Shoo Fly, Don't Bother... The Dog?

This entry is almost too sad and pathetic to post but here goes anyway.

Mom's furniture finally (!!) arrived from Pods (who I do NOT recommend you use -- EVER) and we've spent the last couple of days hauling in boxes and unpacking. At one point I was in the kitchen unwrapping glasses while Bailey, Mom's fat Maltese, sat at my feet. He gave a whimper and I leaned over to pet him. A few minutes later, another whimper. Then a third, even louder.

"Mom--something's wrong with Bailey," I called.

She came in and looked around. "Oh, there's a fly," she said. "He's scared of flies." 

Seriously, folks? Scared of flies?

Sure enough, the next time the fly buzzed overhead Bailey ducked down as if avoiding the grasp of a circling pterodactyl. 

"You are an embarrassment to dogs everywhere," I informed him. His only reply was a whimper as the fly buzzed overhead again. 

"It's okay, Bailey," said Mom, appearing with a fly swatter. "Mommy will kill the fly."

"Okay, this just keeps getting weirder," I said. 

Just so you can all move on with your day, I'm happy to report that we succeeded in shooing the fly outside and Bailey the mighty Maltese is once again the ruler of the house. 

At least until a dust bunny shows up.

Cheers,

Dena

Welcome Mom to The Blog

Astute readers may have noticed from the recent Road Trip From Hell post that my mom is now living in North Carolina (2.7 miles from our house, but who's counting?). As such, readers can expect to see an increased number of posts featuring the "Mom" character and, possibly, an increase in posts filed under the "rants" category. 

It's been smooth sailing for the 6 days she's been here. Well, with minor bumps. Yesterday, for example, I came home with chicken breasts. Earth Fare was having a sale, buy one pound get one pound free, and Blair likes chicken so I figured, why not? 

Problem: I have no idea how to cook chicken whose main ingredient isn't "soy." Mom was over, so I asked her. "How do I cook this chicken?"

Problem: My mom hates to cook and probably hasn't turned an oven on in five years and has blocked out any knowledge she used to have of how an oven, or what goes in it, works. 

"I think you put it in the oven at something like 325 or 350 for thirty to forty minutes," she said. 

"Well which is it?" I asked "325 or 350?"

"I don't remember. Where are your cookbooks?"

"I only own vegetarian cookbooks. There's nothing in there on how to cook meat." 

"Well don't you just have an old Betty Crocker cookbook or something? It would be in there."

"Why would I have Betty Crocker? Betty Crocker cooks meat." 

"You don't have just a general cookbook?"

"What part of vegetarian are you not grasping here?"

Thank heavens for the Internet. (350 degrees for forty minutes to an hour for chicken breasts, if you're interested.) 

I think I better start exercising a little more patience around Mom. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure I'm going to wind up with a Betty Crocker cookbook in my stocking, come Christmas. 

Cheers,

Dena