Monthly Archives: April 2017

Easter Eggs a Dying Art

I am a grown woman with what I consider to be a reasonably mature outlook on life. Nonetheless, I was having a pretty childish fit about dying Easter eggs. Nobody was going to be around, there was no reason to do it, but I still wanted to dye Easter eggs. Just a few, maybe a dozen. I didn’t even have to buy Easter egg dye, because I had found an old box, buried under a pile of old Easter decorations. I blew off all the dust and brought it upstairs.

First, though, I needed eggs. Eventually I decided to boil a dozen and a half..to allow for broken ones, and because I like to dye them. I put the eggs on to boil and went into the living room to watch my favorite show…that’s right, I was watching the Rifleman.

When I heard the first mysterious pop, I thought I missed something on the show and they had shot off a gun before the finale. The second pop made me sure that the cat was on the counters in the kitchen, so without taking my eyes off the television, I yelled, “Cat! Get out of the kitchen.”

The third and fourth pops occurred at about the same time that I registered that the cat was relaxing on the deck outside the front window and it was then that I realized that the end music of the Rifleman was playing and I had put the eggs on to boil during the opening music of the program.

I raced out to the kitchen in time for eggs five, six and seven to explode and through a haze of smoke, I snatched the eggs off the stove and ran the scorched mess full of cold water, causing a further smoke and steam mixture.

Choking, coughing, my eyes streaming, I poured the poor, scorched, cracked up messes in the garbage. You would think that would be the end of it, wouldn’t you? Not me. I got another container of eggs from the store…okay, so I got two full 18-count cartons just to be sure. Coming home, I put 18 eggs on the stove and the rest in the fridge. I turned off the television and turned on the timer.

In the end, I came out with 18-count of eggs perfectly boiled, not a one broken. I put them in their carton and put them in the fridge until it was time to dye them.

At last I was ready to dye the eggs. I took out the color tablets and the wax crayon for writing names and I began. Except I could not remember which carton of eggs were the boiled ones…okay, so I was sure I knew, and without question, I grabbed the right carton and started working on names with the wax crayon. Then, I got out the tablets to drop into the vinegar and water. The tablets were a little old, they were extremely crumbly, but when they went into the mixture, they didn’t dissolve at all well.

I put in the first egg which I had written on and if I hadn’t been struggling to write on the next egg, I might have noticed that it sort of floated weirdly. I was writing on the second egg, though and having trouble making the wax stay. I must have pushed pretty hard, because the egg smashed in my hand and the next thing I knew I was holding a handful of raw egg. Okay, so I had the wrong carton.

So I threw away the raw eggs and began working with the ones in the other carton…which were boiled, but which didn’t take the wax writing any better than the raw one. I dumped them in the dye and because the dye tablets didn’t dissolve well, the eggs came out splotchy and freckly… and the wax names did not show at all.

I didn’t give up. I dyed all those eggs and not one single name showed up. What was I going to do? I had a bunch of eggs with no names on them that looked like they had been attacked with a colorful version of the plague. But they were dyed. And in the end, I discovered that I’ve wasted a lot of years with those wax crayons when a nice black sharpie marker will do the job so much better! I hope everyone had a great Easter and that you didn’t all need three dozen (plus 2) eggs to get a decent batch dyed….and that your dye wasn’t old enough to vote! Have a good week!

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Furniture Fracas

I’ve never been a big believer in fine furniture. I like to sit on my chairs and couches, walk on my rugs and put food and drinks on the end tables. Consequently, my furniture is not always the most attractive or the nicest, but I at least am familiar with it. I’m not sure I can say the same for Roy after this weekend.
My good, overstuffed rocker, which matched Roy’s, had finally given up the fight. While Roy’s chair held up well, mine had slowly, gradually broken down over the years. I tend to sleep in it when I’m having a restless night and working as a pseudo-bed for a woman my size had caused it to send in its resignation by dropping closer and closer to the floor while spitting mysterious bolts out of every orifice. When it began to overturn randomly and spill me onto the floor, I knew it was time to find something else.

I brought up the idea one night when Roy was tired from working late and not in the mood to discuss furnishings.

“I need a new chair,” I said as he was shoveling in his supper in a hurry. 

“There’s nothing wrong with my chair,” he answered in a distracted fashion, tuning in to the news.

“I know that. It’s my chair,” I answered testily.

“Your chair is fine,” he was no longer interested in the subject, I could tell.

“My chair is a broken-down ride at the amusement park from hell,” I whined. “It tips and rocks and dumps me out in the middle of the ride. I need something new.”

“Fine, go ahead, go shopping,” he muttered, his mind on the newspaper now in front of him.

It was what I had been waiting to hear. I was being turned loose with the family checkbook and permission to get extravagant. Okay, okay, so he never said get extravagant, but I can interpret it any way I want, right? It was time to be bold.

I looked and considered several dozen chairs at the store. I made the salesman a little edgy I think, because I kept going from chair to chair, searching for the perfect one. I know nothing about chairs so I kept asking questions like, “How much weight does the foot rest on this one hold? I have fat feet you know.” On the leather one, I inquired, “How many cows died in order for this chair to live?”

Finally, I found it. It was the perfect chair. It was dark brown, plush, overstuffed and had a foot rest that I could actually operate. The problem? It was a little expensive. Okay, it was very expensive. But it was the one I wanted, so I shut my eyes and got it.

Roy was still busy so I didn’t bother him with little things like the price or the fact that I had to haul it home. I put it in the pickup (or rather, they did) and I drove on my merry way home. But while I was at the store, I picked up a large, very pretty cover for my ugly old couch and brought that home at the same time.

By swearing, sweating and sometimes dragging the thing, I managed to get the chair into the living room and all set up. It looked beautiful…expensive, but beautiful. Then, for good measure, I put the new cover on the couch and  it looked pretty good too. Then I sat down to wait for Roy to come home and admire my new chair.

I was honest; I met him at the door and told him the price first thing. “How much?” he hollered, “that’s ridiculous.”

He was still blustering when he walked into the living room. He walked right by my brand new chair and ran his hands over the new cover on the old couch.

“Oh, this is really nice,” he said. “I thought you were getting a chair, but this is really a bargain for a couch.”

And now for my dilemma: Do I tell him the truth or do I just sit in my expensive new chair and let it go?

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