Toddler Property Laws

Toddler Property Laws

You may have seen these before, but they are so laughably accurate it makes me smile.

1) If I like it, it's mine.
2) If it's in my hand, it's mine.
3) If I can take it from you, it's mine.
4) If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
5) If it's mine, it must never appear in any way to be yours.
6) If I'm doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.
7) If it looks like mine, it's mine.
8) If I saw it first, it's mine.
9) If you play with it and put it down, it's mine.
1) If it's broken, it's yours.

As a mother of four, a grandma and a great-grandma, I can attest that these are still true!

Another old post

This is a rerun of a posting from back in 2008. I didn't have any followers at the time and I was clueless about how to get some. So anyway...

Danger, Sparrow, Danger!

I've been getting some recorded telemarketing calls lately. They start out, "Do not be alarmed!" (They go on to offer some credit card insurance.)

This is so devious. How better to get you to listen to the message than to imply there is danger!

I don't know about you, but I don't have nearly enough danger in my daily life. My adrenalin level remains pretty constant. The most hazardous thing I ever do is back the car out of my tiny garage--and I have the dents to prove it.

The only wild animals I encounter are the opossums that I feed on my patio. There are also voles, squirrels and a few raccoons that come around, as well, but the 'possums are the stars. This is because they are newcomers.

Possums are common to the South, like armadillos. Because of Global Warming, however, they have been working their way north over time. And now, I am privileged to have my very own tribe.

Their arrival each evening is an eagerly anticipated event. The three cats and I sit inside the patio door and watch them eat the jelly or peanut butter sandwiches, meat scraps, fruit and whatever. The possums ignore us even though we're only a foot away.

I never know which ones will show up, but they always come separately. The first one was a big light-colored one with pretty pink ears that I promptly named Petunia. Next came Tank (a solidly-built little fella), then Elvis (a young one with small black ears). Last night, a new one appeared with a torn ear and 2-tone tail, so he became Rocky. The gender assignments are arbitrary, of course, and naming them is pure self-indulgence.

Now that the snows have come, I'm worried about where they've holed up for the winter. The poor things are not well-adapted to Minnesota with their naked tails and sparse coats. I worry about them--and so I feed them.

After, they face real danger every day!

God Bless Cool Whip (Again)

I'm tied up working on a volunteer project so I went back in my archives and got this post from 2008. I only had a few followers at the time so it's new to most of you.

What can I say about the blessings of Cool Whip? There it sits in the fridge in it's pristine blue and white container--so easily accessible. You can dip a strawberry at a moment's notice; you can drop a dab on your chocolate pudding cup, peaches or Jello, then sit back and revel in the sensuality of it all.

Back in the "pre-Cool Whip" days, having a creamy, fluffy white topping on your dessert was a luxury reserved for special occasions like having company or Sunday dinner. It required planning ahead and precise timing.

First, you had to remember to buy the whipping cream. You had to keep it cold in the refrigerator and keep the family from sneaking it into their coffee. Then, when you made your special meal (probably mashed potatoes with chicken or roast beef) you had to remember to wash the mashed potatoes off the beaters right away. If you forgot, the dried-on potatoes would screw up the timing to the point of desperation. So, you had the beaters clean, the bowl and mixer at the ready, the cream on standby chilling in the fridge.

You could now sit down to eat dinner with your guests or family but, when the dinner started winding down, you had to jump up to make the whipped cream. (If you whipped the cream too far ahead of time, it would "weep"and collapse.) After you put the chilled cream into a deep bowl, you could start the process.

If you had an electric mixer it didn't take too long but it required concentration. The tricky part was to whip the cream to just the right consistency without doing it too little or too much. Too little, and you wind up with sloppy topping or, too much, you have extra stiff topping larded with bits of butter.

After you had achieved the optimum of beautiful fluffiness, you added the sugar and vanilla. If all went as planned, it was ready to serve at this point. The servings of dessert (say pumpkin pie) had to be lined up and the piece de resistance--a dollop of whipped cream would be lovingly placed on top and then trotted to the dinner table immediately.

The memory of it leaves me breathless!

Now, with our ever-ready tub of Cool Whip, we can enjoy the extravagance of beautiful white fluffy stuff without all that stress. (OK, so Cool Whip will never replace the epicurean delight of real whipped cream, believe me, I can deal with it!)