Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

In the year of our Lord 2016 decorating the Christmas tree, for some strange reason, went down a little different than any past year I can recall. My husband was here “helping.” Now I get the song God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman! Just go take a nap already!

Last week some thoughtful male in our home brought the Jenny Craig imitation tree into the living room for me. How nice! Except that it didn’t get covered all year from Last Christmas and was filthy. Upon request, a son of mine dragged it to the backyard for me and I gave it quite the shower…. lights and all. I couldn’t remember if the lights actually worked and I knew we had 27 million strings of lights from our daughter’s wedding in the garage. Her wedding wasn’t IN the garage… that’s where the lights were.

A day later an extension cord was also brought to the backyard to see if the shower killed the lights. Surprisingly, they worked! Joy to the World! Back in the house that skinny tree was dragged.

Decorate-the-O-Christmas-Tree day quickly turned into clean-out-the-garage day, much to my chagrin. It all started at 10 a.m. with the typical where-is-the-box-with-the-decorations search and recover mission. Then the shelves got cleaned out and the toilet paper and paper towels were put on the clean shelves. Then we swept the garage floor. Then the camping equipment got put back on the shelves. Then a ton of junk got thrown out. Then I got a big scrape on my arm that produced blood. Then we swept the garage floor again. Then we threw out the dilapidated camping chairs that served their purpose for 11 strong years. (This is how my kids write stories. Every sentence starts with “then.” It really holds the interest of the readers and keeps the story moving along rapidly.) Then we found the bag of sheep’s wool that we will need to study sheep in January. Then we were all hungry. Then the Popsicle man came at the right moment. Then five kids from the youth group showed up and ate tacos at our kitchen table.

Side note: this was a stay-at-home-and-look-ugly day. I hadn’t even brushed my hair. I did brush my teeth because you can only be so gross on a stay-at-home-and-look-ugly day. I was sporting a red t-shirt, grey bally sweat pants that are floods, fuzzy black slippers and a light blue and pink Peter Rabbit apron covered with ruffles. The Popsicle man is probably used to this sort of housewife-dressing-down-deal. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

It was 7:30 p.m. when Nora, our 13-year-old, could not take the suspense any longer and begged to decorate the tree. Okay, Okay! Don’t get pushy! Let’s get this Blue Christmas rolling!

We weren’t ten minutes into our mission when realization hit me that my husband hasn’t really helped hang ornaments on the tree for YEARS! He was not aware of the ornament rules and was breaking the ornament rules faster than I could instruct him in the ways of righteousness. Little ones on top. Big ones on bottom…. but not the last row of branches. Ugly ones in the back. Elvis ones in the back. (I had to make that two rules so Rick didn’t know I think the Elvis ornaments are ugly. Shhhh.) Expensive ones at eye level and next to lights. Sheesh. How hard is it? It was notably NOT a Silent Night!

Here is the front and center of our tree: (Several rules are broken!)

Then he figured since I had rules, he needed to make some rules. “Don’t linger by the ornament box! Just pull out your ornament and move away from the box!” Sheesh! I’ll admit I rolled my eyeballs toward heaven a few times and thanked God that He gave me All I Want for Christmas in this helpful man.

So, It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas at the Crosby homestead! I pray your decorations went up with glee! May your Christmas be merry and bright at this Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Cooking with the Pilot

Wandering into the kitchen one morning last weekend, my hockey-playing, pilot husband, who is an exterminator and has a degree in Biblical studies, was vigorously chopping some food source in a frying pan on the stove. I mention his hobbies, schooling and his occupations to point out that he has no formal, or informal for that matter, training in the culinary arts. NONE! He is widely renown for his burnt grilled cheese sandwiches. So his attempt at cooking amused me initially. As I began to ascertain the situation at hand, I became highly amused…. blog-worthy-amused!

On impulse at Costco, my sweet husband, the provider for our family, purchased a skid of hashbrowns. Just look at how crispy-fried those salty morsels appear! He was probably salivating in the super store. Gluten free and 100% REAL potatoes. How could he go wrong?

Kindly I explained that the objective of hashbrown cooking is to leave them alone so they can get brown and crunchy. Smashing them to smithereens won’t get the desired results. Previously I had cooked two boxes of said Costco bulk purchase, so I was quite well-informed on the procedure.

Peering into the pan, something didn’t seem right. The limp potato strips looked dry (and smashed.) Kindly I inquired, “Did you read the directions?” It was an honest question. As soon as my question was delivered, my 13-year-old daughter, who has been trained in our kitchen by my capable side, started laughing and pointed at her dad the I-told-you-so-finger-of-doom. Seems she already mentioned reading the directions to him. That’s my girl!

Rick, Mr. Master Chef, (term used very sarcastically) opened the little carton of goodness and dumped the freeze-dried potatoes in the hot frying pan. He realized something was off. His spidey senses alerted him to the need for butter. In went a dollop of creamy yellow goodness. Butter is the answer to SO MANY cooking situations.

THEN he proceeded to read the directions. And I’ll admit, the instructions for this delicacy are unusual. 1. Open carton and add hot water to the fill line. 2. Close carton and let stand for 12 minutes. Drain well.

Uh oh.

Things were off to a poor start. The pan he had chosen was obviously too small if water was to be added, so he switched to a larger pan. (The only reason I know this is because I discovered a small frying pan in the sink with the remains of burnt freeze-dried potatoes stuck to its non-nonstick bottom.) It was too late to add water to the carton full of spuds, so he added water to the frying pan full of crunchy strips and butter. It said HOT water, so the stove burner was turned to HIGH, obviously. Just like whipping up a grilled cheese sandwich to quality blackness.

Disclaimer: my daughter filled me in on this whole process after the fact so this is all hearsay.

Okay, thinking he was good, he went back to the directions. 3. Preheat a large, non-stick skillet and 2 TBSP. oil over medium-high heat. So, FAIL on the non-stick part. Next oil was poured over the soggy white, limp, smashed potato strips. Doesn’t this make you want to have some???

This is when I wandered in… to witness the mutilation of the oily, half-saturated delicacy. Kindly I probed to see what oil he used. There are four oils in my cupboard: coconut, olive, sesame and vegetable. He had a 75% chance of success. Again, my daughter who loves home-ec informed me in a Dad-is-so-busted tone, “He used butter from your bowl. The one you measured to make cookies.” Ooooh, there are several things that could make this mama go all kinds of crazy on you. Using my softened butter that is measured in a bowl for baking is one of them. And she knew he knew better! That’s my girl. Again the finger-of-doom was pointed at the perpetrator.

It’s doubtful if he ever did read 4. Fry on one side for 3-4 minutes, or until golden brown. Kindly I offered to show him how to divide the pan of scrumptiousness into thirds and flip them to golden brown perfection.

Surprisingly, they tasted okay.

The moral of the story is: When at first you don’t succeed, fry fry again.

Or: Touch mama’s measured butter and die a slow death of much pain. (Kindly I let him live.)

Don’t You EVER Look at Me?

Through the years, I have uttered these words to my sweet husband more than I can count on all my fingers. Just to name a few memorable moments, once I made it to church and through the service and into the bathroom afterward… only to have a caring woman tell me that the neck lining to my dress at the back was hanging out like a huge tongue. Nice. “Don’t you ever look at me?” was asked of my dear husband.

Then there was the baby spit up on my sweater. Then there was pink eye in both eyes. Then there was the drastic haircut that I got earlier this week that went unnoticed until my sweet Nora asked her daddy, “Do you like mom’s hair?” That translated in my mind to “Don’t you ever look at mom?”

But today, the tables were turned. It was $5 16 oz. day at Yogurtini and my darling husband, Nora and I were basking in the balmy Arizona March evening, when my handsome husband turned to me and used MY LINE, “Don’t you ever look at me?” I chuckled and looked at him… nothing. I had given him a terrible haircut a few weeks back when he asked for a cut at 11:30 p.m…. and I wondered if he went and had it fixed. Nope. I chuckled some more, “That is my line. Why are you saying that?” He just kept looking straight at me with his chin tilted up slightly.

Then I saw it. His soul patch was missing. I have never loved the 1/2″ square of facial hair that he has sported under his lip since 2007 or 2008. But I am not the boss of him. Here I found a picture for proof from his 2009 birthday. (Our photos are sadly missing from 2006 – 2008… don’t ask.)

Right outside Yogurtini, with my mint-colored plastic spoon in my hand, I could not stop laughing. Oh, my baby-face husband had returned without me even noticing. I think I have blocked the little hairy patch for so many years that I trained my mind not to look at his chin. Yeah, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“It’s been gone since Tuesday,” he reported. It’s Saturday night. Oh boy.

Seems that his employment change brought on a more strict facial hair rule. Thank you State of Arizona. Reason #2,727 that I am glad we moved here 19 years ago.

 

Rock On, Rickey!

Last night in the dark of the master bedroom way past midnight I apologized to my sweet husband for not doing anything for his 49th birthday. The special day when he entered our world is Feb. 3rd, but he was in Kansas City learning how to use the new glass cockpit on the King Air 250. Flight training trumps birthdays, obviously. And truthfully, I don’t think I could have come up with something to beat his enjoyment level of time in the flight simulator.

The nice people at Flight Safety realized it was Rick’s birthday when they copied his passport for identification. They gave him a Flight Safety polo shirt, a mug and a basket of goodies! See? He wasn’t entirely forgotten. Sheesh.

We couldn’t celebrate early because I was visiting my sister for 13 days, then Rick and I saw each other for two hours before he left for five days in KC. I have no excuse that I can remember for when he got home, but I know we were really busy. REALLY busy.

As our son, Austin, knows from experience, if you travel and are gone on your birthday it is forgotten. Period. He did ask me two months later if I would buy him a new Bible for his two-months-ago special day. I did. I’m the nice mom, remember?

After my apology, Rick replied, “Don’t worry about it, Honey. It’s okay.” My response surprised him as I said, “Okay. Thank you. … … … Don’t EVER forget my birthday!”

We shared a belly laugh and he summarized the comments, “And THAT is the difference between us!”

Happy belated birthday, Rickey! I love you!

I Get by with a Little Help from my Friends

My handsome husband and I are still in our forties…. barely. By the skin of our teeth, but we ARE!  We were caught off guard this week when we both asked for help with COMMON words that we could not remember. I started the memory-fail game by asking, “What are those things called that come out of the ocean and are shaped like stars?” The confused look on his face lead me to believe he thought I was joking. Sadly, I was not. “Starfish?” Oh, yeah… and we broke out into laughter because laughter is good for your soul.  And after you can’t recall the word starfish and/or you realize your spouse can’t recall the word starfish you need something…. anything that is good for your soul.

The very next day hubby was at the kitchen table texting someone, looked up and asked me, “What are those things called that go up in the sky and explode in pretty colors?”  …. I looked at him with that same confused look he gave me the previous day and answered, “Starfish?  … or did you mean fireworks?”  And we both laughed heartily again, as this seems to be the go-to response for aging in our home.

And names!  GAH! Really, we should all have our names tattooed on our foreheads, then there would be no need for racking our brains to remember names. I loved it when my boys were little and on hockey teams with their names written on the their helmets on hockey tape. Easy Peasy. My husband and I have an unwritten rule that I am talking with a person and he walks up, if I don’t introduce him, it means I have forgotten the person’s name. Then he puts out his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Rick,” and saves the day.  It works perfectly!

Mothers have forgotten their children’s names for all of history and that is somehow forgiven and thought of as common. When we were recently in the DMV for son #2’s driver’s license, his number was called and he started walking toward the counter without the needed paperwork that was in my hand. So I called him… by his father’s name… and then added, “Or whoever you are.” He turned back to get the papers and rolled his tootsie-roll brown eyes at me. Another mother seated a few seats over laughed and said that she does that all the time with her kids! That didn’t really make me feel better… just commiserated with company.

I won’t even get into trying to follow recipes at the ripe old age of 48. Don’t get me started. Don’t even get me started.

Yet Another Event-filled Trip

(Blurry photo courtesy of yours truly!)

Yet another event-filled trip including airports, airplanes and mishap after mishap.  It started with the suitcase being 62.5 lbs… 12.5 lbs OVER the weight limit.  Do we want to pay $75 for 12.5 lbs.?  NO!  So the unzipping of said bulging suitcase and our two carry-on suitcases commenced.  Followed by much shoving and re-weighing.  Finally, we got it down to 49.5…. but the airport scale announced a .5 lb. gain on the drive to the airport.  Whatev.

On the drive to the airport in the dark of the early morning, I realized I neglected to adorn myself with my silver jewelry and my WATCH!  I am going to be late ALL WEEK!  Thankfully, a fellow glamor queen brought two and shared.  When we got to the airport, I dug around and found replacement jewelry so I wasn’t naked.  Whew!

Next, you would have thought it was our first time traveling…. (and Rick is a pilot for Pete’s sake and heaven all mighty!)… We BOTH got pulled over at security.  I left a water bottle in my purse.  DUH!  Rick left his wallet in his pocket for the full body scan.  That didn’t go over well.  AND he put the laptop in a conveyor belt bin WITH his belt and shoes.  Uh… big time no no.

Next, we had a blowout on the handle of the FAVORITE carry-on.  No big deal, right?  I mean, how much do you use the handle on the top of the small suitcase?  Only every single time you try to move it up or down.  Moving on.

Airspeed indicator malfunction.  That’s what our two hour delay sitting in the plane on the tarmac was caused by.  My pilot-husband did confirm that whatever that indicator indicates is pretty important for flight safety, so we patiently and impatiently waited before our 4.5 hour flight.  So, we landed two hours behind schedule, but not late enough to miss out on a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich in Philly.  YO Adrian!  The crack in THE bell, and all that jazz.

Upon arrival at the Sandy Cove retreat center in North East, Maryland, I discovered that I left my favorite turquoise reading glasses in the seatback pocket on the airplane.  That just plain made me said.  Those were my favs.  Yes, they were from the Dollar Store but STILL!

My $10 manicure only lasted two days… and I didn’t even do any dishes.  So it cost me another $2.95 and $2.85 to match the color and buy more top coat, turning the $10 manicure into a $16 manicure…. gah.  #so.not.worth.it!

But we arrived in Ellicott City, Maryland today to one of the biggest hotel rooms I have laid my eyeballs on in a looooong time.  I even stole borrowed two chairs from the hall and we had a 7-man meeting in our plentifully spacious room.   He shoots!  He scores!

Vera Wang, Where are You?

Hello from Lake Tahoe, one of our favorite relaxing places on planet earth.  It rocks! Do I look cold in this picture?  I am! Does my sweatshirt look too big?  Does it look like it is a Minnesota sweatshirt that I would never wear?  IT IS!  See my husband?  Doesn’t he look kind and thoughtful and fun.  It’s all a FRONT!  If we post more pictures from our adventures in Tahoe, be sure to notice my jeans…. because I will have them on in EVERY single photo.  WHY? you ask.

Our story begins last Wednesday when I emptied my suitcase from my trip to Nashville, only long enough to wash the clothes and re-pack into a carry-on for my high school girl’s road trip.  My family would be joining me in Tahoe after I flew to Los Angeles for the four day excursion with four of my high school friends.  Us girls had to pack light as there were five of us in a suburban and we needed room for our vintage/shabby/thrift store gems yet to be purchased.  And we used all that space too!

Knowing that I would need WARM clothes in Tahoe, I packed half of the big suitcase to share with my husband, as we have done for 27 years now.  Being the Phoenix girl that I am, I added wool socks, flannel jammies, three more pair of socks, a big Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, sweats, a wind-proof jacket, five pair of undies, my warm fur Vera Wang bling bling slippers, long sleeve shirts, a heating pad, the next book in the series that I am reading, Christmas-in-July gifts for two of our friends, etc. etc. etc.

When our family was re-united (and it feels so good) at the lake, I immediately went to the suitcase to layer up on my clothes and find my slippers.  I dug on one side.  I dug on the other side.  Then realization hit…. like a mosquito impacting the windshield at 75 mph…. MY STUFF WAS MISSING!  WHAT?  I almost couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.  I threw out a few games and a pillow that my sweet husband had packed in the suitcase and then with a slightly elevated voice I “kindly” asked, “WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?”  His blank look of confusion on his handsome face confirmed that it was not a premeditated action taken to cause me mental anguish.  He replied after a few seconds, “I took out all the stuff that you left in the suitcase from Nashville.”  “IT WAS NOT FROM NASHVILLE!  IT WAS WOOL SOCKS AND A HEATING PAD SO I DON’T FREEZE TO DEATH HERE IN TAHOE!”

He told me that I could just wear the clothes over and over from the road trip…. yeah… NO!  It was a beach dress, shorts and a tank top and capris with a sleeveless shirt.  NOT TAHOE FRIENDLY at all.  I was wearing my jeans, thank God all mighty!  And a blue t-shirt.  And one of my three pair of underwear.  And one of my two pair of socks.  At that moment, I took Rick’s Minnesota sweatshirt from the suitcase and put it on.  He commented, “Well, I brought that so I could wear it.”  Too bad, Bucko.

My Vera Wang slippers have been temporarily replaced by these handmade Halloween slippers that are four sizes too large that I found in the cabin….  they ARE warm.  I’m almost speechless at this turn of events.  Almost.  OK, not really.  Several comments have been made ALL DAY LONG as to my clothes being the same as yesterday…. the stain on my blue t-shirt that appears to be growing… the outfit that I will have on for ALL the pictures this week…. a Bible verse about how we shouldn’t worry about what we wear…. and how I should really be choosing ONE outfit for my husband to also wear all week long next to me.  :o)  He is lucky that this is not a trip where I needed nice, dress-up clothes with matching jewelry and purses and shoes.  Oh, let me tell you how lucky he is!

Good grief!  Calm down.

Happy Bday to my Hunka Hunka

Yes, not only is February the month of looooove, but it is also the month of my Hunka Hunka Burning Love’s birthday!  Happy Birthday to Rickey, my sweet husband who is absolutely more than I could have ever hoped for in a best friend, husband and father.

We recently discovered Flying Wild Alaska on Netflix.  Basically it is a reality show about his first flying job… just the names have been changed.  We have watched it for a couple nights in a row now, with several episodes still calling our names.  Rickey is (I was about to say “having a sleep over”) overnighting away from home tonight which is extremely rare for him in his current pilot job.  So we won’t be watching FWA tonight.  Anyway, the show brought back MULTIPLE memories of our time spent in the North when he was flying for Little Red Air Service.  Seriously, the flight crew that spent the same three years up in Fort Vermilion would have at least two seasons of episodes simply from the stories I know about.  And as all good pilot’s wives know, there are many stories that we are glad we still don’t know about.

Those were exhilarating years we spent up in the freezing tundra, but I must say that our last 16 years in the desert have been my favorite!  We have traveled more, laughed more, forgiven more, cried more, spent more, prayed more and have definitely loved more in the last 16 years.  Thanks, Rickey, for making my life so thrilling by living out the calling on your life to be a man of integrity and passion.  I love you!  XOXO

DRE-E-E-E-EAM, dream dream dre-eam

When you grow up, you assume your life is the normal life of all the other kids in the world.  When you get older, you realize just how non-normal your growing up actually was, well, compared to all the other non-normal lives you learn about as time goes on.  Confused yet?

All that to say, I grew up thinking everyone dreams in color.  I do.  Of course I’m not the weird one, am I?  Thanks to the internet, I have discovered that more than 80% of people dream in color.  Not so weird after all, thankyouverymuch.  Yet another fact caused me to pause and consider my abnormalness once again…. 95-99% of people forget their dreams. What?  Almost every night I have vivid dreams and can tell the tales of them the next day.  My children take great pleasure in asking me what I dreamt last night and then rolling on the floor holding their sides due to laughter induced dream tales.  Some dreams have stuck with me for years… for 24 years, in one case… like it was yesterday.  Some are so real that I write them down to ponder later.

While we were away at Christmas I had this great dream (that my children loved) about my husband wanting to redo the greenhouse (that we don’t have) on the back of the house (that we don’t live in).  He was all inspired and wanted to show me his plans, but he insisted the best view was from the neighbor’s back driveway.  The only glitch was that he was naked and I wasn’t walking outside with him.  I’m the modest one in the family, for goodness sakes alive, even in my dreams.  So he talked me into driving over to the neighbor’s back driveway in our station wagon with tasteful “wood” paneling on the sides.  He drove me over there and proceeded to do a 13 point turn in the little driveway until the car was facing our greenhouse (sideways on the driveway.)  But the inevitable happened and he backed up too far and we went down into the ditch and got stuck.  I told him I would climb out the window and go call AAA but he yelled, “You cannot call Triple A, I’m naked!”  And that was the end.  I did not find deep meaning in that dream.  I pray we never own that house or car!  But it WAS funny!

Sixteen years ago, after watching Father of the Bride 2, my husband decided we should move from Spruce Grove, Alberta to Phoenix, Arizona to be near my parents.  I whole heartily agreed.  We put the house on the market and prayed for a quick sale, it was winter after all. Then I had a dream about a lady coming to buy our house. I awoke quite relieved and explained in detail what she looked like to my husband. For ten long months, our house sat on the market and many people came to see it.  Every time I opened the front door, if it wasn’t the lady in my dream, I was disappointed.  Phoenix was calling my name, after all.  Finally one day she came.  I recognized her.  And she did buy our house.  Truly, I think God gave me the picture of her as a sign of hope that there was someone coming.  It gave me a measure of assurance.

Do you remember your dreams?

Yesterday, 25 Years Ago….

I married the man of my dreams!  It hardly seems possible that we have made it to our silver anniversary.  That is for old people.  And after 25 long, memorable years, are you wondering how we celebrated?  Not only is Rick sick (with a fever and chills and cold) but he is also in Texas at SimCom, renewing his pilot training.  I’m at home with our four lovely children.  Big celebration, right?  Wrong.

However, we did throw a shindig last Saturday, that beat the band!  I’ve been dreaming of decorating for a party for a few years now…. all shabby chic, bird cages, vintage books, roses, old picture frames and lace.  Pinterest has held my interest in this avenue for quite some time now.  All my decorating dreams came true for our 25th celebration.  Here is my photo tribute to Rickey, my knight in shining armor, who tore up the dance floor and didn’t mind all the fru-fru in the house.

The Love Birds name tag table on the front porch.  I love birdies.

Here was our guest book table and my wedding dress…. 25 years later.

These were the thank you gift bags that my friend Ginny made.  They were darling.  We put nuts in the bags and the tags said “Still nuts about each other after 25 years!”  See, corny! But it made us laugh!

Another friend of mine, Darla, helped me assemble the largest collection of pink, white and brown edible delicacies this side of the Mississippi.  It was a sugar-loving haven.

We displayed the dress my mother wore to the wedding as well as my banana-yellow going-away suit.  :o)

The party was such fun!  Yes, I’m saving all the decorations for the next family wedding, or baby shower, or birthday, or retirement party, etc.