Lucrative Laundry Day

I hit the jackpot!  It was a lucrative laundry day. 

            Have you ever had one of those?

            Let me back up a moment.  The Duppster doesn’t believe in wearing anything twice between washings. Not jeans, not khakis, nothing.  That adds up to a whole lot of laundry.  And since Dupp is a rather large man – size 3X shirts – it doesn’t take many items of clothing to fill up the washing machine.

            Anyway, the good side of this situation is that Dupp frequently forgets to take loose change (and other things) out of his pockets before tossing clothing into the hamper.  Maybe I should check pockets before putting a load of clothes in the washer but I don’t.

            So, I figured whatever money comes out in the laundry goes into my wallet.  Now, mind you, I don’t stick my hands into the pockets to pull out money but just keep whatever comes out naturally.  “Naturally” means it falls out in the washer or dryer or after I shake the pants vigorously nine or ten times. 

            Sometimes, Dupp actually leaves bills, i.e. paper money, in his pockets. 

            No, I won’t get rich this way, but there’s usually enough to enjoy my chocolate candy.   Last week, I could have gotten a whole box of chocolates.

            What a lucrative laundry day!

"Foreigners" Eat Funny

       

            Eatin’ habits seem to vary based on what area of the country a person lives in, or at least grows up in.

            I think I’m somewhat of an expert on this subject since I’m married to a Yankee.  Oh, excuse me, a Yankee-transplanted-in-the-South-fellow, which is still pretty much a Yankee, if you ask me.  The Duppster hasn’t been in South Carolina quite long enough to learn how to eat southern.

            He finally tried that southern delicacy we call boiled peanuts.  Much to his credit, Dupp even had a second one.  It’s pretty safe to say, though, that he thinks he can live without ‘em.

            Now, I’ve never professed to be the best cook in the world, but, if I were, Dupp wouldn’t know it.  That’s because he adds ketchup/catsup to just about everything – without even tasting it first. 

            If I fix scrambled eggs and cheese, he adds ketchup.  If it’s scrambled eggs and salmon, he adds ketchup. 

            This past weekend I fixed a big ol’ pot of chicken bog.  First of all, chicken bog is rather peculiar to South Carolina; it’s not even a common meal anywhere else in the southeast, so it’s easy to figure that chicken bog is totally foreign to folks from above the Mason-Dixon line. 

            When this fine concoction of chicken, hot sausage, lots of onion, peppers, a bit of garlic, salt, bacon bits and a few other special additions was ready, what did Dupp do?  He pulled out something with a ketchup base and poured it all over the bog.

            Even as a ketchup-holic, there’s one thing he absolutely won’t put ketchup on, though: hot dogs.

            Go figure!

Going, Going, Gone!

           

 

 

 

 

 

The Duppster and I enjoy going to auctions.

            Sometimes he bids on and buys items.  Sometimes, he bids but doesn’t go high enough to buy.  And, sometimes, we watch and don’t bid at all.  Either the way, the auctions are our weekend entertainment.

             Besides being fun, they are great learning experiences.  For example, I’ve learned not to wave to anyone or fan myself or swat at flies or make any other motion with my arms – not even to scratch something – when there’s bidding going on.  Otherwise, we might end up buying something we don’t need or want.

            And then there are times when we end up with stuff that Dupp wanted, but, for the life of me, I sure don’t know why.

            Right now, we’re practically tripping over bottles and jars – all empty, of course.  I’ll admit that Dupp has found some very interesting bottles with delightful histories.  For example, we have a bottle for Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound (for “female complaints”) from the 1870s.   Another from the 1800s is a bottle for Pond’s Extract, the first product of the company that eventually developed Pond’s Vanishing Cream and Pond’s Cold Cream, followed by other cosmetic items. 

            From auctions and garage sales, though, we’ve occasionally ended up with something that we just have to label “unknown thing.”  In fact, I think we are now official collectors of unknown things.

            Sure, they’re interesting to display.   Also, since we have a little booth in an antique gallery, we typically put our finds in the booth.  But, the thing is, that to sell an object, it helps to know what it is or at least a little something about it.

            Who wants to buy something with a tag that says “unknown thing”?

Just Grits!

            On the way home the other night, I stopped and bought shrimp to boil for supper. 

 

I love shrimp and grits (or fried catfish and grits, or sliced tomatoes and grits, or sausage and grits, or cheese and grits; yes, I like grits!)  

            Well, The Duppster just isn’t “from these parts” – if you know what I mean.  He was born north of the Mason-Dixon line, although he constantly reminds me that he grew up just “slightly” north of that all-important line.  Of course, I tell him that north is north.  Period. 

            Anyway, being a transplant, he doesn’t truly understand or appreciate grits.  Fortunately, a friend from church, Marilyn Tinker Zielke, introduced us to one of her specialties, Southern Comfort Shrimp and Grits.  Dupp loves this concoction.

            I’ve used Marilyn’s recipe quite a few times, so I started fixing that once I got home with the shrimp.  Dupp was already home, so he was in the kitchen also.  As it turns out, we didn’t have any Southern Comfort, so I asked Dupp to help me find a suitable substitute.  He ruled out the rum, Amaretto and Scotch but said the Canadian Club would do.

            So I poured in Canadian Club.  After a few seconds, Dupp asked, “Don’t you think that’s about enough?”  I was tired; I wasn’t measuring. 

            While the food was simmering, I decided the check the recipe.  Okay, so it called for three or four tablespoons instead of three or four cups of Southern Comfort (Canadian Club.)  What’s a few extra ounces anyway? 

            As it turns out, I had peppers from Mom’s garden, and we didn’t know what kinds of peppers we had.  I chopped peppers to use.  They must have been the hottest of all peppers because that’s about all we tasted. 

            Even Dupp might have settled for plain ol’ grits that night.

 

 

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Now THAT was Fast!!!!

            The Duppster – that’s hubby, Karl Duppstadt – is a speed demon: he was clocked at just over 153 mph on a recent Saturday!

            No, he was not in a train.  He was driving a car.

            Luckily, though, he was driving Tony Stewart’s #14 NASCAR racecar.  Also luckily, he was on the Charlotte Motor Speedway when he was clocked at that speed.

            Dupp is a NASCAR fan, and “fan,” of course, is short for “fanatic.”  The word fits him just fine.

            His all-time favorite driver was Dale Earnhardt; now he generally pulls for Dale Earnhardt Jr., Mark Martin, Carl Edwards or Tony Stewart.  Dupp didn’t get to choose which car he drove but he was happy in Stewart’s #14.

            A key word in that last sentence is “in.”  As race fans know, drivers get in to and out of cars through the respective driver’s side window, and those windows aren’t very big.  Dupp is 6’2” and about 280 pounds.  He also had to wear a helmet, which, by itself, looked almost as big as the window opening. 

            How Dupp made it in through that window is something I’ll never know.  Sure, I was watching but still don’t know how all of him got through the window and into the seat.  Getting out proved to be more difficult than getting in, but he made it.   I’m surprised he didn’t throw something out of joint, and I don’t mean something that’s part of the car.  Maybe my hubby is also somewhat of a contortionist.

            Even though 153 mph is pretty doggoned fast, it wasn’t the top speed of the day.  Dupp rode in a different car alongside one of the professional drivers.  They exceeded 170 mph during those laps.

            Off the racetrack, Dupp is not a speed freak.  In fact, sometimes it seems to me that he is slow as molasses, especially when we’re in a hurry to get somewhere.  Go figure!

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Boxes - and More Boxes

                        I’ve never seen so many boxes in my life!

                        It’s been six weeks since we moved, or at least since we started moving.  The whole moving process seems unending.  We’re still surrounded by boxes.

                        With everything else going on – like sleeping, eating, cooking, church, work, etc. – we can’t spend 24 hours a day unpacking boxes.  I wonder if we’ll be through by Christmas. 

                        Since Dupp and I are still relatively newly-wed, we have “his stuff,” “her stuff,” “our stuff” and stuff that has been stored in PODS for a few years. 

                        And among all of this stuff are some things we don’t recognize.  At all.  A visitor asked recently about a clock.  I told her to ask Dupp about it ‘cause I’d never seen it before.  Strange.  Dupp said it wasn’t his either. 

                        We found parts of three blenders but not all of the parts to any one blender. 

                        We’ve also found enough crockpots to open a crockpot museum.  I’ll admit that I enjoy using crockpots, even for boiled peanuts.  I’ve been known to use two or three at a time when we had folks coming over. 

                        It’s no telling what all we will discover or rediscover. 

                        Until today, going through boxes was a slow process.

                        That changed when the two grandsons came for a five-day visit.  Do you know how fast a four-year-old and a seventeen-month-old can open and go through boxes? 

                        It takes less than 24 hours for two little boys to unpack every box. 

                        Sure, it’s going to take a long time to put stuff away or donate it or sell it or whatever.  But, thanks to the grandsons, we don’t have as much unpacking to do.

                        Besides, boxes make wonderful toys for playing, imagining, creating and building.  The two boys love having empty boxes.

                        And so do we!

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Oh, For a Bed!!!

            So, here’s the deal: we bought a new bed.

            Well, it wasn’t actually a “new” bed but it was new to us.  It’s a four-poster rice bed found at a consignment shop.  We waited until price dropped even more to make the purchase. 

            We also waited until The Duppster measured to see that our box springs and mattress would fit, since we had a king bed but were buying a California king.  He said they would.  He measured and assured me they would work.

            Guess what?  We got the bed home and the box springs wouldn’t fit into the space on the used/new bed.

            This was a Sunday night so there wasn’t much we could do, other than sleep on the floor or sofa.

            On Monday I bought box springs (Dupp said the mattress would definitely fit) and they were to be delivered on Tuesday, which meant one more night of alternative sleeping arrangements.  Or “non-sleeping” arrangements.

            Box springs were delivered Tuesday morning but they weren’t the size I ordered.  The delivery guys took ‘em back.

            When I called to get the correct ones delivered, the lady on the phone said I’d get a call to schedule delivery within 48 hours.  Forty-eight more hours???  By the end of 48 hours, we hadn’t gotten that call.

            In the meantime, I suggested to Dupp that it might be more comfortable (than the floor) if we’d put the old box springs sideways across the bed frame and then put the mattress on top, that, too, going crossways. 

            Dupp did just that, bless his pea-picking, Yankee-moved-South heart.  The bed looked odd but was certainly better for sleeping – for a while.

            I got up in the middle of the night to, um, answer nature’s call.  When I got back, I couldn’t get up into the bed.  It was too high. Or I was too short.  I couldn’t even get a knee up on the mattress to help pull me into the bed.

             I didn’t want to wake up The Duppster, so I went into our office to work for a while.  After an hour or so, I got sleepy, went back to the bedroom and tried again.  No luck. 

            I got down on the floor to try to sleep.  Before long, I heard Dupp moving, so I quietly asked, “Are you getting up?” 

            He groggily mumbled, “What?”

            I asked if he was getting up to go to the bathroom.  He replied, “Where ARE you?”

I told him I was on the floor, that I hadn’t been able to get up in the bed and needed his help.

            For the next 15 to 20 minutes, I laughed or giggled uncontrollably.  I couldn’t stop.

            Hey, I told him I thought marriage should be fun!

            And, by the way, he had measured the mattress, which did fit.  He just hadn't measured the box springs.

Supper With the Boys

            The Duppster and I had the two grandsons over the weekend. 

            Harrison is almost four; Fisher is 14 months.  What this means is that we had our hands full. 

            Sunday meant Sunday School and church and we made it through much, much better than we feared.  Now THAT was something for which to give thanks!

            Fortunately, there are several neighborhood children, so both boys were able to play outside with others in the afternoon.  That was yet another reason for thanksgiving.

            Meal time was something else.  Fisher has learned to say “cracker” and continually asks for crackers, even while eating something else. 

            Sunday night, after a long but enjoyable day, it was time for supper and I wasn’t sure what to fix in a hurry that Harrison would eat and that Dupp liked.

            Well, as it turns out, both Harrison and Dupp love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Voila!  That would be the perfect quick supper, even though we had to use different kinds of jelly based on personal preferences.  Wouldn’t you know it?

            Harrison was at the table, gobbling down his peanut butter and (blackberry) jelly sandwich, when he turned to me and said, “This is just a fake supper.  Right?”

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Famous Last Words - Or They Should Have Been

            They’re famous last words, or at least they should have been.  Or they could have been.

            See, it happened like this a few days ago.  I had to get injections in the cervical spine and, because of the effects of sedation, needed a driver.  (That’s one of those times when it comes in handy to have a spouse.)

            So, the Duppster (bless his heart) took the afternoon off from work to be my official driver.  After all, he seems to have a vested interest in me being out of pain, as being in pain often translates into being “a pain.”

            I’m typically pretty alert after injections.  Since I wasn’t groggy, we made a few stops on the way home, including going by the local Subway for sandwiches to take home with us. 

         

            Later that night, after our evening ritual of “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy,” the Duppster just casually asked, “Did you know you’ve got mascara under your eyes and down your face?”

            “Since when?” I responded.

            And just as matter-of-factly he answered, “Oh, it’s been there all day.”

            All day?  Doesn’t a man know this is serious?  How could he notice this and let me go around with mascara down the side of my face?!?!

            That’s like coming home from church and asking, “Did you know your dress wasn’t buttoned all the way?” or “Did you know there was a hole in the back on your skirt?”

            These could be famous last words.

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Football, The South, Gadgets & Men

The Duppster – that’s hubby Karl Duppstadt a/k/a Dupp – grew up in Pennsylvania. 

That means he, like many others who didn’t have the privilege of growing up in the South, doesn’t realize that real football is played at the college level and at the high school level.  He thinks real football is the NFL.

In fact, I’ll never forget the time we drove by a recreation department football game involving elementary school children and saw folks tailgating at the game.  He thought that was hilarious.  Dupp just doesn’t get it that football starts at an early age around here, and it’s important in the Southern life cycle. 

Anyway, back to Dupp and watching the NFL on television.

Someone once said, “Men are simple things. They can survive a whole weekend with only three things: beer, boxer shorts and batteries for the remote control.” 

I’ve always thought the remote control alone was probably enough for The Duppster.  That was until this past weekend.

Dupp was watching NFL playoff games.  He doesn’t use the remote as frequently or repetitively  during football games as he does other times, so he had no reason to practically squeeze the remote control every moment.

I guess that freed up his hands and he felt the need to have those hands doing something else.  I glanced over at him – and laughed.

While watching the game, he also was using his laptop computer, his cell phone, an iPad – and he had one of those contraptions in his ear that I believe is called a Bluetooth or something like that.  That was four – as in “one, two, three, four” – different electronic devices in addition to the television.

No doubt, that’s why he hadn’t answered anything I asked him.  He was carrying multi-tasking to its highest level.

He probably didn’t even know I was in the same room until a flash of light let him know I had just snapped a photo of him with all of those contraptions. 

Thank goodness for electricity and batteries, huh?

 *         *        *         *

Old Photos? Or Just Old Faces?!?!

            Most people don’t like to have their pictures taken.  Oh, sure, there are a few who do.

            I’m in that first group.  I don’t like to have my picture taken.  Maybe it’s because we haven’t yet identified a side that could qualify to be my “good side.”  Actually, I don’t think I have a good side.

            Be that as it may, I have a picture someone took that I like okay.  Considering others, this one is at least half-way decent.

            That’s the one I chose, naturally, to use on my Google profile and on other Internet sites that needed a photo, although later I found another that I used on an alternating basis.  I didn’t like the second one as much but at least it was a change from time to time.

            The first photo, though, is the one that was on a particular site that The Duppster (my hubby) was checking out last week. 

            That’s also the photo he was looking at when he asked, “How long ago was THAT picture taken???”

            He was on the right track; this was most definitely not a new picture. 

            But it’s not like it was 30 or 40 years ago either.  It was taken in November 2009 – exactly two years ago. Now, I ask you: How much can one person change in just two little years?

            Yep, you’re right.  Apparently, a WHOLE lot. 

            When my own hubby thinks the two-year-old photo is an ancient one, it’s time to use something more recent.  I’m thinking of using an avatar or caricature instead of a real picture.

            Whatever I use, I don’t think The Duppster will be asking how old it is any time soon.

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Statlers, Sprockets and Such

I’ll never forget the first time I heard my children talking about smashing pumpkins. I thought they were up to no good.




Smashing Pumpkins from discog





Turns out they were talking about a rock band, The Smashing Pumpkins. What a name, I thought.




I was reminded of this a few days ago when the TV was on; a guy was being interviewed and the identifying caption on the screen was “Toad the Wet Sprocket.” The Duppster made some comment about what in the world that combination of words might mean.



from MySpace




Yes, Toad the Wet Sprocket is another band, one that happened to be playing Charleston that night.






Do musicians and would-be musicians sit around trying to figure out the weirdest possible name for a group?

Just consider some of the other names: Gorilla Biscuits, The Germs, The Casualties, Public Enemy, Bad Brains, Black Sabbath, Velvet Underground, The Black-Eyed Peas, Pink Floyd, Flying Burrito Brothers, Counting Crows and Mott the Hoople.



Mott the Hoople 2009 Reunion from Wikipedia



Mott the Hoople?



Black Sabbath from Wikipedia



There’s Insane Clown Posse, Nine Inch Nails, Velvet Revolver, My Chemical Romance, Neutral Milk Hotel, Iggy Pop, The Arctic Monkeys. And, yes, even our South Carolina guys, Hootie and the Blowfish.

Certainly there must be a reason behind each name, although I can’t imagine what. In fact, with some of those names, I don’t think I even want to know!

Toad the Wet Sprocket took its name from a comedy sketch by Monty Python’s Flying Circus, a name which must have a story of its own.



Statler Brothers from Wikipedia





The Statler Brothers, a country-western/gospel group, got its name from a company that manufactured paper products. The guys were in a room, trying to come up with a name, when one of them spotted a box of Statler tissues.



from http://www.originaldrifters.com/



Whatever happened to “regular” names like The Ink Spots, The Temptations, The Drifters, The Coasters and The Moonglows?



Maybe those band members didn’t have the creativity and imagination of more modern groups, as weird as that creativity and imagination might be.



But at least their music was real music with melody and understandable words.

Ah, for the good ol’ days.




from discog

                - - - - - - - -

It's the Match Game, And I Keep Losing!

I’ve just finished playing a game. I lost. I always lose.

It’s the “Match Game,” but it’s not like the one that used to be televised.




We often play our own version of the televised game when family and friends are gathered, and it ends up being hilarious. Like when all players are supposed to write down a color. About half usually write red; most of the others typically write blue.

But one lone player will come up with something like teal or black or pink. No matches there.

Or name something you might buy.  Several people might write clothes or a car or various other things.  If one player happens to select vacuum cleaner, it's pretty much a given that there won't be a match. 

The object, of course, is to score the most points by having the highest number of matches at the end of the game. It’s a simple game that sounds boring but is actually fun.

What’s not fun is the version I keep playing and losing.

It involves trying to match up The Duppster’s socks after taking them out of the dryer. Like I said, I always lose.

I’ve never seen the winner – the hidden “someone” who takes individual socks out of the dryer, then hides them,  never to be seen again.

Aside from always having an uneven number after the drying cycle, there’s still the unbelievable chore of matching up the socks that made it through.

Do you know how many different shades of navy blue exist in this world? Well, I don’t know either, but however many there are, The Duppster found ‘em all!

Not only that, he’s found a dark, dark navy blue that is extremely close to black, but not close enough to be an exact match.

Finally, when I occasionally find exact color matches, I end up having one sock with thin lines and another with thick lines. Or one with ribbing and one without. Or maybe I find matching patterns, but, once again, mismatched colors.

There’s a whole lot of effort involved in matching up these socks.

 

If you ever run into The Duppster and you’re surprised to see him in a button-down shirt with a tie, a blazer and shorts, just know it’s because I want somebody to see that he has on matching socks!

 
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