combined.

Fold in the Heath bar bits and chopped walnuts. Spread out mixture in your buttered pan and bake for 25 minutes, or until edges begin to pull away from the sides of the pan.

Let cool before slicing into squares. Makes 12-16.

We need to WHAT?

I cracked a tooth earlier this summer and had to have a crown. When I went in for my routine 6-month cleaning a little over a week ago, I asked them to check the crown because it felt like it was taller than the surrounding teeth. Since I grind my teeth at night, I was experiencing some pain in my jaw. The dentist worked on the tooth and my bite felt more normal.

Only the pain in my tooth didn’t go away. It seemed to be increasing. It’s not excruciating, but it’s reached the level of a very low-grade throb that seems to increase when exposed to heat or cold. I went back this morning and had an x-ray. Then the dentist poked, prodded, and tapped. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and announced, “I think we need to….” His final words weren’t completely clear, but it sounded like he said, “I think we need to rip it out.”

“We need to WHAT?” I asked. I wish I could have seen the expression on my face because I was horrified. “We need to do a root canal,” Dr. Arthur repeated. “Oh, thank God. I thought you said we needed to rip it out,” I told him, greatly relieved. “That’s what I go to the dentist to prevent!” Dr. Arthur and the hygienist both burst out laughing. When Dr. Arthur recovered the power of speech, he apologized and assured me that wouldn’t be necessary, a root canal should solve the problem.

He asked me if I’d ever had a root canal. I had one many years ago, performed by a different dentist, and don’t remember it being all that bad. Dr. Arthur described the procedure. When he finished, I informed him that anything sounded like a piece of cake after hearing that your tooth needed to be ripped out. He and the hygienist started laughing again and he once again apologized for scaring me to death.

After the hygienist scheduled me for Tuesday, she said, “Well, you gave us our laugh for the day.” “I’m glad because you gave me my heart attack for the day,” I laughed in return. In hindsight, I’m sure that if my tooth actually needed to come out, Dr. Arthur would have phrased it more clinically and professionally and used a word like extraction as opposed to rip it out. Regardless, I’ll be brushing extra thoroughly from now on.

Oh, my goodness gracious

I’ll miss Halloween. It’s really one of the best holidays. Chocolate is required and cobwebs are decorations not a sign of poor housekeeping. It was cold and rainy here, and I had bell practice, so all of the mini Twix candy bars I bought are left for me. Just the way I planned it.

I wore black from head to toe accented with Mom’s Halloween scarf featuring witches and pumpkins and ghosts. I received many compliments on the scarf. I accented it with my jack-o-lantern earrings, jack-o-lantern pin, and one of Mom’s old acrylic bracelets, bright orange with orange rhinestones. I loved the flash of those “jewels” each time I moved my arm. I really need to see if I can find the perfect, fashionable witch’s hat before next year. I’m thinking purple and orange sequins.

When I let Dillon in from his last bathroom break of the night, and we headed back down the dimly lit hallway, I noticed something about an inch big on the floor. I bent down to pick it up. It was soft and squishy. Not what I’d expected. And it moved. Definitely not what I expected. I thought at first that maybe I’d simply pushed it. I reached back down and it jumped.

There was a tiny frog jumping down my hall. “Oh, my goodness gracious,” I exclaimed, reaching for the light switch and trying to keep my eye on the frog that was hopping as fast as his little legs would propel him. I don’t understand why I turn into a Victorian spinster when I’m startled. I never say things like “Oh, my goodness gracious.” When I’m mad, I swear like a sailor, but when I’m startled, I suddenly turn prim and proper. It’s weird.

I hurried down the hall after the frog, Dillon at my heels. After several attempts, it was sort of like trying to catch a cricket; I finally managed to capture the little guy between my hands. I started walking quickly back down the hall towards the back door, thinking I’d set him free outside, hopefully unharmed.

It’s not easy to turn a round doorknob when both hands are cupped tightly together to cage a frog. I tried nudging the knob with the heel of my hand. It didn’t move. I stared hard at it trying to figure out what to do, mind over matter didn’t work either. I finally took a chance and freed one hand while quickly cupping the other closed. I was afraid the frog would either jump free and I’d have to chase him around the den, or worse yet, I’d squish him which would be sad and gross.

Thankfully, the frog stayed put and I quickly opened the door, opened the storm door, and tossed the frog out onto the porch. I hope that he landed unharmed and hopped back home. I didn’t linger to watch. I slammed the door shut and headed back down the hall. I had already missed the first 10 minutes of Hawaii 5-0, a show that makes me think “Oh, my goodness gracious” for a completely different reason.