Saturday, I’m on my way home from my weekly appointment with Patsy down to Hair Affair when, on a whim, I turn into the Agway parking lot. Don’t know why, ‘cause I’d planned on going straight home to clean the house. It just kind of happened. Generally, Charlie’s the one who shops at the Agway. Me, not so much. But there I was. So, I go inside thinking, ‘Maybe I can find another hanging plant for the deck.’
Well, spring has finally sprung here in Mahoosuc Mills. The tulips and daffodils are up, the forsythia’s in bloom. Women are spring cleaning, planting their annuals. The menfolk are revving up their lawn mowers. And the black flies are here in spades. I don’t let our little dog Scamp out at sunset ‘cause I’m afraid those flies’ll carry him away. I kid you not!
A few weeks ago, my Dad calls me up for a little advice.
“Ida,” he says, “a friend of mine wants to sell his condo, and he’s on the third floor. Where does he bury St. Joseph?”
“Huh! Beats me. Let me do a little research, Dad, and I’ll get back to you.”
If you had to choose, what would be your theme song? Not the one that describes you, per se, but the one you want to sing along with when you’re ready to let loose. In my opinion, when it comes to having fun, it helps to have a theme song, you know, to get you in the proper state of mind. Heck, sitcoms have ‘em. Why not you?
The Women Who Run With the Moose have had the same theme song for ages. But that all changed a few months ago, when Celeste, Rita, Betty Dot, Shirley, and me were down to the Juggernaut Lounge at the Holiday Inn for a girls night out.
So Saturday, I spent a little over $80 on lipstick. Really! And I’m over the moon happy about it, too!
See, I’ve been wearing the same shade of lipstick for years: “Berry Nice.” (Who comes up with these names, anyways?) It’s the perfect shade of lipstick for me: not too red, not too orange, not too pink. It’s just, well, Berry Nice!
I had a hankering for some banana bread, is how it started. So I bought three bananas when I did the grocery shopping last week. You need ripe bananas for banana bread, so I set them aside thinking, I’ll make the bread this weekend.
I says to Charlie, “I’m saving these bananas for banana bread, OK?”
No reply. “Charlie!” I hold up the bananas. “I’m saving these bananas for banana bread.”
“Heard you the first time, Ida,” he says.
“Well, sometimes it’s hard to tell, honey”
Well, we still have a few little patches of snow on the ground here in Mahoosuc Mills, but the ice is breaking up on the river and the birds are chirping up a racket. Spring is in the air; you can just smell it. Time for you-know-what: spring cleaning. Saturday, Charlie and me decided to get to it. While he made himself busy with a dump run and putting the snowmobiles to bed, I took one look at our oven, and decided to start there.
Well, I just finished making a batch of my Grandmother’s molasses cookies, and boy, they sure look beautiful, if I do say so myself. Just like I remember.
I have Grammy’s recipe written in her shaky hand on white (now yellow) lined paper. The thing even has Grammy’s molasses stains on it. My mother had it laminated for me years ago, and I’ve used it so much it’s starting to separate along the edges.
Sunday, we had a birthday brunch for our Dad, over to Irene and Jimbo’s. She made the “Egg Dish” (there’s only one) which is something our mom used to make involving about a dozen eggs, butter, bread, milk, and cheese. How can you go wrong with that combination, right? You whip it up the night before, and the next morning it bakes up nice and light. I brought along some fruit salad and cranberry nut bread, and Jimbo fried up a whole mess of bacon. As far as we’re concerned, if there ever was a “the food of the Gods,” bacon is it.
Here’s a question you won’t find on the SAT. If you’re supposed to get eight hours of sleep a night, and there are 24 hours in a day, why do they call it an “18 hour bra”? Shouldn’t it be a “16 hour bra”? Or more realistically, a 14 or 15 hour bra, because don’t you have to subtract the time you spend in the shower, or hanging around in your pj’s? Or are they trying to tell me I’m supposed to wear the 18 hour bra for two, three hours a night, in order to get my money’s worth?