Aug 18
I think we should settle this right here — and right now.
The issue of towels. And how to fold them.
A stack of towels sets beneath the dining room lamp. Glowing in all of its new folded glory. This task has been performed by a male species because they do not honor the band on the edge of the towel. You know which band I am talking about, the 2 inch horizontal strip that doesn’t have any fuzzy stuffies coming from it.
I believe this flat band was put there for mothers like me, who like to watch Oprah while creating that perfect crease without having to look away from the TV. Yes, that band is my hero. I can mindlessly fold my towel in half then tri-fold it over so that when it is placed onto a shelf, (and not left to bask beneath the dining room lamp), it is the just right size for making two rows which not only feature the pretty band facing up, but allow for extra blankets and pillows to have a home, too.
The men in my house have a different technique. It’s the one with choirs singing above it called “ignore the band all together” — just get the towel bunched into a square and shove it onto the shelf while hoping the door closes.
I dunno — maybe I am having one of those Calgon moments where you bathe in wildflowers. I should be grateful the guys actually washed them. The last time Kyle went near the towels, he informed he took a short-cut. “They were dirty so I just threw them in the dryer with one of those scented thingys”.
Today’s Life Recipe: Appreciate thy band and the terri-cloth shall hum.
Painting, Blue Bonnet Rain, used in this blog is by Artist Michael Warren.
Saturday, August 3oth is Debbie’s first Flip Your Dish event, benefiting the Children’s Miracle Network. There will be art by Michael Warren, live music and a raffle valued at over $600. Click here for details!
Aug 03
Okay, I don’t normally text and tell, but then again I’m rolling so I have to.
My sister text messaged me. Asked if I heard about her husband’s leg going through their ceiling. Since the headline hadn’t made it to my small east Texas town, I quickly wrote her back. Asked if he was okay, which part of the ceiling took his big foot — that sort of thing.
She answered their den. His right leg. It’s all scratched up.
Visualizing my sister’s husband — a computer whiz with similar gifts for carpentry as my hubby– (Sorry Ken but remember when you “fixed my car door?” Well,,,,, it fell off at Dairy Queen last night. It’s hanging by a black wire in our driveway), I quickly texted her a LOL !!! Take a picture! I’ll turn it into a blog post.
She wrote back quickly. Okay. I’ll take a picture. He’s sleeping.
I am sure my head did the puppy dog tilt as I read and re-read her text for a third time. Did my sister think I meant her husband’s leg? Take a picture of his scrapes?
Oh! LOL! hahahahahahaha! Yes, I thought you meant his leg! Okay — I’ll go take a picture of the ceiling, now.
(Do you see why I had to text and tell? Apples don’t fall far from the tree… or car doors… or ceilings…)
Today’s Life Recipe: Not everyone can be fixers. That’s why God made pixers! LOL !! I couldn’t help it !!
Jul 21
If necessity is the mother of invention, then why do they say,
”father knows best?”
Do not ask me. Ask your father. “But dad doesn’t know anything.” Okay. I’ll give you that. Hey Ken - where are all of your towels?
I don’t know. I was wondering the same thing myself.
See what I mean? Ken is funny, he is kind, he can arrange coals on the grill and cook up the best steaks ever, but sometimes my husband simply has no idea. Step into my living room. Into the middle of any conversation.
Hey mom - where’s my blue baseball belt?
Probably attached to the baseball pants you can’t find either.
I didn’t ask you dad. Mom - have you seen my belt?
Did you look in your room?
Yeah - I thought I did when I was looking for a t-shirt. But I didn’t see a blue belt.
All right. Let me help you. Hey Ken! I found your towels! Kyle - you can’t take dad’s towels and throw them on your floor. You need to at least hang them up.
I have an idea! How about we install hooks all over Kyle’s floor. That way when he throws stuff, he’s bound to get one on there.
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Jun 30
Faire du cafe (environ 1 tasse), le mettre dans une assiette creuse.
I sampled an awesome no-bake miracle in St. Tropez. The chef autographed a copy of his prized French recipe for me. I wanted to share it with you. So I googled a freebie translation from French to English website. To my surprise, the translation said that I needed to “broadcast a refrigerator”. Hmmm… I have never heard of that before. What else does it say to do? Hmmm. It says that I should “ascend the blank eggs at snow with a clamp. To salt all right farms, and there pay him sugar and soften him butter”…
Granted, I have seen crazier recipes than this, so I figured what the heck. I begin with a broadcast from my personal refrigerator. Mommm! Bring me a bottle of water! I toss an Aquafina to my thirsty son. He points to the UNO deck. Dabbrie! It’s your turn!
Hah! Dabbrie? Is that my new name?
“Mommmm… Dabbrie… Debbie… just go! It’s your turn!”
“Dabbrie…..” Ken quicky breaks out his Yoda voice, Kyle instantly knows that his father’s whacky impersonation of grandpa is going to be better than my freebie cake translation.
“So you want to know how we named your mother Dabbrie young Kyle? Well your grandmother was in labor in the back seat of my old Chevy. And she was screaming ‘drive faster, faster!’ But the road was blocked with all sorts of debris. Brown eggs, biscuits, stinky pink Kleenexes… This very nice astronaut in the vehicle next to ours flew out of his car. He floated in his bubble helmet across the road and moved everything with his long hose so that we could get to the hospital. I tried to pay him in sugar but he softened like butter saying, ‘there you go sir. I have cleared the debris so that you can have your baby.’ Well young Kyle, after your mama was born she was a little stinky pinky herself, so we named her Dabbris in honor of that kind astronaut. Now go. It’s your turn. Debbie? What’s for dessert?”
Ummm,,, no-bake cake, I think.
Apr 18
“An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
On Monday, April 21st, Victor, (the director at CBS19), will count backwards, then shout ACTION! As he ques me, several months of believing that a 2 minute food broadcast and webcast could actually include healthy dollups of family funnies, will come to life. There are lots of neat prizes – like a $50 gift basket filled with Barefoot Contessa brownies and Godiva Chocolate.
You, my new friends via blogville, are invited to take a sneak peak at the video page. This inside scoop link will be available in this blog on Monday the 21st. Until then I am hot gluing olive oil bottles onto backdrops. While I try not to knock anything over, I am going to re-run one of my favorite blog posts from January. I hope you enjoy POWER RANGER BANANA!
Kyle has just called me from school…He forgot the all important IPOD and wanted me to bring it when I picked him up. “Don’t forget.” He reminds me twice.
I’ve got a column deadline to meet, plus two meetings back to back, but his IPOD jumps to the top of my priority list. Lucky for him, I remember bananas are big deals. Yes, bananas.
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Mar 17
“Boo!”
“Boo Who? It’s Easter!”
Time. Where does it go? It sure flies. It seems like only yesterday I was waiting until the last minute to carve pumpkins. Now I am trying to dodge white vinegar and color fizz tablets.
Kyle is reminding me that I have this terrible habit… that at Halloween I tried to escape the great pumpkin… tippy-toeing through the house when he caught me inches from my bedroom door.
“Mommmm! Don’t go to bed! Draw a picture on the pumpkin so dad can carve it.”
“Ohhhhhh Kyle — it’s late, it’s bedtime, can’t we do it tomorrow?”
“Nope we can’t do it tomorrow. It’s tradition to do it the night before.”
(Poor kid — doesn’t realize that some households actually have jack-o-lanterns on the porch for a week already.)
“Kennnn” I plead but it’s pointless, I’ve been doing the pumpkins for decades. “Can you draw the picture this time? I’ve been doing it for 23 years.”
Kyle freaks out. “Daddd!!! No way!!! Dad can’t even write cursive!!!”
(It’s true — Ken is a lefty and can barely print. When Marissa was in fourth grade he wrote her teacher a note and the teacher sent it back home with a detention– insisting Marissa wrote it herself.)
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Feb 17
Mom? Can you give me “the talk” when it’s time rather than dad?
I do not want dad to tell me… it’s just bad aroma.
Kyle age 11
It stinks that Ken cannot be taken seriously. Then again, it stinks that he can. Especially when he is trying to be my knight and shining armor — and I have to play Penelope Pitstop.
Enter the Davis kitchen… Three years ago. Ken and I had just gotten home from a doctor’s appointment. I had been short of breath. My symptoms were teri-cloth. I could not walk across the house carrying an armful of towels. It turns out I was slightly anemic — needed to eat more spinach. My family was delighted. They surrounded my ankles with laundry baskets.
Back to my pre-eat-more-greens diagnosis… Ken has run to the pharmacy and purchased a blood pressure monitor. My hero is practicing on himself. Sitting on a chair – bare chest, hip to hip beside the dishwasher. As seriously as I can, I ask him why his shirt is lying on top of the microwave oven.
“Why are you sitting next to the dishwasher?”
“Because” he waves one arm, valiantly, “I am trying to figure out how to use this stupid blood pressure monitor, so I can show you what to do. So far, all I have done is taken my blood pressure three times and given myself a heart attack.”
I cannot laugh, I cannot laugh…I repeat this at least 6 or 50 times.
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