Get out of the car!!!!

I am sitting in my favorite chair when the ad that irks me the most came on.

The ad revolves around a tired father who has been toiling to build a tree house for his son to play in for those adventures that we all hope our sons will dream and imagine. Speckled with paint and sweating, this kind Dad, who more than likely would have enjoyed a cold beverage and a ballgame on the couch, comes to the PARKED VAN in the driveway and slides open the side door to reveal the son and a friend hooked up and spaced out to a DVD which is keeping them spellbound with modern wonder.

Told that 'it took a while, but the tree house is finally done', the smartaleck kid asks his Dad if the new tree house comes with leather seats, DVD player, air conditioning and various other items to which the dad replies 'No'.

The smarmy little brat looks at the Dad disdainfully and then announces "We're good!" where upon he shuts the door.

Rewind and re-tape this episode!

First of all, what are children doing PLAYING in a car!?!?! That is stupid under ANY circumstance!

Second, had I been the Dad in question (which I would never be since I'm female, but play along for the sake of accuracy . . .), I would have told him and his friend to "GET OUT OF THE CAR! AND I MEAN NOW, MISTER!"

Rewinding even further, the smarmy kid (and possibly his friend) would have had his little butt out helping build the tree house!! Nothing makes you excited like ownership of something that has gone from dream to reality while you helped construct it.

Tree houses aren't about DVD players or air conditioning. They are about becoming a pirate or a fireman or the captain of a space ship. They are for launching paper airplanes and for tossing water balloons onto your sisters and brother (until you get caught!) and for sleeping in on nights where the little window opens up onto a star filled universe that your dime store telescope can't quite bring in close enough to touch.

Tree houses are for eating watermelon and spitting the seeds for distance. They are the base of operations for war games and the picketed fort of the U.S. Cavalry when the Comanches have gone on the warpath.

Tree houses are the opposite of technology. They have no constraints or limits. Everything is possible to him who believes. "Seeing isn't believing - believing is seeing" (to borrow the phrase from the movie 'The Santa Clause'). There are no limitations with the notable exception of bath time or bedtime.

Climbing the rungs of the homemade ladder is akin to ascending to the peak of the Himalayas with a trusty Sherpa guide. You can climb into the capsule and strap in for the launch clock to begin. The ladder leads up into the heavens or down into the gaping jaws of the earth itself.

Some tree houses have firepoles attached and some have slides. Others are merely the prepared house in a tree that becomes the starting point for adventures that never end.

I recently read where even adults are looking into tree houses as family homes now. For those adventurous souls, there is still the spark of what is yet to be that the automakers who mock the simplicity of youth with the blatant heresy of technology will never understand.

When the car battery dies and the DVD player will no longer spin tales of wonder, only the child who has learned to see what isn't there can find a place to explore and to grow. The others will only cry because the bright lights of earthly wonder have gone dim.

To a true adventurer, a tree house is a portal to all possible worlds and all possible realities. To embrace the wonder that is available, life is totally full. To those who are enmeshed with technology, life can be totally barren. Their adventure depends upon power and pixels. Tree houses run on imagination.

Get out of the car and go climb a tree.

Cooler

When I got up, I thought it was a bit chilly and laid it at the feet (or fan blades) of having left the kitchen ceiling fan on all night.

What I didn't realize was that fall had stealthily crept in and shoved the mercury down into its' bulb and chilled the house to a mid 60 degree range. Which meant the outside temps were about 15 degrees cooler.

Naturally, the assassin dog wanted to go out walking and romping through the neighborhood and wasn't taking no for an answer.

Mornings like this, I have to wonder where are the dumb dogs I have heard so much about? The ones who don't know what day it is and have to be reminded every single day what the leash is. I haven't ever owned a dumb dog!

With ease and alacrity, Gypsy streaks past my rubbery and tired legs and begins whining for her morning jog.

The fact that I am holding my head in my hands and moaning means NOTHING to her. Giddy as a schoolgirl on field trip to the museum day, Gypsy is not content to wait out the warmer afternoon temperatures that hover closer to the warm 60's.

Nope, an assassin has a schedule of priorities and she definitely has hers in order and the checklist in hand...uh,...PAW.

The first part of the walk is fine. The i-pod cranks out the tunes to my earphones that are acting as earmuffs today. She is behaving - for now.

Then the fun begins. I take a slightly different route today. This is not fresh information, it just isn't the route we have used for the last couple of weeks. "Princess Pooch" isn't having any of it.

And the wheels in her fertile imagination begin to turn. Already, school traffic has started and my sweet little furbag is looking at the cars in rapt attention.

No, boys and girls, she isn't waiting on the traffic. She is deciding which one to drag me in front of while she scampers away to safety on the other side.

I knew the good behavior wasn't going to last. She was smiling too much.

Finally dragging her to the spot on the shoulder of the road away from the temptations of fully loaded cement trucks, I indicate to her yet again that she is not only most assuredly NOT named as the beneficiary of my will, but that she isn't featured anywhere in my will.

Then, I break the bomb.

I have no will.

Somehow, the expense of filing one that says, "I leave all of my earthly payment books to ___" isn't as thrilling to anyone as finding out that they have inherited something that will make the folks on the Antiques Roadshow look like pikers. But I don't own anything remotely like that.

Even the dog food Gypsy has carefully tucked beneath the couch cushions will not fetch any decent price. But hope springs eternal.

What am I bid for 3 year old kibble?

Oh well. The weights in the gym didn't treat me any kinder today. I believe there should be some sort of karmic trade off where if the dog gives you trouble, the weights should function to make you skinnier, healthier and more well rested in direct proportion to the garbage you have to take off off the hairy hit man...or...dog.

I think I'll watch some TV and plan my next move. With careful preparation, I might be able to sell everything I own for the grandiose sum of twenty-five cents.

Drool and Diet

Why do I do this to myself?

I am absolutely addicted to looking a recipe websites. Totally addicted. I should enter a 12-step program to wean off the demon web, but frankly, what everyone else is whipping up and photographing for the eye candy of the world looks so much better than anything I have considered making for dinner tonight that it isn't even funny. I must look at one more page...just one more...

Like a junkie waiting on a fix, the page doesn't load quickly enough even though high speed is part of the name for the connection. Oddly enough, whatever the speed, it is never fast enough for junkies anyway.

I have to wonder why in this day and age of technological superiority we can't manage to have a 'CLICK HERE' button that would deliver the ingredients for the recipes you seek right to your door within 48 hours or less.

Meanwhile, you can tell yourself that the rice cake you are nibbling on to save room for the real food later on actually tastes like the yummy cheddar they promise so blatantly on the label right next to that smiling man in the old fashioned clothing.

The drool level rises as I look at page after page of food I will never get to sample. It isn't like I wouldn't LIKE to try it. But facts are facts. The kind people at the exotic grocers demand more than a smile in payment for the unusual ingredients that will be part of the meal.

So, my friend from Betty Crocker comes out of the shelf and with a few deft additions, the packaged mix resembles something a bit better than just a boxed dinner.

Admittedly, I am not the best cook in the world. While no one can ever honestly say they have starved at my table, I have a couple of friends who are SO much better at cooking than I am that it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. That, and I absolutely LOVE to see what the kitchen muse has inspired them to whip up for the Epicurean delights of others.

Years ago, I was told to never trust a chef who didn't eat their own food.

I believe that is a truth indeed. If those who prepare it are uncertain of the outcome, why on earth would I fling my delicate taste buds on the altar of culinary imperfection and just simply hope for the best????

No, my fine young feathered friends, I am a purist.

I believe that food should taste good and that the one who did the cooking KNOWS the food tastes good from on the ground experience with a supply of 'tasting spoons' at hand to make sure that no step is left out for that taste that leaves 'em drooling in the aisles.

Now, I am faced with the sad chore of deciding what to prepare for dinner.

I am beginning to wonder why we can't adopt the Pillsbury dough boy and a few of his shelf-mates as permanent family members. Maybe it's because my waist measurement is FINALLY going down. The evil influence of the various chefs in the world would certainly reverse that trend until I was roughly the size of the Queen Mary, which, if we are to face the truth, would be the closest I would ever come to being confused with royalty.

Maybe I should fire up the grill. It seems to be an easier choice on a nice fall night than standing by a stove and hoping for the best.

Flying Saucer

Alas, another piece of dinnerware smashed into giblets on the absolutely FABULOUS porcelain tile floor in the living room.

And yes, before you get all righteously angry - we DO eat in the living room. We also eat in the kitchen, the bedrooms and sometimes out under the porch or out in the back yard. No dishes are left with science project worthy food. Our kindly four-legged pal takes care of any unwanted (or unguarded) leftovers.

What happened was, as if this is some sort of justification, the saucer, which had previously held the brownies that my sweet husband made while I was out yesterday (visiting with the delightful Amish who live north of us for the sole intent of coming home with winter squash and butter), was accidentally edged off of my desk and flew onto the aforementioned flooring.

Corell + porcelain tile = razor sharp and needle-like giblets. This is the new math played out in all of its violence and carnage.

Now, we are down to one lonely little saucer. One wonders if it is quietly crying in the cabinet and wondering if the sad lot of its' fellows will soon befall it, too. I'd like to say it won't.

I'd really like to say that because it's a nice little saucer. But based on my track record and the record of the other occupants of this house who are appliance slayers and glass breakers, I am afraid the prognosis isn't good.

At this point, the remaining saucer has the life expectancy of a piece of crockery at a Greek wedding. And in this house, we don't even have to wait until it is a big and fat wedding before the broom and dustpan are pressed into action to rescue the hapless toes of the barefoot contessa of this domicile.

So we bid a sad farewell to yet another piece of the dishware that makes eating go so nicely. I am assuming in short order that we will be eating directly out of the pans which are held over the sink that holds the soapy water that will wash them as soon as we finish eating.

That should eliminate eating all over the house. Maybe. I actually believe those nice little handles will simply make it easier to carry the new stainless steel "dishware" into the various rooms that are home to our dining.

One of these days, I'll buy new dishes. But I am no longer deluded suffering under the belief that I need daily dishes that are 'pretty'. I am thinking about buying camping dishes. They are guaranteed to hold up to the rigors of life on the trail, so they shouldn't quibble about living in my cabinets and finding their way to the floor now and again.

It won't be stylish, but it will be functional.

And that's about as good as it gets when it comes to dinnerware.

We wanted to be the respectable kind who never broke dishes. We started out that way as newlyweds. Okay, we started out that way right after we swept up the first set of 4 drinking glasses we broke while moving into our first apartment. But sadly, we are simply the sort that say "Sorry!" and sweep up the mess only to toss it into the trash on the way to get another brownie.

By the way, the brownies were really good. It's a shame I don't have enough saucers to go around or I'd share them with you.

Yeah. Right.

Like I would EVER share brownies!