Sunday, April 19, 2015

The Hanging Nail

I woke up yesterday with a hang nail.  Or “hanging nail” as Kimmy used to call them.
You probably will think it wrong that I never corrected her.  But she sounded so cute!  

"Mommy, do you have any nail clippers?  I have a hanging nail."  


Kind of like how she called toe nails “tony nails.”  So sweet.

I got double pleasure when she had a hanging nail on her tony nail.

(Don't worry.  I told her the correct pronunciation when she got to middle school.)

Back to my hang nail: I attempted to bite it off but it was quite elusive.  It was so short it kept slipping from my teeth.

I persevered and was finally able to grab hold of a teeny piece of nail with my teeth.   I tugged.

  I could feel it all the way to my tony nail.

And then I lost hold of it.  Damn.  It was still hanging.

I had no choice but to cover it with a band-aid.

Now back in the day, when my girls were little, band-aids were a hot commodity.  Kimmy would put band-aids on any and all injuries.  Kind of like a badge of honor.  

But to Linda, band-aids were part of her wardrobe.   While Kimmy was begging for sour gummi worms at Publix, Linda was pleading for Mickey Mouse band-aids.  And we had an endless variety in the medicine cabinet: Sponge Bob, Little Mermaid, Flintstones.  You name it.

Back to my hang nail: I went in search of a band aid for my finger.  I looked in bathroom but could only find my Mustache band-aids and Bacon band-aids.  Neither matched the green shirt I was wearing.  

Where the heck were my Pickle band-aids?  I made a mental note to buy some Jane Austin band-aids next time I was on Amazon. 


The realization set in.

My band-aid collection was remarkably similar to Linda's 2002 assortment.  I was regressing into my six-year old daughter who is now 20.


Wait a minute.  No, I'm not.

I have much better taste in band-aids than Linda ever had.  

I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing an Ariel band-aid over my hanging nail.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Finding the Flawless Flask

Every now and then I would like to be able to drink wine from a straw originating from a concealed flask.  

Just for special occasions.  (Like art gallery openings, lectures, hikes, etc.)  

I could always wear my Wine Rack Sports Bra.  But unfortunately, it has a major flaw.  

It is really cold.  

And who wants cold wine pressing against her rack?  

Not me.  

I could, of course, purchase a Beerbelly, the sister (or should I say brother) product of the Wine Rack.  But it's so unattractive.

And at the risk of appearing vain, I don't want anyone thinking I could not step away from the Easter candy.

My friend Jennifer recommended the Baby Flask.  Which I loved!

But then I thought people might start gossiping.  Whose baby is that?  Did Linda have a baby?   

Or Lou?  I KNEW she was putting on weight.  I thought it was from Easter Candy.

I decided to do more research.  

I discovered the Tampon Flask, which had very positive reviews on 

I love a good bloody Mary on Sunday, but sometimes the sermon in church just drags on and on and cuts into my cocktail time. That's when these little beauties come in handy. I can have my bloody and still wear my white choir robes with confidence!

But there's no straw.  And I want my flask to have a straw.

I kept looking.

The Freedom Flask showed great potential.  Until I saw how you fill your glass.


I decided to go back to the Beerbelly.   So what if someone thinks I've put on a few pounds.


I just had the most scathingly brilliant idea.

Who needs a Beerbelly, when you can have:

The Pregbelly.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

He Who Schmeldt it Dealt It

I thought smelt was a verb.

But apparently it’s also a fish.  And a festival.  In Lewiston, NY.

I was sitting at my cousin Di’s kitchen table last weekend while she and her husband Lou discussed the Smelt Festival.  

Except Di called it “Schmelt”.  

“What is Schmelt?” I asked. 

“Are you kidding?” Lou said, looking at me like I’d grown a second head.  “You don’t know what Smelt are?  Didn’t you ever go Smelt fishing when you were a kid?”

“Smelt?  I thought you said schmeldt.”

“Yeah,” Di said.  “Schmeldt”  

And she wasn’t drinking.

Lou didn’t even notice Di’s Yiddish pronunciation of this small fish that is one of Western New York's most famous natural resources (not counting the Bills).

Instead he proceeded to tell me in way too much detail about how one goes about cooking Smelt “Just cut the head off, clean’m, put’m in a bag with flour and fry’m up."

Apparently they are quite the delicacy.

And you hold them by their tail.  Kind of like a handle.

What Lou and Di didn’t know is that I have a psychological aversion to eating anything that looks like what it came from.  And I can only eat fish if it’s shaped like a rectangle.  Or a rhombus.  

But if it’s shaped like a fish, with a handle resembling a fish tail?  No thank you.

I didn’t want to rain on their Smelt parade, so I just nodded and said, “Wow.  Sounds great,

“Who’s the Schmelt King this year?” Di asked Lou.  

“I think it’s Ken Bruschetta.”  
“He’s always the Schmeldt King,” said Di, disappointed.

I guess he runs unopposed.  

I asked Di if there was a Smelt Queen and there isn’t.  I was about to get on my high horse and say something about how this is 2015 and women’s rights and affirmative action etc.!  

But then I took another look at that Smelt King. 

Yeah.  I get it.