The Riveting Conclusion of The Pink Fuzzy Slippers

“Dammit, girl, get out from under the bed!”

And that’s when I saw part of a tennis ball poking underneath the dust ruffle a few feet from the pink fuzzy slipper.

“Grandma?”

She took a shuffling step back, and I rolled out from under the bed, covered in dust bunnies.

“What were you thinking locking me outside like that? Good thing that door doesn’t close all the way and the deadbolt hadn’t caught. And I don’t know why you left the broom out there yesterday. I had to borrow the slippers just to go out there and get it.”

“Sorry, Grandma.”

“I bet.” She crossed her arms over her chest as best she could thanks to the permanent stoop of osteoporosis.  

She shooed me into the kitchen where I cleaned up the mess, and we finished supper. A full-blown storm raged and whistled outside putting a premature end to trick-or-treating. Grandma watched me as I did the dishes, savoring one of her Milky Ways. I poured the last of the spaghetti sauce into a spare container and opened the fridge to put it inside.

I had almost closed the refrigerator door when a glint registered, a glint coming from underneath the glass shelf just above the crisper drawer. I bent to open the door and found a bottle of Corona beside the lettuce.

“How in the heck did that get in here?” asked Grandma. “I poured all that mess out after your Aunt Elinor died.”

Hours later, Grandma snoozed in her chair as Leno soliloquized on the state of the union. I crept to the fridge and took out my prize. The cap popped off the bottle, and I looked to Grandma. She didn’t stir. I took a long sip of Corona.

And that’s when I heard the knock at the back door.

Shave and a haircut. Two bits.

Biblical Moment

When the going gets tough, the tough buy books.  That's why, after a rough Monday, I bought a new version of Amy Knapp's Family Organizer.  I bought my first one last year and have thoroughly enjoyed the layout as well as the perforated sections that make great grocery lists and bookmarks.  This year, I decided to buy the "Christian" family organizer.  (Which makes me ask if there's a pagan one, but that's another post for another day.)

As I was transferring data, I came across the verse for the week of September 30:

Endure hardships as discipline; God is treating you as sons.  For what son is not disciplined by his father?

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, I'm trying to make a connection between bad things and "discipline," but we were also taught that it rains on the just and the unjust.  So, is there a way to think that "hardships" are a way of discipline, or does that veer too closely to an idea of an angry Old Testament God who smites the wicked?  (That can be a rhetorical question, BTW.)

If you have a thought, feel free to express it.  I'll be back to something less than philosophical tomorrow. : )

Cinnamon toast

As I made cinnamon toast today, I wondered if the relatively simple recipe would be lost to my children just as I'll never figure out exactly how Granny Rowlett made biscuits.  For all posterity, here's how it ought to be done:

Preheat the broiler on the oven to high.

Put four pieces of bread on a cookie sheet. (All of my recipes are like this)

Spread a thin layer of butter on top.

Mix two teaspoons of cinnamon and two teaspoons of sugar in a small container and mix well then sift evenly on top of the bread.

Put toast under the broiler, but don't walk away.  Not even for a minute.  And how I know that is another story for another day.

Uh, Tuesday's Moment of Truth?

151.5 So I'm down 0.5 ounce from when I started on August 27th.  Am I going to make 135 by Christmas? Uh, no. Can I make "thin enough to fit in my pants" before Christmas? Lord, I hope so.