Mother is a verb, not a noun

My boy is  no longer a little boy, but when he was little he was quite the pipsqueak⁽¹⁾.  He’s never been overly interested in sports or other physical type activities.  When he was about 5 or 6 his father decided that it would be good for him to get involved in something physically challenging and enrolled him in Taekwondo.  I couldn’t particularly argue with that; however, the kid was not at all interested.  Consequently, he did as little as he possible could to progress through the program . . . most of the time just going through the motions and putting in very little effort.

⁽¹⁾Pipsqueak . . . when a bird begins to hatch from an egg, the hole or crack that appears in the shell is called a "pip." The process of emerging from the egg is called "pipping." While still in the egg, the little chick makes squeaking noises. Therefore, a "pipsqueak." Now the word is associated with anyone small and/or insignificant.

So, one day after he’d earned a couple of belts . . . I think he was a green belt by this time . . . I had punished him for doing something or other.  He was like, “I could kick your butt; I know Taekwondo.”  To that I replied, “No matter how big you get or how much Taekwondo you know I’ll always be able to take you out.”  He apparently perceived this as a challenge and proceeded to try to swipe my legs out from under me.  It was pretty much like a breeze pushing against a tree . . . it was almost laughable.  So, I took him out.  I didn’t hurt the kid . . . unless you count his pride . . . I just hooked my foot behind his leg and gave him a little shove and he was flat on his back. 

Needless to say, he never threatened to “kick my butt” again.  Don’t mess with mom!

Moms rule!  Kids drool!  

Soft White Sandwich Bread

2 Cups Warm Water (110 Degrees Fahrenheit)

2/3 Cups White Sugar

1 1/2 Tablespoons Active Dry Yeast

1 1/2 Teaspoons Salt

1/4 Cup Vegetable Oil

6 Cups All-Purpose Bread Flour

Makes two loaves

In a large bowl, dissolve the sugar in the warm water. After the sugar is dissolved, stir in the yeast, and allow the mixture to "proof" until the yeast resembles a creamy foam.

Into the yeast mixture, add the salt and the oil. Gradually mix in the flour, only one cup at a time. On a lightly floured surface, knead the dough until smooth and place in a well oiled bowl, turning the dough to coat. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and allow to rise until doubled in bulk. This usually takes about one hour.

After the dough has finished rising, knead for a few minutes, and divide in half. If you have a scale, weigh out the pieces to ensure even baking. Shape each piece of dough into a loaf shape, and place them in two well oiled, 9-by-5-inch loaf pans. Allow the dough to rise for 30 more minutes, or until dough has risen about 1 inch above the pans.

Bake the loaves at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 30 minutes, until golden brown on top.

Remove the loaves from the pans and place them on cooling racks.

NOTES FOR KITHEN AID MIXER USERS: Proof your yeast in the mixing bowl then add the oil/salt, then add the flour, approximately one cup at a time, with the dough hook on low speed. Once all the dry ingredients are in come up to medium speed for 5 minutes. Then take the dough out, fold it over on itself to redistribute the yeast, make a ball, and place it back in the same bowl after you drizzle a tablespoon of oil (veggie or olive) and turn the dough to coat evenly. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and then a kitchen towel.

There are a number of tricks if you think your kitchen is too cool. Turn your oven on for 20 seconds and then right off. Put the dough in to rise. I set mine about 4 feet from the stove and turn it once. However, get it over 115 degrees and you'll kill the yeast.

Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.

For as long as I’ve known my husband, he has a Scrooge mentality when it comes to Christmas . . . not the penny pinching but the whole bah humbugginess.

In fact, the other day while I was getting things ready for Christmas . . .  playing Christmas music, baking Christmas cookies, wrapping Christmas presents and putting up the Christmas tree he personified Sir Ebenezer superlatively.  I’m not sure what his problem is.  I do most of the holiday preparations all he has to do is buy me awesome presents.  So I asked him to put the lights on the tree . . . that IS the man’s job . . . and he promptly announced that Christmas was cancelled.  

HA . . . who does he think he is?  Like he has the authority to cancel Christmas . . . as if!!  He’s not Santa!

Despite all his pre-holiday grumpiness, he really is quite a sweetie . . . just like the other humbug . . . as opposed to the contemptuous exclamation made by ol’ Scroogey himself.

I grew up having humbugs at Christmas time . . . although I never knew that’s what they were called.  I just thought they were Christmas candies.  Humbugs are striped candies, usually peppermint that have a hard outside and a soft toffee middle.   

My mom used to put them out in little dishes.  By the time the holidays were over, if there were any of those candies left (and there usually were), they ended up being all stuck together in a sugary cluster.  

Bah humbugs!

Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.

If you’re a regular reader of my blog you know that I always talk about my relationship with my sister as being tumultuous and sometimes violent.  ‘twas true for sure during our teenage years but we’re well beyond that and we get along quite sisterly nowadays.  We buried the hatchet, as it were, decades ago. No, not in one another’s heads.  Gruesome!

Bury the hatchet  . . . to forget about arguments and disagreements with someone and to become friends with them again  . . . is literally what it says . . . to put your weapons in the ground and cover them with soil.  The phrase originates as a Native American tradition.  Tomahawks, knives and bows were ceremoniously buried by tribes when they came to a peace agreement to symbolize the end of war.

According to tradition,  the Iroquois leaders Deganawidah and Hiawatha convinced the Five Nations (the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca) to stop fighting amongst themselves and form a confederacy. To celebrate the new peace, the Iroquois buried their weapons under the roots of a white pine. An underground river then miraculously washed the weapons away so the tribes could never use them against each other again. 

A valuable moral to be learned from a brave and noble people.

Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.

Albert Einstein

Another term for balloon is bad breath holder

If you have stinky breath do you know it?  Chances are no . . . most people are so desensitized to their own smell that you probably wouldn’t know it if you reeked of corpse flower and Limburger cheese.

Most people are too polite to tell you that your breath smells yucky.  People passing out all around while you’re talking may be a good indicator.  So, if someone offers you a mint or a stick of gum that may be an oh-so subtle hint that your mouth is a sulfur factory . . . so take it.

Since you can’t tell if you’re breathing stench or not there are a couple ways to tell.  And, no, breathing into your hand and sniffing it doesn’t work.  Remember, you think you smell as fresh as a newly hatched daisy no matter how nasty you stink.

How can you tell?  You can start by looking at it in a mirror.  If it’s white and scaly in appearance you can be fairly certain you’ve got dragon breath.  A more sure fire way to tell is to lick the back of your hand, let it dry for a few seconds, and then smell the surface.  If it stinks then . . . well . . . you stink. 

How do you fix it?  Mouth cooties don’t like oxygen so drink lots of water and chew gum that produces saliva . . . both of which are oxygen rich and help to get rid of those oral critters.

How do you prevent it?  Watch what you stick in your mouth.  Stinky food equals stinky breath.  Brush your teeth and your tongue.  Yes, brush your tongue.  Scrub those buggers right off of there!

I hope this helps.  I’m being as subtle as I can.  YOU know who you are. 

Firewater Friday - Maggie's Drawers

Maggie’s Drawers . . . a strange expression, to be sure.  I came across it while reading a book that made reference to Lee Harvey Oswald's shooting skills.  According to the testimony given to the Warren Commission by a fellow Marine: "I remember seeing his [shooting]. It was a pretty big joke, because he got a lot of "Maggie's drawers," you know, a lot of misses, but he didn't give a darn . . ."

Among old time military types, it means to miss something completely.  On a military rifle range when a shooter misses their target the spotter in the pit waves a red flag indicating a miss. 

The targets are generally a fair distance away from the shooters, so the flag has to be big enough so that it can be seen by the people on the firing line. The large flag is reputed to be as big as "Maggie's Drawers” (underwear).

. . . "it was quite funny to look at, because he would get a couple of disks. Maybe out of a possible ten he'll get two or three Maggie's drawers. Now, these [the Maggie's drawers] are a red flag that's on a long pole, and this is running from left to right on the target itself. And, you don't see this on a firing line too often--not a Marine firing line. . . And we thought it was funny that Oswald was getting these Maggie's drawers so rapidly, one after the other. And this is why I can't think that he could be a good shot, because a good shot doesn't pull this. He'll pull a three, but he won't pull a Maggie's drawer-- that's a complete miss."

The expression is a reference to an old . . . albeit obscene . . .  folksong.  There are different versions of the ditty but I will spare you and share a milder . . .  but still nasty . . .  rendition. 

Those Old Red Flannel Drawers That Maggie Wore

They were wrinkled at the top,

For a nickel they would drop,

Those old red flannel drawers that Maggie wore.

They were baggy at the knees,

And the crotch was full of cheese,

Those old red flannel drawers that Maggie wore.

There were maggots in the cheese,

You could hear the bastards wheeze,

Those old red flannel drawers that Maggie wore.

May you never shoot Maggie's Drawers.

Cool Beans? COOL BEANS?!?!? What the heck is that?!!?!

An expression I use all the time is "cool beans".  It’s fun to say and  . . . just in case you’re not familiar . . . it is used as an exclamation express a positive outcome.  For example:

Cheech: Hey man, look at this car made out of weed!
Chong: Oh, cool beans, man!

It’s not generally used by cool people . . . but whatever . . . I was never ‘in’ with the ‘in’ crowd anyway.

Which brings me to the origins of "cool beans", it wasn't as enigmatic as I expected it to be.  It has absolutely nothing to do with refrigerating your coffee beans to keep them fresh.  The roots of the phrase come from a groovier time . . . when love was free, bras were burning and tripping was fab.

The stoners getting blitzed on ludes and acid called their drug of choice “cool beans” because they’re shape made them look like . . . well . . . beans; not much of stretch there. 

The phrase managed to pass through years unscathed becoming so uncool that now only geeks like me use it.  

Far out!