Fiddledeedee

Saturday night I attended an annual ladies night fund raiser for a charity that supports families that have children with cancer.  This group is near and dear to our hearts since they embraced my sweet SIL Cathy and her family when our niece was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

This year the theme was country & western.  Y’all.

I agonized over what to wear, knowing that line dancing would be involved.  I wisely chose my jeans that have a good deal of built-in stretch to them.  And add to that a lavender polyester button down, which did nothing for my figure, but did make me sweat like a dying pig.

Which in retrospect, may have helped my figure after all.

I was, however, horrified to discover that this Texas girl had absolutely NO cowboy boots in her closet.  I have a vague memory of throwing out all shoes and boots that reminded me that my feet DID INDEED SWELL A SIZE LARGER WITH EACH  PREGNANCY.  And then stayed that way.

Old wives tale my……..foot.

Sneakers were out of the question, because during the Boot Scootin’ Boogie I was certain to scuff the floor with my Adidas.  So, this was what I emerged from my closet wearing on my feet.

These beauties are Crocs, my friends.  I KNOW!  Crocs has greatly evolved from the hot pink clown shoes I started with all those years ago!

The only foreseeable issue was that I’m not use to wearing 3 inch heels.  Much less walking in them.  And DANCING.

The last time I attempted to wear these to a function, Fiddledaddy wisely talked me out of it, after noting that we don’t have quite enough insurance to cover an extended hospital visit, should I be in need of traction.

But Fiddledaddy was not home when I was preparing for the evenings festivities.  So I was on my own to make unfettered decisions concerning my footwear.

All went well during the first part of the evening.  I performed the electric slide without breaking a femur.  Or dislocated a hip.

When we were all settled into our seats, like sardines, the games began.  There were prizes, y’all.  And some were quite wonderful.  But there was a bit of a competition at hand.

And y’all know how competitive I can be.

The MC called out an item, and if we could locate that item in our purse, and be the first up to the front with said item, then a prize was won.

I quietly berated myself for having cleaned out my purse the day before.

NOW THAT YIELDED A TREASURE TROVE.

After a few items were called out (one being a flask…which, no, I did not have) I heard the MC say “Does anyone have with them, a TAPE MEASURE?”

My heart stopped.  In my head I heard myself say, “YES, YES I do!”  However, another competitor said it out loud and rushed the front of the room.

However, she brought her purse with her, and was frantically digging through it.  In the meantime, I had pulled out my tape measure (which is attached to my key chain) and was making a mad dash to the front as well.

But as luck would have it, just as I reached the front, a spindly chair leg became entangled in my shoe, and I began the long descent to the floor.

I couldn’t catch myself, because I had the tape measure held high in the air.  So, as if in slow motion, down down down I went.  Until I was face down on the linoleum.  (Which if truth be told, is not an unusual location for me.)

I knew I’d never make it back up to my platformed feet in time, so I army crawled.  Still holding up the tape measure.  I made it up to me knees and passed the competitor, still digging in her purse.  SUCKER!

It was then that I noticed I had sliced open my texting finger with the metal edge of the tape measure.

But it was totally worth it.

Because this is what I won.

(Cue the crickets)

Okay, it’s a really cute purse and all.  But not my, um, style.  I go for the type of purse that you can stash a blender in, and no one is the wiser.

I tried to give it to my daughter.  The one whose mantra is “the more bling, the better.”  No takers.

Luckily, the next item asked for was a sewing kit.  Which I considered borrowing.  To stitch up my texting finger.  A nearby woman took pity on me and gave me a bandage from her own purse for my wound.

A battle scar, that I’ll forever carry with honor.

The evening was seriously redeemed for me during a drawing, when I also won a basket that contained a bottle of Pineapple Rum.  Which I figured would be useful in erasing the embarrassment of skidding to a  stop on my face.  In front of hundreds of women.

All in all, we had a wonderful time.  And lots of money was raised to help cancer families in need.

And next year?  I’m hoping the theme will be sports related because I’m going with the sneakers.  And football pads.

Last week when when I posted about shopping at Sam’s Club, I got a comment from a sweet reader and fellow blogger, Kathleen at Treasured Chapters.  She commented about shopping for steak at Sam’s.  This made my ears perk up, because I had just served a steak, masquerading as shoe leather, for dinner the night before.

I have no clue how to buy steak.  I’m pretty proficient with a grill (except when it explodes), but typically I’m an ignoramus when choosing a good cut of meat.

You’d think I’d know what I was doing since I come from a long line of Texas farmers.  And at different times in my childhood, we even raised animals for food.

Except that we made the grave error of naming them, and then were completely unable to commit murder, much less slap them on a plate.

We had two cows, named Sammy and Red.  Then there was Maria, the pig.  And her offspring.  Little Maria #1, Little Maria #2, and you get the idea.  Gorgeous George the rooster and all his wives were a great source of childhood amusement as well.  And I can’t even talk about Piggy, the rabbit, without tearing up.

Okay, Piggy was a pet.  Never intended for food.  Although, that was her fate I fear, when she disappeared from her cage one cold Christmas morning.  Sob.  Sob.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  So, Kathleen has come to my rescue with her beef recommendation.  The following was the comment she left after the Sam’s Club post:

We buy the big beef tenderloin at Sam’s. And by “we”, I mean my husband because he’s the chef of the family. The tenderloin is typically around 60-70 dollars but renders the most tender, juicy, delicious steaks EVER!! We have yet to find any restaurant with such good steak (even the expensive, fine dining steakhouses). It generally lasts us for 7 or 8 meals, which means it feeds our family for less than $10 per meal. My husband makes killer sauces to go on the steak (peppercorn, brandy sauces…). I keep telling him he needs to bottle them and make us some dough, but cooking is just a hobby for him.

I e-mailed her back immediately and asked her to do whatever necessary to get a recipe out of her husband.  Rising to the task, she sent me an e-mail on Friday.

And as luck would have it, I also headed to Sam’s Club where I picked up a small package of Tenderloins.  I haven’t cooked them up yet, mostly because Kathleen’s recipe calls for Brandy.  And I am completely out of Brandy at present.  Which is probably for the best, because after the day I’ve had, a bottle of Brandy would have never made it past 4:00.  Just sayin’.

Anyhoo.  I wanted to now turn it over to Kathleen.

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Steak, it’s what’s for dinner

guest post by Kathleen of Treasured Chapters

(with special thanks to Kathleen’s husband, the man behind the meal)

“OK…so my husband, like I said, does this with no recipe—to taste—but he has given me some rough numbers here. And these are procedures for the steak and sauce; he does not do a marinade—honestly the tenderloin is so good, it does not need a marinade!):

First, season the steak with salt, pepper, whatever you want to season it with.

Fry the steak in a skillet on high heat (preheat the skillet to get it really hot). Then sear the steak on the high heat (this helps to seal in the moisture and flavor).

Brown both sides of the steak. Then take the steak out of the skillet.

In the same skillet—and now over medium heat—put in onion and fresh garlic. Also add 1 c. brandy (if you have a gas stove, be careful because the brandy is flammable (and I know your propensity for setting fires! J)). Add beef bouillon to taste (1-2 cubes). Cook for 3-4 minutes. Put in 1/2 c. water and cook for another 3-4 minutes. Put in 1/2 cup heavy cream (yeah, this ain’t good for ya!). Cook for 5-10 minutes until the sauce gets thick and creamy. For added flavor, add some fresh cracked pepper.

Put the steaks back in the pan with the sauce and cook to desired doneness, turning to coat with the sauce.

The key, he said, is the taste-testing as you go. If you want a richer sauce, add butter (hey, I don’t call my husband Paul-a Dean for nothin’!).”

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I can’t wait to try this.  And I’ll be buying a bottle of Brandy immediately.  (OF COURSE FOR THE RECIPE)  Okay, y’all know how this works.  If you have a recipe or kitchen tip, link your specific post to Mr. Linky below.  And then link back here.

You are always welcome to use the comments section if you don’t have a blog.

My mother had impeccable taste in furnishings, heavily leaning toward the Victorian era.  Think Dark Shadows.  It was not unusual for her to spot a piece of furniture on that show, and then stealthily hunt one down for her own home.  She loved the unusual.  In fact, at one point I had an antique crib for a bed.  It was beautifully ornate dark wood, with a canopy.

Exhibit A (circa 1969ish)

Exhibit B  (and yes, I’m wearing a black velvet choker necklace with my G.S. uniform.  I was a rebel.)

The only issue was that I could not straighten my legs out.  A minor inconvenience.  And why the fetal position is still the most natural one for me to this day.

At about this time, I began reading issues of Tiger Beat and 16 magazine, searching for pull out posters of my beloved teen pop stars.  I asked my mom if it would be okay if I taped a few posters up onto my bedroom walls.  Knowing, of course, that she would say no.  She kept an immaculate show case type house, and life sized photos of Donny Osmond went against her decorating style.

Imagine my shock and disbelief when she said that I could adorn my walls any way I chose.

And this is what I chose.

(This display was not limited to one corner, but encompassed the entire room)

Recently my daughters came to me and asked me if they could decorate their walls with some posters of their own choosing.

I said “NO!”

Just kidding.  I said that they could.  Knowing full well that issues of Tiger Beat and 16 Magazine have never crossed this threshold.

This is what my girls are into.

(They decorated these from larger than life coloring posters, and their mission is to fill all available wallspace.  It’s good to have goals.)

Actually, I’m killing two birds with one picture in that I’ve been promising a photo of the new bunk bed for so long that it’s not even new anymore.  And you should know that the OCD in me had to take time to straighten Emme’s bottom bunk.  My girls make their own beds, and let’s just say that Emme’s idea of making a bed properly isn’t even in the same zip code as my way of thinking.

Emme is Oscar, to Cailey’s Felix.  Which is very very odd if you knew their personalities.

Okay, ‘fess up.  What poster adorned your childhood walls?  And don’t worry, no one around here will call you a weirdo.

We have Florida resident season passes to Disney World.  And that means that we can attend any time we wish, with the exception of the blocked out dates.  Those dates include Christmas week, spring break, and basically summer.

Which is fine by us, because those are typically the busiest weeks imaginable at Disney World.

Our “block out” dates ended last week.  And to celebrate, we hopped in the van and made the trek to Disney World.  Forgetting that we live in Florida, and it was still August.  And also that there are still a good number of families who are still on vacation.

I wore my jeans.  Because I’m insane.  And I cannot bring myself to done shorts.  Unlike the First Lady, who is obviously the Free Spirit in her family, and has no problem wearing shorts when it’s 115 degrees in the shade.

We made our way to Epcot because we reasoned that there is just a lot more room.  Plus there are considerably more attractions that are housed indoors.  Where the sensible people hang out.

And I tell you, at one point when we were all the way over in World Showcase I truthfully thought that I was going to lay down on the pavement while everyone stepped over me, while I begged to be airlifted out.

Just to clarify, we made the journey all the way to the World Showcase, in the heat, along with 3000 other tourists, because that’s where Mexico is.  Mexico = Frozen Margaritas and Churros.

I will brave the Velveeta Nachos for a Margarita and a Churro chaser.

However.  Velveeta Nachos + Margarita + Churro + extreme heat + exhaustion = one middle aged woman praying for death to come swiftly.

But that’s not the point of this post.  Wait. You mean there’s a point?

While standing in line to board Test Track, Fiddledaddy pointed out to me the teenager directly in front of us.  She was obviously texting on her iPhone.  But what drew my attention, was the speed in which she was texting.  With just the use of two thumbs.  I sidled up closer to her, and watched.  She was composing something of a novel.  I could not believe the speed at which she was typing.

And it was then that I noticed that many of the teenagers we passed at Disney World were busy looking down while texting.  All you could see of them was the part in their hair.  How much of life are they missing by looking down!

But I consoled myself with the thought that if I should in fact drop to the pavement, the teenagers would spot me since they are looking down anyway, and be able to step over me.  Whereas the families with the double strollers would run me right over because they were constantly looking backwards to make certain they hadn’t lost any children.

This whole texting business perplexes me.  It is a rare day that I feel the need to text.  And if I must, I labor over those short texts.  They are physically painful for me.  First of all, I have no choice but to wear my rhinestone red reading glasses.  The strong ones.  And then I am only able to type using my right pointer finger.  The same one that gets a good workout whenever I’m correcting the children.

Which from the use of it, you’d think I’d be much faster at forming words.  But nay.  One simple short sentence can cause me to sweat.  And think of curse words.  (Which yes, do count.)

So Fiddledaddy challenged me to begin phone typing with my thumbs.  Like normal, non-technically challenged people.  That idea was met with whining and foot stamping.  I evidently possess deformed thumbs that curve outwardly, while my thumbnail curves over the thumb.

I think I prefer to keep my eyes focussed straight ahead.  God went to a good deal of trouble to create all of the beautiful sights around me.  I don’t want to miss a thing.

On those rare occasions that I can get anyone to sit down to a board game that involves imaginary money, I call “BANKER.”

When playing Monopoly, I not only handle the paper money, but the real estate as well.  You might say it’s a conflict of interest.  I say that it simply streamlines the game, since I am clearly the most capable person available to multitask the all important job of KEEPING ALL THE MONEY STRAIGHT, AND FACING THE RIGHT DIRECTION.  AND BTW, THE REAL ESTATE CARDS SHOULD BE NEATLY FILED BY COLOR AND PRICE.

And while I’m on the subject, WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD USE PARK PLACE AS A COASTER???

I cannot understand why no one wants to play with me.

It should come as no surprise to you that I am beyond excited to be taking Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University course at our church.  Since I play the banker in our real life game of Monopoly, Fiddledaddy elected me to attend for our little family.

And besides, the thought of being strapped into a seat for two hours while someone discusses money is enough to send Fiddledaddy screaming for the fire exit.

While I, on the other hand, can sit mesmerized, on the edge of my seat, taking copious notes with my perfectly sharpened #2 pencil.  Nearly hyperventilating at the mere mention of compound interest and mutual funds.

Sunday night, we learned that there are basically two types of people when it comes to dealing with money.  There are the Free Spirits.  And there are the Nerds.

Guess which one I am?

I’ll give you a hint.  When I was a single gal living in Los Angeles, my accountant offered me a job EVERY SINGLE YEAR that I brought in my taxes for my return.  My spreadsheets were a work of art.

Our checkbook could be framed and hung on the wall, it is so lovely.  AND BALANCED.  (I don’t let Fiddledaddy even breathe on it.  Lest he should SMUDGE the delicate inky renderings.)

All of the dollar bills in my wallet (all 6 of them) are facing the same direction, right side up.

My fingerprints are on EVERY SINGLE RECEIPT that enters our house, and every dollar spent is assigned a category, and then filed alphabetically.  After having been entered into Quicken first.

The word that you are searching for is FREAK.

But according to Dave Ramsey, I’m a nerd.  And proud of it.

Now, one of the characteristics of a Free Spirit is that they are habitually late to everything.  And Fiddledaddy would argue that in that  particular respect, I have Free Spirit leanings.

Because I seem to always run late.

However, in my defense, I would argue that I’m always late BECAUSE I AM TRYING TO GET HIS CHILDREN OUT THE DOOR.  And his children are notorious dawdlers.

When I was child-free, I was extraordinarily punctual.

I’m sure you’ll be hearing a rebuttal from F.D. soon.

So, financially speaking, what are you?  A Free Spirit or a Nerd?