Ah, the spice of life!

So, there I was, making yet another despicable dinner (kids' description), when I got the heebie jeebies. I had the unmistakable impression that I was being watched. I was! Up on the spice shelf, the head of Sister Anne Gregory (or was it Sister Raymond Louise?) was staring at me!
She seemed to be well preserved, with the ever present disapproving look only nuns can inflict. I was shaken and bewildered. My thoughts flying from the 3rd grade "thumping" ( modus operandi of Sr. Anne Gregory, where one would be pushed into next Tuesday with a continuous painful thump to the chest) I'd received; all the way to, "If I didn't put that pickled nunhead there, and I didn't, then who did?".
I asked the inhabitants of the house, save the cat (Sid) and the dog (Gus), and no one is taking credit. It's a real-life mystery. Right here in my own home.
Now, I must take time to answer the third installment of Name That Killer for C.H.K.
This one was so well known that the now touring band, The Vultures , even wrote a song about
Maurice Travis, called ZOMBIE HOOKER. A&E must have run that Murder Hour episode at least a dozen times. So, yes you must give up, because Kid, I know my murderers! ...and thump weilding nuns - oxymoron?! Could be!

The Postman Occassionally Honks Twice

I grew up in the city. Back when one would walk to a friend's house and stand below an open window or screen door and yell, "OOOhhh [insert friend's name], can you come out and play?". There were trash collectors who would work in twos, one to drive, the other to collect the cans , dump them in the back of the truck, and whistle when he wanted the driver to go to the next house. The mail carrier would walk the block, and deposit the mail in a slot that was an open portal to the house.
I remember my first experience visiting a rural place and seeing the mail being delivered by an unmarked station
wagon, kind of an undercover mail carrier. The driver sat in the passenger's seat and somehow worked the foot pedals and stearing wheel from the there. The mailboxes looked like an animal cage, or birdhouse, to me, sitting atop a wooden post. Always on the right side of the road, so the poor mail carrier had to drive their vehicle in the awkward position described above.
I also remember thinking that I would slit my wrists if I ever had to live in a rural place! AH, City Life!
The above photo was captured not too far (as the crow flies) from where I currently live.
In rural New England! And no, there has been no wrist slitting (as of yet). And what I have learned about rural living is vast, and humorous, and has opened my eyes to change, which is good.
Now, when I see a rural malebox (my guess is that this one is male) I can relate to the humor, or the desperate attempt, and know that somewhere in the city there are postal carriers who would love to be driving their routes undercover with the promise of entertainment along the way! And really, how many rural carriers can you name that have gone postal?
And speaking of names, the answer to NAME THAT KILLER two, is Richard Speck.

Cup O Dirt?

Today I actually counted the dirty glasses/cups I found in and around the kitchen. It was 3 pm; there were 11. Now, it must be said that I only have 2 children. Two children who didn't even get out of bed until 10:30 am. They then left the house (with me, of course!) at 11:30 am and we did not return until 2:30 pm. Now, you do the math!

We didn't even eat lunch at home!

How many cups/glasses of who knows what (see photo) can 2 kids get dirty in approximately an hour and a half???

The answer is 11! Well, at least today it was.

And speaking of answers, does Clifton Heights Kid think I wouldn't have the answer to name that killer?

Gary Gilmore, of course! And I even remember the song from SNL...Let's kill Gary Gilmore for X-mas (sung to the tune of Winter Wonderland)! You gotta love that!

You don't? Just kill me now.

In closing, as I must (the Murder Hour is about to begin), I'll just leave a little sumthin,sumthin, for YOUR MUM - you were me mum in another life, and another religion. Remember?

PS For the record, I don't have siblings. Ala Bart Simpson, I had an emergency sisterectomy right after Molly left her scathing comments! And by the way, my meds are better than your meds! Har!

Dog days, already?

Dog eat dog! My kids are at each other's throats constantly, and summer gives them more time to plot against each other, and me! If it's not one thing, it's their mother!
Now, I won't play the martyr card here(even though I was taught by the best) but how much can one take? Really.
"What's for dinner?" "What's for lunch?" "I'm hungry!" "I'm not eating THAT! I hate THAT!"
"Who ate my cereal?" (from a community box in the pantry) and the one that happened years ago, that made me pull the car over in a hysterical laughing fit, "SHE'S LOOKING AT MY DRINK!!!!"
No, it's not all about food, but I do find myself way too often having to stop whatever it is I am doing to feed some child (my own, or others')some husband (ok, just mine) or some animal (you know, the FAMILY pet!).
The dog in the kitchen? Couldn't find a pic with a stick of furniture sweating over the hot stove.
It works.

Celebrating the 4th with a fifth...

Hope I don't get sixth! Look,
It's the cereal that's shot from guns!
Maybe it's just me, but I don't get re-enactors. I can't even get up enough interest in my own life to get dressed in my own clothes, let alone re-enactment garb. Ok, I know there's more to it than that, but com'on!
So, where was I?
Ah yes, my family treating me as walking, talking furniture...although they don't hear a word I say, or notice when I've left a room, they have a sense that something has taken place in their realm. I have to give them that. Keen sense of awareness, when something even vaguely brushes passed their realm.
I've had a summer's worth full of arguments, disagreements, and general ugliness already, and it's only the 4th of July. Saints preserve us!
And hey, where did May and June go? Not to mention where that fifth went?! E-gads...