Last week, Charlie surfaced just after my banana oatmeal chocolate chip cookie extravaganza. His first words were a sorrowful, “There aren’t any with raisins?” So, today I made cinnamony, oatmealy, raisiny cookies for the lil’ bro. Then, I dipped them in a thinned-out cream cheese frosting.
Things I’ve learned:
- I’ve gotta quit making this face. It isn’t attractive.
- A kitchen can be a jungle gym if you’re of a petite nature.
- You can never have too much cinnamon. Ever.
- My take on a hand mixer. Spiffy—they’re the best tools you got. One might even call them handy.
- Never photograph a half-cookie. Viewers are likely to wonder who consumed the other half. *guilty blush*
My father is a character—perhaps Elmer Fudd more so than Prince Charming.
For years, people have commented on my personality, its likeness to my mother’s. I’ve let it go to my head. “Look at me! I’m nothing like my father! Yay!”
Not true. I was soaking in a bubble bath tonight when I crashed cruelly into reality. Of all the personality quirks I could have inherited…*sigh*
My father has a humor appreciated by a small circle…namely, himself. He delivers jokes that draw deafening silence from a room, and yet he laughs on…and delivers the same faulty joke at the next gathering, and the next, and the next, and all of them in a 10-year rotation.
It occurs to me that I often find myself terribly witty in the face of a crowd whose eyes look upon me and call me “idiot”.
I was dining with my mother and aunts last night. My aunts were discussing how the couples with large height differences seem to be the happiest. They named off several examples, alighting upon the master and mistress of mlphillips last.
I replied immediately, “Well that’s because we don’t even try to see eye-to-eye.” I smiled the smile of someone who thinks they just said something remarkably funny.
The table conversation abruptly changed directions. My comment went unacknowledged. I continued to smirk about it all night. I should start a list of Jokes That Failed, but I fear its length.
Shuffling my feet, I whined, “I haven’t updated my website. Nothing noteworthy happened today.”
Mom, being the helpful sort, exclaimed, “But the kitchen floor is clean! You could post a picture!”
I snorted as I looked at her. “Yeeeaaaaah…..”
Much time has passed. I got nothin.
My father is a PBS addict. I hear from Miles that this can be common ailment among fathers. Every Thursday night during high school, he and I had a television power struggle. I, naturally, wanted to watch NBC’s Must See TV. I’ve always been one to follow commands.
Dad would kick and scream for his right to watch Outdoor Wisconsin, though he would start snoring about 10 minutes into the program—only to wake abruptly if you so much as brushed your fingertips against the remote.
Not much has changed with my father. One can, perhaps, give him kudos for his steadfastness. Meanwhile, I have stopped watching television nearly all together—aside from the occasional Golden Girls re-run, obviously. Last night, being Thursday, my father’s calculating eyes alighted upon my position on the couch as he lunged, dived, and rolled for the remote in a farcical parody (I suppose that phrase is a touch redundant) of stealthy operation.
I looked on, humored. “You’ve got no competition from me, Old Man,” I mused as I watched him straighten, remote tucked to his chest. He flattened himself against the wall, coming to the tips of his toes as he seemed to Riverdance to the couch.
I found it thoroughly delightful to watch the program this time.
Yes, that was sarcasm.
I thought it curious that the featured ice fisherman was wearing blaze orange.
In one segment, a man, probably in his early 30’s, was crying brokenly as the camera zoomed in on a yellowing, black and white picture of horse. I added my voice to the melodramatic soundtrack. In a poor Laura Petrie (of “Oh…Rooooooooob!” fame) imitation I cried, “It was the best horse there ever was!”
Mom, quick to wit, replied in the same poor imitation, “The horse got shot so I had to break his leg! Ohhhhhh! *sobs*”