Skip to main content

Scake for Breakfast

I made scake for breakfast this morning--chocolate chip scake. What's that? you wonder? It's what comes out of the oven when you make scones from a mix. While the taste is fine, the density is way off, so it's more like cake. #1 deemed it to be scake--it's actually pretty good with clotted cream. I know that mixes are almost always a disappointment, but I got sucked in by good packaging. It happens every time. I'd buy Cheese Wiz if it was packaged right--although I'd never actually eat it.

I am wearing shpants today. What are those? you wonder? It's what you call pant things that aren't quite pants, aren't quite shorts, aren't quite capris. Shpants--another term from #1. I'm not sure if my shpants are flattering, but if they are, their appeal is trumped by the shirt I've paired with them. It's an oversized white button-down with little beads down the front--definitely not flattering, but definitely comfortable. There are times when I just don't care how I look. It's not that I'm overwhelmed with the tasks of the day. It's not that my life is meaningless so why not wear a housedress with a pair of worn out Keds, stick some pink curlers in my hair, and sit on the front porch with a big wad of gum to chomp on. It's just that there are days when I understand more clearly than others that appearance isn't everything. My clothes are clean, my face is washed, I'm doing something fun and involved with my family, I'm baking scake--so what I'm wearing at the time moves down the list of priorities.

I just wish I had the courage to shave my head, because wouldn't it be nice to not have to worry about hair?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Am I Stupid, or What?

In two weeks, I will climb up into a charter bus, take my assigned seat, and ride 22 hours straight to Orlando, Florida. I will be a chaperon with the high school marching band, which will perform at Disney's Magic Kingdom--me and 180 people on four big buses for seven days. We will travel together, eat together, play together, fall down exhausted together--and after 22 hours, I suspect stink to high heaven together. Because of the crazy schedule, we will leave Ohio at 6 pm, travel all night and most of the next day, and spend several hours at MGM Studios before ending up at the hotel sometime after 7 pm. After I check in with the eight girls I am to supervise, I intend to shower and shower and shower. I intend to wear clean clothes and socks and brush my teeth until my toothbrush wears out. Of all the things I could be concerned about on this trip, being dirty seems to weigh heaviest on my mind. One of my eight charges could run off and do bad things with her boyfriend, but I'...

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

An Offending Pile

So, I'm standing in my living room letting my mind wander for a minute or two as I stare out the window and watch the day go by, and I see my neighbors walking their dogs down the street. They are nice neighbors who are always friendly and responsible with their property. That is to say they aren't like the other neighbors who heap rubbish behind their house like Ma and Pa Kettle and let their dogs bark for thirty minutes at a time . Anyway, I see the nice people walking their dogs, a big golden retriever who is as sweet as can be and as dumb as a post—he once ate a sock and nearly died before it was surgically removed—and a new golden retriever puppy. Then I see Neighbor Wife suddenly run down the street with the big dog. Then I see Neighbor Husband stopped in front of my house with the puppy on its leash. And then I see the puppy taking a huge dump in my grass. Let me tell you, that is not done in this town unless the dog owner has a plastic bag handy and is ready to pick up ...