To Stir With Love

As we enter the holiday season, I can't help but think of all the cooking and baking that will go on all over the country. I consider myself very lucky, because my husband is an excellent cook. And, he is really wonderful about stepping in and helping prepare holiday meals. But, I can't help but notice that we have very different cooking "styles."

To me, preparing a meal begins with opening the freezer and deciding what I can thaw in fifteen minutes.

To my husband, preparing a meal begins with sharpening the knives.

I can measure out ten different ingredients using the same measuring cup. I will measure all the dry ingredients first, and then the liquid ones, just so I don't have to rinse and dry the measuring cup.

He will use every measuring cup and measuring spoon we have, and even some I didn't know we had.

If a recipe calls for two bowls, I will use the measuring cup as one of the bowls.

He will dirty half a dozen bowls in his attempt to find two the right size.

To add extra flavor, I will grab black pepper and the first jar I see containing something green.

He will get out a mortar and pestle, mix together a dozen different herbs and spices, resulting in a magical fragrance and taste.

I take full advantage of the microwave oven.

He believes the microwave oven is for cooking instant oatmeal, and nothing else.

I clean up as I go.

After he is done cooking, the kitchen needs to be hosed down, including the ceiling.

And, last but not least...

My meal is rubbery and bland.

His meal is robust, savory, and delectable.

Happy eating, everyone!

That Which Is Lost...

Last week my boss asked me where the certified mail forms were. I told him they were in the bottom drawer of the desk where the postage meter sits. He said he already looked there. I was so positive that's where I put them, I had to open the drawer and see for myself. Sitting in the drawer were the forms. I asked him how he could possibly have missed them considering they were the only items in the drawer. His reply was "They used to be in a folder, so I was looking for a folder."  Hmm.

My ex told me one day we were out of milk. I told him that wasn't possible because I had just bought some. I went to the refrigerator, and sitting right in front, at eye level, was a full gallon of milk. "Oh" he said, "I was looking for the half gallon size." Huh?

I once lost my son at a major league baseball game. I know, that doesn't sound good. It was Little League Day, and all the kids were wearing their uniforms. My son spotted a boy he knew from another team, and asked if he could go say hi. It sounded okay to me so I said yes. Two innings later, he hadn't returned. I stood up and scanned the crowd. No sign of him. I reported him missing, and three employees of the ballpark showed up wanting a description. The two men and one woman took off on their search. What happened next put this whole experience in my top five scariest moments of my life. The game ended. Now, everyone was standing and filling the aisles. Just as the most horrifying thoughts were going through my mind, I saw the female employee coming my way, big smile on her face, and my son in tow. I never saw the two men again. For all I know, they are still looking for him.

Perhaps their acuity for focusing makes men unable to find things as well as women. If you asked Waldo to find himself, there is a good chance he couldn't. He might  have the excuse "I thought I was taller than that." If male US soldiers were told to infiltrate a home because there was a chance Saddam Hussein was hiding there, they might have walked right by Osama bin Laden sitting on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars.

On the other hand, there are times when complete focus is necessary, and most women would fail at this. An example would be....uh...um...I don't know...what was I saying?

The Eyes Have Hills

I had perfect vision for most of my life. As I approached forty, I suddenly realized I couldn’t read close up. At first, I had to hold menus a foot and a half in front of me, then at arm’s length, just to see them. Pretty soon, I had to have someone else hold the menus. Sadly, I wound up only able to eat at restaurants that have their menus lit up on the wall. So, I went to the eye doctor. Much to my horror (I have a lot of denial in me), he prescribed reading glasses. The first time I wore them, a friend (?) of mine laughed and said I looked like a school teacher.

For the next five years, my prescription had to be increased. I finally asked the eye doctor “What do I do when my nose can no longer support the weight of my lenses?” He said (and this is why he is no longer my eye doctor) “The good news is that your eyesight will probably never get worse than it is now.”

Yeah, well it did. I tried to live with it, but while clothes shopping, I realized that the number six and the number eight looked exactly alike and thinking I was trying on an eight (which was really a six) I would become deeply depressed that I couldn't get the zipper up.  And, I left a trail of waiters who either got a very generous tip, or a very minimal one, depending on the amount I perceived was on the bill.

I went to a new eye doctor. After saying hello to the coat rack, I was led into the exam room. Pointing to the eye chart, the doctor asked “What is the smallest line you can read?” “The fifth one down” I responded, and smiled. “Okay, could you read it, please?” “Out loud? In that case, the second one down.” He rubbed his forehead. After some discussion, he recommended monovision (at first I thought he said Bonovision, and I wondered if I would look good in big glasses with yellow lenses), which is placing different contacts in each eye—one for close up and one for distance. He said “It will take a couple of weeks for your brain to adjust.”

Six months later, my brain had not adjusted yet. I was getting used to the halos around all lights, but I was still having problems with hallucinations depth perception. It became obvious one day when my husband and I were driving on the highway. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving along pretty fast at seventy five miles an hour. I looked up from what I was reading, and saw (four or five vehicles ahead of us) a massive truck, which appeared to be stopped because we were gaining on it so quickly. My husband was not slowing at all, so I let out a scream. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked. I pointed ahead, just as I realized that the “truck” I saw was actually one of those electronic highway signs that stretch over the road. My husband was still staring at me. “Well?” “Sorry, I thought I saw something” was all I could say. He told me please don’t scream in the car ever again. I told him I would try not to.

In my defense, I read a story about a recent plane crash. After an investigation, they determined that the reason for the crash was: “The inability of the captain, because of his use of monovision contact lenses, to overcome his misperception of the airplane's position relative to the runway during the visual portion of the approach.” I feel for you, Captain.

It took me two years (I like to think my brain is stubborn, not slow) to adjust and now I can read and see in the distance, just as well as when I was younger. I ran into (not literally) my friend the other day, and she was wearing glasses. Of course, it would be very petty of me to tell her she looked like a school teacher. So, I told her she looked like a librarian.

When the Man Picks the Movie...

We all know what a chick flick is, right? Has anyone come up with a term for movies that men like? I didn’t think so.

Let’s see…last night my husband watched a newly purchased DVD. Within the first thirty seconds of the movie, a man was shot by a weapon that separated the top half of him from the bottom half. I decided to open up my laptop and play a card game. Every time I looked up at the TV, something was blowing up, some kind of weapon was being fired, or someone was having their arm/leg/head shot off.

Let’s see what we know about the typical “guy film”:

The main character never follows the rules.

They never drive station wagons or minivans.

The only women they know are hookers and strippers.

Instead of good versus evil, the plots are more about bad (but in a cool way) versus evil.

They never wear cardigan sweaters.

They have names like Gunner and Snake, never Todd or Wesley.

The dialogue is typically “Hey, %$#@&*!” “What the #@%^ do you want?” “Go ^#$% yourself!”

If a character from a chick flick showed up in a man movie, and asked the question “How does all this killing make you feel?” they would be shot in the head.

If you are to make a comment like “Which Die Hard is this? I can’t tell them apart” they will look at you like you are as dumb as a rock.

Whatever you want to call them, these man movies will always be around and they are just going to get louder and more intense. But, I have two pieces of advice. The first one, and I can’t stress this enough—is if he says “Wow! Did you see that?” you must say YES, or he will back up the movie so you can see what effect a cannon has when it is shot at a man standing four feet away. The second one is in case Spike TV is running yet another Bond marathon. Pack yourself a lunch and leave the house. Maybe you can pick up that new chick flick on DVD, play it when you get home and count the amount of seconds it takes for your man to leave the room. Hey, and while he’s up, maybe he’ll start dinner. Ha ha, we women do like our fantasies, don’t we?

Can You PLAN to be Spontaneous?

I have a confession. I don’t have a spontaneous bone in my body. I’ve always envied those who do. And, you can’t fake it…like being blonde. But, that’s not to say I haven’t tried.


I remember when I was young and single, I was sitting in a bar waiting for a friend, and a guy approached me and offered to buy me a drink. “What would you like?” he asked. I looked at him slyly and said “Surprise me.” Whoa, I had no idea where that came from. Maybe, I needed to cut back on the hair dye. But, darned if his face didn’t light up when I said that. It was plain to see—men like spontaneous women.

I was feeling almost giddy…until the bartender placed before me…a White Russian. I immediately had a flashback (yes, this is a flashback in a flashback) to when I was a child, and my father would not allow me to leave the dinner table until I finished my milk. I spent hours at that table. I forced a smile and took a sip. Yup, there was that disgusting milk moustache. I tried not to shudder. A promise was born at that exact moment. I would never try to be something I’m not. A promise that I have broken too many times to count. But even today, I don’t drink milk. It turns out I am extremely lactose intolerant. No apologies necessary, Dad.

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning, my husband asked me what I wanted to do that day. I tried to think of something, but I was drawing a blank. “Why don’t you decide?” I suggested, and then it came out of my mouth again. “Surprise me.”

Now, I don’t know what the opposite of spontaneous is, but whatever it is, that’s what I am. And, my friends know it and my family knows it, and my husband figured it out within five minutes of meeting me. During our first year together, he would say “I have an idea. Why don’t you put your hair in a ponytail and throw on a baseball cap and we can go out for breakfast!” Our eyes would meet… and we would burst out laughing! That was as likely as me traveling with just one bag.

So, we got in the car and headed west. I tried to sound all carefree (oops, broke that promise again) and asked “Okay, what are we doing?” With a playful look in his eye, he said “We’re going hiking!” I managed a weak smile and turned to stare out the car window. Hiking? I had no backpack containing a rain jacket, food, and fresh water. We live in Colorado. In my mind, to go hiking in Colorado without the right gear and supplies… well, it’s just dangerous. I was wearing flip flops, which would be little protection against rattlesnakes. I didn’t even have my knife! Ever since I realized that bears eat people, and Colorado has bears, I have not gone hiking without a knife. You may think that’s silly, but in my mind “silly” would be bringing shark repellant. I am never silly.

My inner turmoil continued. What if I slip and fall into a crevice and am forced to gnaw off one of my limbs, because I don’t have a knife. It could happen. I checked my phone and it was only half charged! And worse than that, I didn’t even have lip gloss with me. Trying to hide my anxiety, I went on the hike. To my immense relief, I wasn’t eaten, I didn’t get dehydrated, and I didn’t even get chapped lips. BUT, I did get dirt in my flip flops. Will the words “surprise me” ever come out of my mouth again? No.

I’m not spontaneous. I like to say I’m prepared…and careful…and only slightly paranoid. So, if you hear the sound of a promise breaking, it’s probably just me, telling someone I’ve just met that I’m “laid back.” I wish.

When the Honeymoon is Over

Several years ago, I read a popular book on relationships. In it, the author described the different phases, but one in particular caught my attention. The “honeymoon” phase. According to this expert, this phase is the first two years of your relationship.


Apparently, Day 730 you are madly in love and can’t keep your hands off each other. Day 731 you are discussing twin beds. I was appalled at such a generalization. I had to believe the changes take years, and maybe for some couples, the honeymoon stage never ends.

Perhaps, you can identify with the subtle changes in these examples. The first one is when love is new. The second represents whatever the heck you call the next phase.


“It’s a beautiful day. I thought we could go for a motorcycle ride and take a picnic lunch.”
“That sounds wonderful. I love to feel the wind in my hair!”

“I have to get a part for the toilet at Home Depot and I thought I’d take the bike. You don’t want to go, do you?
“Someone has to clean the dog puke out of the carpet, and I guess that’s me. Besides, it leaves my hair a tangled mess.”


“John just invited us to dinner…would you like to go?”
“Oh yes, I can’t wait to meet him. I feel like I know him already!”

“We were going to have a guys-only dinner, but John forgot and asked his girlfriend. Do you want to go?”
“No thanks. He spits when he talks and his last girlfriend wore a school uniform and had a curfew.”


“Are you interested in seeing this movie with me? I know it’s kind of a chick flick.”
“I don’t mind…I just like to sit in the dark with you (wink).”

“You’ve watched three football games in a row. How about taking me to see a movie?”
“I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a hot poker……Honey, put that down.”


“The shower is leaking. Maybe I should call a plumber.”
“Nonsense. I can fix that in a jiffy.”

“How long do we have to live with no door on our refrigerator, and pretend that all the food isn’t rancid?”
“You ask me this every month. Nagging me isn’t going to make it happen any sooner.”


I sincerely hope your relationship will always be in the honeymoon phase. These examples have absolutely no resemblance to mine. In fact, I’m about to lovingly make him a late night snack of moldy cake and sour milk. Goodnight, all.

You Shouldn't Have...Seriously.

The other day I told my daughter I was going to write about the “gift face.” She immediately knew what I was talking about. “You mean the thing that you and I are so bad at?” “That’s the one.”


I loved to open presents as a child, but somewhere along the way I must have gotten a really, really, terrible gift. Now, opening presents fills me with anxiety. I guess I just don’t have good control of my face. And, insincere words coming from my mouth sound…well, insincere. And, if you are wondering if I am a bad poker player, YES. What I think of as my “nonchalant” face appears to others as if I’ve just discovered I have a second belly button. I cannot disguise whatever emotion I am feeling.

Just last Christmas, I was with my in-laws, and I opened a wrapped gift to discover a box of brownie mix. Not aware that the next box contained one of those new pans which make every brownie a corner (which I truly love!) I had to show utter delight with my brownie mix. As I was trying to look enthusiastic, I was wondering if they had done their Christmas shopping in their own kitchen. Should I be happy it wasn’t a can of pinto beans?

My daughter and I agree that my stepson is the master of the gift face. He would have been grinning ear-to-ear at a can of beans as if owning one was his wildest dream. Socks, underwear, a can of shaving cream, a cheese grater—he appears to treasure them all. I have to admit I’ve been tempted to play around a bit, and wrap something so lame even he couldn’t get excited over, but I honestly couldn’t figure out what that would be.

Thinking back a few decades, I may know when my fear started, or at least who started it. I won’t name them, but I will say they were a relative by marriage only. All eyes were on me one Christmas when I opened her gift to find a plastic wall clock. Not just any plastic wall clock, this one included a plastic replica of a fireplace, with a roller painted with flames, so as the battery-operated roller spun, it looked exactly like a genuine roaring fire. See, I can’t even describe it without getting sarcastic. Now, if you are thinking what an ungrateful person I am, you should know that she never used or wore any of the dozens of gifts I gave her over the years. Christmas was just a yearly reminder of how different we were.

One year she really got me with the gift that keeps on giving. It was a pie made of fabric and filled with potpourri. When I pulled it out of the plastic bag, I almost fell off my chair from the strawberry fumes. Maybe she thought the tears streaming down my cheeks were in appreciation of the gift, but I doubt it. She then said to me with a twinkle in her eye, “If the fragrance fades, you can put it in the oven for five minutes and the smell will come back.” Touché.

The pie that wouldn’t die wound up in a box with the fireplace clock, the oil lamp in the shape of Texas, the Dollywood snow globe, and the Dale Earnhardt fanny pack.

So, if you see me opening gifts in a dark corner, or sniffing the box before opening it, you will know why. And, I will continue to get anxious. Because I never know when a fish on a plaque that sings Take Me to the River will show up. Gulp.