Real Writers Don’t Vacuum (they just collect dust).

So I’ve decided–I will not blog on Sundays.

I mean, in the future.  Today’s an exception.  Just letting you know.

What is it about this time of year that makes a person (well, okay, not just any old person, but ME, a person) want to bake cookies?

I don’t really have anyone to give cookies away to, since mostly everyone I know won’t eat them.  They’re fattening.

I shouldn’t be eating them.  They’re fattening.

My kids shouldn’t be eating them.  They’re–loaded with sugar.  (Ha.  Gotcha.)

Still, the season wouldn’t be the same without the scent of cookies in the air.  Forget your fancy-schmanzy “Sugar Cookie” scented candles.  It’s not the same. (For one thing, they make me want a cookie, and if there aren’t any, I go out and buy them. Which I really shouldn’t do.  Because storebought cookies are–full of additives! (Ha. Gotcha again.)

I have a cookie-baking routine.  The first cookies to be made are my Auntie Fran’s Gingersnaps.  They are the most fragrant and the easiest to churn out.  They need to be rolled into balls, then dipped into sugar and at this stage of the game, I’m still into getting my fingers coated with cookie dough and sugar.  Closer to the holiday, when the Cookie Factory has been moving along at full steam (or half-steam, or sometimes barely enough steam), I don’t have the fortitude for cookie gunk on my hands.

But I digress.

Here, for the first time ever on the Internet, is my Auntie Fran’s Gingersnap cookie recipe.  People have told me these are the best they’ve tasted; one woman had searched for years for a gingersnap recipe like her grandmother’s, and these were it. 

If you make this recipe, please let me know how you liked them!

CREAM:

3/4 c. shortning

1c. sugar

4 T. molasses

1 egg

SIFT:

2 c. flour

2 t. baking soda

2 t. cloves

1 t. cinammon

1 t. ginger

Combine–smooth–form balls and dip tops in sugar–Bake at 375 for 13 mins.

Note: Plain white table sugar is nice but colored Christmas sugar is good, too. Be careful not to coat the bottom–cookies will burn.  Also, baking time was originally 15-18 mins., but I found they’d burn; adjust for your own oven.

For those of you “in the know” that acronym stands for “On the Job Training”. Today’s my hubby’s first day working with actual–yikes!–”detainees” at the State Correctional Facility.

Sort of like doing Practicum during teacher training, except I never expected my students to comment on my ass.  Or punch me, either.

I certainly never wondered if I’d have to strip search anyone.  (I never wanted to wonder.  Yuck.)

More power to him, I think.  One minute, he’s doing sales, the next, he’s looking up someone’s behind with a microscope.  True, if he were a proctologist, he might be doing the same thing, except he wouldn’t be looking for drugs.  He wouldn’t be wearing this cute uniform, either:

So my husband dropped an F-bomb the other day. This isn’t an unusual thing–after all, the man’s Italian. I mean, if you’ve watched The Sopranos, you know. Fuhgeddaboudit. It’s just another word.

Until your 23-month-old starts using it.

“F***!” He chortles gleefully at his Matchbox cars.
“F***!” He shouts at the woman behind us in the market (who stopped to admire “the cute little towhead”.)
“F***!” He yells at the library.

“F***!” I mutter at my husband. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

So we put a cease-fire command on the F-bombs. The D’s cleaned up their mouths. Which was good, because The Pickle spends time with his Aunt, Grandma and cousins. Lord knows, I didn’t want him to teach the F-word to the twins. When he went to Auntie’s for a sleepover, I was confident that he wouldn’t be teaching his cousins any bad words.

Nope. He learned about God.

“Dee-sus Twihst!” He announced as I went into his room this morning. “I do da tinky poop!”

F***.

I’m trying to decipher my son’s words. Most of them, I understand. An easy one is, “la-la-looooon!” for “balloon!”. “Bing-et”, of course, is “blanket”. “Boo-bus” (my personal favorite) is “school bus”.

I can’t even try to write “fire engine” phoenetically. I think it’s “wa-wa-ing-gon” but even that’s generous. It’s sort of a “be there, know it” kind of a word, the kind a caregiver translates by subtraction. “You want this? No? This? No? Oh. This? No…This? No? This?…” Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often in my little guy’s case. Most of his words sound relatively close to the actual one. Except for “pie”which meant “lollipop”.

Anyhow, I’m thinking about one of my w.i.p.s. My hero is Mr. Wobbly on The Mr. Wobbly and Friends Show. (What? You haven’t heard of it? It’s the hottest show for the three and under set.) In my mind, it’s a sort of Mr. Rogers/Bear in the Big Blue House (for those who remember it…it was a great show and I’m sorry it’s not on, anymore)/Blue’s Clue’s kind of show. And Shane feels that he’s an expert on early childhood behavior. Not only is he THE man, and THE puppet (Mr. Nuts, the squirrel) but–he has a PhD in early childhood education. So he’s an expert.

Except, his experience with actual small children has been limited to research situations, a few three-month internships and a stint as a mall Santa as an undergrad. He’s never actually spent more than a few hours at a time with a toddler so when he’s snowed in for a week with a two-year-old…

Well, let’s just say that Shane learns more than he bargained for.

I thought it would be fun to have my heroine, Dale, also snowed in, also without any experience with children–be able to understand everything the two-year-old says, while my Expert can’t…get…a…word. Heh. What a humbling experience for him. My only problem is trying to figure out what is too much toddler-speak. Just because I’m immersed in it, and my characters can’t escape it doesn’t mean my readers will enjoy having to try to figure out what the kid is saying.

Unless Dale is the one the child speaks to–and it appears clear. Hmmm…What do you think? How would you have a toddler speak in a story? (Or would you just be smart and create a toddler-free story?) I’ll have to think about it. Maybe while we’re watching the same episode of Dippa da Dohg (Kipper the Dog) for the seventy-eighth time.

I took my husband to prison, this morning.

Today, is his first day of training at The Correctional Officer’s Academy. A big change of career for Big B., who spent the past 15 years in sales of one sort or another. But the economy–and a need for the stability of a set salary and guaranteed overtime (vs. potential commission), as well as a long layoff–convinced B. it was time. He says he’d always had a secret dream of going into law enforcement of one form or another. And though, in RI, when you pass the requirements for the Corrections Officer Academy, you pass them for any law enforcement agency in RI, he decided this was the way to go.

For one thing, he wants to be a state employee. The cutoff for the State Police was age 36. B. just turned 39 last week. (Which is too bad–I’d love to see him in the Smokie hat and boots.) The local police force’s Academy didn’t start until next January and B’s unemployment benefits (even extended) would run out before then. So–this was it. Corrections Officer.

I dropped him off at 6:30 and drove away, very careful not to look back or act at all associated with him. Not that it mattered. As I travelled the short side street in front of the Training building, cadets of both sexes, in identical blue sweatsuits, with identical grey jumpsuits and black duffel bags slung over their shoulders, jogged down the sidewalks. All of them had that look I remember from my childrens’ first day of kindergarten. A bit anticipatory, a little scared, and complete confidence that this was the first day of the rest of their life.

Here’s prayers and positive thoughts to the new Correctional Officers of the class of 2008-2009; do well, be safe, be strong. Let’s go to prison!

Yesterday I went to my sister-in-law’s to drop off my 23 month old. First, some background. She’s got a pair of twins. They’re two-and-a-half. She lives in a large raised ranch with a big yard. Okay. Got a picture in your head?

So I walk in, and I’m greeted by–shining floors. Dust-free surfaces. Stain-free surfaces. Her laundry (all she’s got, and a small amount) is in the hamper, ready to be washed as soon as the babies go down for their naps. No dishes on the counter, no cobwebs in the corners. Toys are kept in two neat bins in the “play room”, and they stay there. This is a clean house.

It really messed with my head. As soon as I got home and walked in the door, my husband asked, “What’s with you? You’re all mooshy-moosh.”

Yeah, of course I am. My house is in chaos. There are dog-hair dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds rolling out from beneath the furniture. My daughter’s room looks like an explosion in a clothing store; jeans lie twisted together like lovers among Halloween candy wrappers and birthday cards. There are toys in every room in the house.

Granted, I’m having a passive-aggressive war with my daughter, hoping she’ll get sick of the mess and clean it up, because she’s 11–old enough to clean her own room. And, I’m taking online classes for my Masters, so I’m reading and working. And, I have a part-time job. Oh, and there’s that whole writing books thing that I’m constantly doing.

My sister-in-law has none of those things in her life. Her kids are small, she finished high school and called herself done with school forever, she doesn’t have a job outside the house and she can’t be bothered to read a book, never mind write one. So…we’re two different people. Her clean house is all she’s got. And I’ve got lots of other things to occupy myself besides my clean house. I mean…real writers don’t vacuum, right?

My husband wishes I was a house-cleaning drone, I know. My children could USE a house-cleaning drone. And on days like yesterday (and today, to be honest), I feel depressed, because I’m not a house-cleaning drone.

Maybe…maybe it’s time for a new project. Maybe I’ll use the time I spend this week, brainlessly cleaning my house–to brainstorm.

…from my favorite chair. Apparently, it’s become The Place to Sit for Rosie.

She’s not a small dog; she weighs about forty pounds. So when I sit on her (and that’s what I have to do) she doesn’t complain. In fact, she stays right where she is. This morning, she fell asleep with her nose pressed against my left shoulderblade and her hind paws tucked beneath my bottom.

But you know what Duffy says: She’s a bitch.

I’m hoping this is just some form of doggie-power play. I’d really like to get my chair back.