Thanksgiving is a time to be truly thankful for family--and many things--particularly for not being a turkey!
My daughter took one look at the turkey in the refrigerator and said “It’s a little small, isn’t it?” Anything larger than 10 lbs. and I’d need to throw out an entire shelf of food. I’m stacking butter and dip, jams and mango salsa as it is…
I was informed that most people eat Thanksgiving dinner around 1:00. The pilgrims in my family began cooking the turkey around 4:00 p.m. I think my ancestors came over on a different vessel--later in the day, too.
I’m a descendant of Zachary Taylor, the 12th President. I’m not sure what time he had his Thanksgiving dinner…he looked well fed though. Back to turkey day...
I’m definitely thankful that I’m walking without my leg cast. My family is the joy of my life, And I’m blessed with friends--both near and far. I’m thankful for all my readers in cyberspace, too.
Last of all, I hope our resident ducks, Cruiser and Whitey will come around soon. They’ve been missing since Sept., no doubt living it up in warmer climes.
I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving-- and to those who don’t celebrate the holiday, have a great day! Gobble…
Hello, my dearies! Welcome to the Witchin’ Kitchen where I will brew up tales of Hollow’s Night of Yore.
Many harvest moons ago, there lived a family of four in the beach city of Santa Monica, where the foghorn bellowed and the dense fog swirledin ghostly waves, bathing the city in an eerie glow.
Halloween was spooky in our neighborhood. Houses all stacked like dominoes lined the unlit street, with narrow passageways between the houses.
I was convinced a witch lived in one of the houses along the walkway. Her pointy nose and glaring eyes always peered through the parted lace curtains at the window anytime I walked by.
Mom loved Halloween. She wore her huge black witch’s hat, and tied a sheet around her. Raisins dotted her face like old, gnarled warts.
Michael was a pirate and I, a witch--what else? I’m not sure if my Halloween bucket got pirated and pillaged by Michael as I stealthily tried to hide my treats.
Years later, we were living in the hot San Fernando Valley where thoughts of Halloween were brewing yet again. We decorated the house with ‘pumpkin tumbleweeds’. Mom had her warty, powdered face and dad had a few surprises of his own.
When the grandkids came over Halloween night, he told them to go to the closet... Suddenly, the kids were screaming--dad had his prosthetic leg propped up in the corner with an old shoe attached. That always gave dad a laugh.
As I later had my own family, I strung cobwebs, hung skeletons and spiders, stuck a candle in a cow’s skull, and played spooky howling tapes from the upstairs window that could be heard outdoors. Needless to say, there were few kids coming to the door!
It’s that time of year again, in another town where we have Halloween parades up the street of our gated community, and a few kids will come to claim their treats. I have an overfilled pot of candy waiting-- and maybe, a trick or two…
"Doctor, can you help me?" "What seems to be the problem?" "Writer's Block. I can't seem to get my funny on." "Ahh, yes, that could be a problem." "Ok...so what can I do about my writing drought?" "I don't know--can't think of a thing." Big help...
I need an elixir of Rodney Dangerfield, with a double shot of Woody Allen and Carl Hiaasen--something I can't get at Blue Martini! Some people are dripping with humorous anecdotes and one-liners, with little effort, it seems.
I could make fun of myself, I suppose. Tom's been calling me peg-leg. I've become glued to my sofa lately--not by choice. I fractured my ankle recently.
I'd rather be outside in the pool, enjoying the hot Florida sun, or on the Las Vegas trip we had to cancel this week.
So, I've been following orders to stay off my feet. I'm getting into the Cleopatra routine: Enjoying being waited on hand and foot--pardon the pun. More fruit, maybe a sweet tea, please.
I haven't been through a drive-thru in a long time. Maybe I'll get Jen to take me this week--though, with the luck that's been hitting me over the last few months, I'd probably wind up with an 'unhappy' meal! But I digress.
With a collective heave I hoist myself from the sofa, clogging my way to the kitchen to grab the Dustbuster. Cleo left her cookie crumbs between the cushions-- which has taken on the shape of her bum...
I've been sucked into creative quicksand. Sitting on the sofa, glancing out to the back yard, I'm waiting for an instant spark of something funnyto tickle the dormant folds of my usually witty brain.
This on and off period of writing has been the longest bout of writer's constipation I've ever experienced. It hasn't helped that I'd been sidelined by a 'locked'back, and most recently by an injured ankle--thanksto a misplaced tool box.
I've been watching The Weather Channel, and allof the whirling dervish spin-offs dancing off Africa.
Most seasoned Florida residents have grown accustomed to the over-hype--the prognosticationsof the weather men who can't wait for a tropical storm to hit the coast so they can valiantly smack-dabthemselves right in the middle of the event...
Every year the hurricane predictors say we're in for an extremely active season. I just took stock of my hurricane closet: 2 cases of Sam's water, some cans of soup, paper plates and cups and plastic ware,dry foods, as well as 2 propane camp stoves and enough propane canisters.
I also have 3 loaves of duck bread-- I've had to stock up since Cruiser is bringing her ducky friends to the house.If you are a new reader of my blog, Cruiser is a sweetMuscovy duck who chose our house to visit everyday.
She's been cruising around the yard from the lake for over a year. Only recently, Cruiser's brought alongWhitey--and occasionally, another duck we'venot named yet. They are both bread fiends...
Out back there's a swale, a flooded river running along the width of grass. A couple of weeks ago wespotted catfish spiraling out from the ground beneath the water, swimming quickly, then 'walking' into the woods, like something out of a Stephen King novel.
So, here I am, molting, waiting for a simmering idea to boil over, watching tiny lizards and a frog scoot close to the pool's edge...
There's a water bowl outside for the ducks. There was an Indigo snake coiled over the bowl a few weeks ago, sipping away...
Oh, I see two bobbing heads coming around the side of the lanai enclosure, like clockwork. Whitey and Cruiser are peeking over at mebetween the plants... Gotta go feed them...call of the wild!
If ya don't like my driving, stay off the road could've been my slogan when I was learning to drive. Unlike most people who were driving at 16, I was 27-- bulging with expectant parenthood.
Not only was it a tight squeeze, between me and the steering wheel, I was cursed with learning on a stick-shift in my husband's original VW Bug.
While my daughter was busy kicking me in the ribs, I was ready to stick the shifter! Frustrated that I wasn't sequencing that well with the clutch, brake, gas and stick, I'd decided that childbirth would be a hiccup compared to learning to drive that antique.
Tom was an airline captain and I was expecting that he was going to call ahead for special clearance--that an erratically driving female was loose on the road.
I'd managed to run over a row of rosebushes, cut the turn on the corner, causing a flabbergasted pedestrian to jump back a few feet.
Finally, after many driving lessons, I was ready to get my license. Lucky for the man testing my driving ills-- I mean skills--he passed me, out of sheer self-preservation. I guess hormonally-challenged females, this close to poppin', was something he didn't want to face--again.
It's a lucky thing I never became an airline pilot...
Reptilius Wrinkilum, characterized by and resembling shed snake skin, is an affliction shared by those humans who don't look like pancake batter.
Add a little unwanted 'real estate' and behold--it's a sight: Rippled layers of varnished, lizard-like skin that appears to have been squashed by a Goodyear tire, then stretched past the known capacity of nylon and spandex. In other words, miles of beach-tanned, bikini-ed and Speedo-ed torsos, frolicking back and forth under the tropical Florida sun.
The men are a 'whisper' away from centerfold exposure. The ladies prance along with dimpled, 'thonged' behinds-- looks like a Silly Putty convention...
I wore a swimsuit once, more of a flotation device--that, when I began swimming, would billow out--much like the inner tube I used to float on as a kid--drifting between the pilings of the Santa Monica Pier...
Rising from the bathtub-warm waters of the Gulf, I looked like a beached whale. Suddenly all the water dumped out from my swimsuit--along with a slithery Ramora I called Ramon--since it had clung to my ribcage the entire time.
So now, bikini clad, I notice that I'm not far from being in the select classification of Reptilius Wrinkilum--as I enjoy the tropical outdoors. I'm also noticing that I need to work out a little harder, too. Gosh, that almond cookie was sooo good... Sonia, I slipped...