A Summer 'Bloomed'

According to my three year old niece, CT, this is her artwork of a flower bloomed. Not blooming.
       Bloomed.
       And that's how I feel about summer. It's no longer blooming, it has bloomed. And like a flower whose petals slowly fall off, seeds start to form and eventually the plant withers, summer has already given us its brightest day; now we watch it wind down to the chilly days of autumn.
       I'm not ready. The children are definitely not ready for cold weather and longs weekends trapped in the house. They weren't ready for the first day of school this week. Even some of my plants aren't prepared for the coming arrival of fall. They are still pretending that these last few weeks of warm weather will last forever.
      If only. I know I should try to appreciate winter more for it's frosty reminder of how grateful I should be that summer days are lit brightly and warm and wonderful. But Mr. Frost can kiss Summer's sun warmed...
      Winter is not my favorite season. Perhaps if snow was 'smarter' and would only accumulate on the yard and not on my car. Or if it wouldn't drop to twenty below so the children could actually play in the snow, then I wouldn't be bemoaning- the too soon end -of sunny days. As it is, I am saddened by the 'bloomed' summer and wish it would blossom longer around these parts.

    On another note, why do husbands have to be so frustrating? (Yes, men say that about their wives too and I know, as women we try to say they have nothing to complain about but I will admit, just so hero hottie doesn't think I'm picking on him, that yes sometimes wives can be frustrating too. (Grin)
     But back when I started my blog I asked if I could refer to him by name or would he rather I came up with a nick name for him.
     "I don't want you using my name. Come up with something. I don't care what." He said.
     I thought long and hard and decided on hero hottie because even after over twelve years of marriage I still think he's hot and since most of the stories I write are romantically inclined, I naturally chose something that sounded like a corny romance novel.
     He was okay with this. Not thrilled, even though I called him hot but gave me the go ahead.
     And then I collected readers. In town. That knew him and used his new nickname.
     "Why did you call me..." he bemoaned.
     "Hero hottie?" I supplied when the poor man couldn't even say it aloud.
     "Yes."
     I gave him a mock glare, trying to hide the laughter and not being successful at all. Poor guy, not only did someone call him hero hottie but his wife wouldn't stop laughing over it. "You said I could call you that."
I reminded him.
     "Yes, but I didn't think anyone would actually read your blog."
     Ahhh. I should have been upset. And a little part of me was and as my friend said, 'You could change his name from hero hottie to hero nottie.'
     And on some days I have certainty contemplated it but I think for now I'll just leave it as hero hottie and kindly let him continue enjoying his small claim to celebrity hood. I'm sure he'll get used to it. :)
     

Don't Cry Over Drowned Potato Salad

      To understand this tale of woe, I think you need a visual of my kitchen in your mind. First of all I live in a little house that was built in the late forties. It's a split level and the top floor has 800 square feet. There's the living room, the bathroom, the bedrooms, the hall closets and by the time you enter the kitchen, you have a tiny space that although would still be the envy of most New Yorkers, is difficult to work in because of the lack of counter top. On the one side, I have a stove and the bit of counter space between the double sink and the frig, which has a drainer on it that is only moved when guests come over. (I'm a Mom, do you know how many dishes I do? If there isn't dishes in it, there will be.)
      The other side...what other side? I have shelving for clean dishes and a small counter top for the much needed and very used appliances. (And no there isn't a coffee pot there, but there should be.)
      So when I'm cooking, I tend to -stir, mix, beat, whip, stuff, crunch, flatten- things in bowls on the edge of my sink or on an unused burner. This is the most inefficient way of cooking ever. I've even cooked over an open flame while camping, that was easier. Do you know how hard it is to mix a bowl of ingredients over a full sink of soapy dishes? It is a test in endurance, patience and ability. I watch those Extreme cooking shows on the Food Network, their contestants are weak. If you want a challenge, try a four course meal in my kitchen. That will toughen you up...or make you cry for your Momma. Like the Chairman on Iron Chef, my kitchen does not care for whining, moaning or bleeding digits.
      Redesigning my kitchen is on the top of my list once I have money burning a hole in my pocket or even in my couch cushions. But in the meantime, back to my tale of woe...
      It was a lovely summer afternoon, the sort that calls for a really good meal, like corn on the cob and potato salad. I had never attempted to make potato salad from scratch. Which is surprising considering all the cooking I do, but you have to understand my Grandpa on my Mom's side is German. He's very proud to be very German too. And he has the stories to prove it. The Irish might be well known for their tales of blarney but I hate to say it, in case I upset my Irish relatives, but the Germans have them beat. Not only does a German tell just as many tales, they know their stories are better than anyone else's in the world too.
      When we have family get togethers, he makes the potato salad. I make the pies, and everyone else is free to bring whatever they want. It's tradition and it's just the way it is.
     But I wanted to make potato salad for hero hottie and the kids. I carefully peeled, chopping perfect bite sized pieces. And then boiled them until they were just tender but not starchy and falling apart like some mashed potato dish wanting to be a salad. I had watched my Grandpa do this. This couldn't be so difficult.
      I chilled the potatoes in the frig and then I mixed the pickle juice, mustard and mayo with all my secret spices(mostly pepper and salt) before stirring it all together into the delicious signature dish of summer. Then with a bit of trepidation I took a bite...and it was so yummy. The potatoes were tender, the mixture creamy and smooth but with just a bit of tangy from the pickle juice and mustard. I was thrilled. Hero hottie tried it and loved it. Mission accomplished.
       And then the unthinkable. The heartache. The frustration. I was scooping potato salad onto my plate, after everyone else had loaded up their plates when the bowl, which was balanced on the edge of the kitchen sink, the kitchen sink full of soapy water, tipped to one side.
       I struggled to catch it but I was holding my plate in one hand, the spoon to grab just one more little scoop of potato salad in the other hand and I had to watch as the bowl tipped to the other side and then landed with a flat thud into the soapy water. It tilted a bit when it landed and took in soapy water like a sinking ship and before I could save it, the rest of my potato salad had drowned in the dirty sea of dish water.
       My beautiful creation of mayo and mustard and potatoes was now a sloppy mess of soap bubbles and watered down goodness. On one positive note everyone had a serving on their plates.
      On the woeful side, the dish I had spent so much time and effort into was now a victim of my cruel kitchen. There would be no lovely left overs for lunch the next day. No stolen spoonfuls before being put in the frig. Nothing but the watery mess that would have to be thrown away.
       So I did what every sensible cook does in a situation like that...I cried in the little bit of potato salad on my plate. And I have to say it helped quite a bit. People should cry more in their beers and over spilled milk, the tears just fix everything and like magic my potato salad came popping out of the dirty water and was fine. Okay, okay. I'm being sarcastic, with myself. Crying did not help...at all. The only thing that actually made me feel better was the hugs I got from my children. Those made me feel better. A lot better. And just a bit silly. Because I was making them worry over me and the only thing I was crying over was a bit of hard work and a little bit of drowned potatoes.
      So the moral of this woeful tale is: Hugs are awesome...and make some money to design a new kitchen. No, that last part is wishful thinking. The real learning lesson is don't make potato salad over a sink full of dishes.Oh, and maybe don't let little, silly things like drowned potato salad slow you down in life.
       Hugs are still awesome though.

Mama Tried to Warn Me Not to Date a Zombie...

     Ahh, what can I say about dating a zombie? They aren't hot like a werewolf and they aren't mysterious and moody like a vampire. They actually remind me of the boyfriend who plays video games all the time, doesn't talk about anything (and complains that you do), and zones out when asked, 'do you want to do something romantic?' But hey, everyone has their ideal and maybe a zombie is for you...just know I tried to warn you.


1. When they take you out to eat, it's always to the same crappy place. They're not concerned about what you want to do or eat, they just want to eat the same thing...brains. They don't want to try anything new or unusual, like a salad with roasted sunflowers and avocado. No, they want brains and the bloodier the better. Wait a minute, are we still discussing zombies or guys with grills and any sort of meat available?

2. They're always going out with their friends, until late in the evening, after you've already done the dishes and walked the dog. For some reason, terrorizing the neighbors and eating their brains is more exciting than doing couple stuff.

3. Depending on the type of zombie they are, your boyfriend might lose body parts at inconvenient times, such as over at your parent's house or grocery shopping. This is gross and quite embarrassing. Can you imagine being on the subway, full of people? "Excuse me, I'm not trying to steal your seat, I just need to find my boyfriend's arm or leg, or nose." All of this while your boyfriend stands around doing nothing, except eyeing the beautiful blonde across the aisle.
     "Are you checking out that blonde?"  You accuse angrily.
     "No, I like women for their brains." Zombie boyfriend says. Yeah, sure.

4. There is 'feet smell', and there is 'running laps sweaty smell', but there's nothing like the body odor of the undead. Plan on purchasing lots and lots of cologne for your zombie boyfriend. They tend to be quite wretched in their odor as body parts decompose. I would say that no one could put up with this smell but I've met some interesting people in my life, such as a lady who would collect road kill and store it in her freezer until she could boil the flesh from the bones. So I'm sure there are people out there in this strange world who wouldn't mind the constant odor of zombie flesh.

5. You remember that time when you would tried to discuss important things with your ex boyfriend while he was trying to watch the 'GAME'. And remember how that ended well... Having a zombie for a boyfriend is like that except all the time. They can't focus, they can't carry conversations and they're happy if you put them in front of a video game and let them play for days at a time.

6. With the Zombie Apocalypse a possibility, at least according to both the CDC and even the city of Bristol  in the UK,  having a boyfriend that is on a wanted list might be a horrible ending to your love story. How heartbreaking would it be to watch the love of your life be attacked by trained city officials as they try to "Fully disconnect the brain-stem from the body through either blunt force or full head removal." (This is contained in Bristol's city contingency plans for zombie attacks.) And forget all the zombie killing techniques we have learned from watching Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead. Your relationship is truly doomed and this is even before you take him home to meet Daddy.

7. He might try to eat your brains one day. This is a definite sign that there is something wrong in your relationship and you should probably break up before your story ends up on one of those crimes shows about deadly relationships.

     So I tried to come up with ten possible hazards of dating a zombie but after seven I have come to the conclusion that perhaps zombies don't make the best boyfriend material. If you're not worrying about the smell of the undead and lack of conversations, then you have to worry about him eating brains or being killed by mobs of townspeople. Oh, I know dating is frustrating and complicated but I think you have to be desperate to date a zombie....On the other hand I see reality television shows in the making like...
     My Zombie Boyfriend or The Zombie Bachelor or Zombie's Got Talent

This is not secret Zombie Apocalypse code, so townspeople of Bristol do not panic. This is for

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