Squeak’s Squeals

I was making dinner last night when I overheard the kids playing.

“Let’s make up our own creatures!” said Roo.

“Ok!” replied JB, “How do we do it?”

“Easy,” declared Roo, “just take two pretend creatures and smoosh them together. Like, I’m gonna be a cyclosus – half cyclops, half pegasus. Now, what are you gonna be?”

JellyBean stopped to ponder for a moment, then said, “I think I’ll be a peppercorn. You know, half peppermint, half unicorn….”

Damn those mythical peppermints!

The circus was in town last Saturday. One day only! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Circus Extravaganza is coming to the Johnstown War Memorial for one day only!

Who could resist? They made it sound so urgently important. Only one day. And they’re gone forever.

So, I took the kids to the circus.

The spectacles were spectacular — from the dudes rolling barrels (and small children) in the air with their feet to the chick who spins from the trapeze by her neck, to the 10-year-old girl who can successfully hula 75 hoops at once (she looked like a little Slinky with a head).

All went well. We made it there, through the show and home without any major incidents, but when it was over, I felt so…. unclean. Like I needed to repent and cleanse myself of what I’d just witnessed.

I always – conveniently enough – forget until I get there how uncomfortable these things make me… circuses, carnivals, fairs… any sort of traveling amusement. Which left me pondering why? Why do strange traveling entertainers freak me out?

Maybe it’s the influence of television, with the History Channel specials on the unfortunate folks who were once paraded around as circus freaks.

Maybe it’s one too many movies where someone bites the big one at the hand of a stranger passing through town.

Maybe I’ve seen the Phantom of the Opera a few too many times.

Maybe it’s because my mother used to lecture me about being wary of the men running the attractions at the County Fair and to never pick up a hitchhiker because he would surely be a serial killer.

Maybe I’ve listened to too much Cher in my life…. aww, c’mon, you know! “Gypsies, tramps and thieves, we’d hear it from the people of the town, they’d call us gypsies, tramps and thieves…. but every night all the men would come around and lay their money down….“

Maybe I’m just a paranoid nutcase.

Though, personally, I blame Austin Powers… “Carnies. Circus folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands.”

Last evening, Puppy and I ventured into the dark abyss that is my basement for some nasty, dirty laundry action.  As I filled the washing machine, I noticed Puppy playing with something on a shelf on the other side of the room.

She would put her nose up to it, sniff a few times and jump back like something tried to bite her.

She would put her paw on the shelf, swat quickly and jump back like something was going to attack.

I was getting worried.  I could see a small black region on the shelf, almost like a shadow.  Was it a mouse?  A rat?  A bat?  Something else?  Something worse!?

With every jump, I would jump, not knowing what was over there, not knowing with what she was entertaining herself, not knowing if it was something that could hurt her – or hurt me – my stomach was lodged in my throat.

Puppy crouched into her attack position.  She wiggled her bottom and pounced toward the shelf.  She was swatting and jumping again until, finally, she swatted the creature in question completely off the shelf.  And she ran to the other side of the room to watch.

I watched the prey make lazy circles on the floor before being viciously attacked by Puppy, the fearless hairball, in a basement death match I’ll not soon forget.

Yep, she showed that black, plastic lid who was boss.  Phew!  What a relief!  Now I can sleep knowing my children and I are safe from the horrors of the black, plastic lid revolt.  Thank you, Puppy!

You’ll find more tales of daring do at humor-blogs.com!

There I was, in my kitchen, innocently attempting to make a boneless turkey breast for dinner.  The front of the package said this particular turkey breast would go from the freezer to the oven with no thawing – cook it in the bag!  A quick skim over the instructions on the back said to cut three vent holes in the front of the turkey bag, place the kit and caboodle in a baking dish and plop it into the oven for approximately two hours.  These things I did.

Fast forward two hours:

I pulled the turkey out to check it.  Something just looked wrong.  The thick, white, plastic bag was melted and molded to the form of the turkey, exposing a very large, white, plastic balloon-esque lump to one side.  I began to ponder my cooking methods and grabbed a knife.

I cut the now turkey-shaped plastic off the turkey itself only to discover a few important things:

1.  The turkey was inside another, much smaller, clear plastic bag imprinted with the words “Roast this side down.”

2.  The giant balloon-like lump was a gravy packet that should have been removed prior to baking, and

3.  Upon closer inspection of the package instructions, it very clearly stated “Remove turkey from outer, white, plastic wrapper, place turkey in baking dish in the direction indicated by the flavor-lock baking bag.  Do not roast gravy packet.  Prepare gravy on stove top.”

Two hours later, when the turkey timer FINALLY popped, we sat down to enjoy a VERY overcooked bird before heading off to a late, late bedtime.  Odds are we’ll all get sick due to some bizarre outer, thick, white, plastic wrapper chemical content disease.

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