Starting a piece with a definition is an over-used literary device, but appropriate to today’s topic. To wit, Merriam-Webster defines “miracle” as “an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment.” Let’s not dwell on “outstanding,” rather focus on “unusual.” And before I disclose, some background is called for.

My late sister Rosie ran circles around the rest of her siblings in her ability to create thoughtful, cute things. She made me Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls with my name inscribed.

She made my nephew a clown Halloween costume that was passed down to the other nieces and nephews the way some families pass down a christening gown.

My inability to do these kinds of things rivaled the inabilities of my siblings, the difference being that they didn’t try. Alas, I was a member of the “hope springs eternal” crowd. Apparently Rosie shared my hope for myself, so when my kids were young and she was decluttering, she would, from time to time, ship me things. Before Christmas, she sent three two-foot high cardboard cutouts shaped liked gingerbread men that my kids could decorate. And before Easter one year, she sent me a lamb cake mold with instructions to use a box cake mix. That was it, the only instruction. Not sure why she thought that was adequate, but as I said, she had more hope in others than they in themselves.

For starters, the mold had 2 pieces. I mixed up the cake, presuming that one piece was the left side of the lamb, and the other, the right. So I filled each side with cake mix. When I took it out of the oven, each side had risen, thus when I removed the cake from each side and put them together, I had a two-headed lamb.

I’d already met the definition of “miracle,” yet there was more.

Unbelievably, I was not dissuaded from going further. I was expecting my 20-something niece and Jim’s brother’s family to join me, Jim, and my three teens for Easter brunch. After a moment’s reflection, I decided none were fussy and all would prefer dessert despite its appearance. So, I forged ahead because I had no alternative and time had grown short. So short, I felt I couldn’t wait to decorate my two-headed lamb cake.

I skillfully applied a white frosting and teased it up to resemble the soft curly fur of a lamb. Masterful. Then ,the piece-de-resistance. I added two red jelly bean eyes and a black jelly bean nose. Viewed from the proper angle, one would hardly notice the duplicate head. Into the freezer it went for a “quick cool.”

A short time later, the time for dessert arrived. I dispatched my son to fetch the cake and bring it to the table. It took him longer than expected because he paused, finding it difficult to walk and laugh simultaneously. You see the “quick cool” wasn’t quick enough and the warm frosting gave rise to some melting of the jelly beans. As all stared in amazement, someone snapped a picture.

Over the years, the picture has been shared to family and friends of family. It is forgotten for several months, then like an Easter miracle, rises.

I am thinking there is no better time than a global pandemic, when people are starved for a bit of amusement, to share my creation publicly. Hence. I present, my two-headed lamb cake.

Rosie, we will miss you tonight when I launch my inaugural attempt at a family Jeopardy game on Zoom, but rest assured, hope springs eternal for my creative ambition.

As I mentioned in a previous post, our washing machine (actually the laundry tub) overflowed three times last week. And, being March, it’s muddy and Otis ran around the laundry room with muddy paws before he had a bath(s) in the laundry tub. We also store our luggage in the laundry room and having just returned from vacation, the luggage needed storage. Before I put the luggage in the cubby under the stairs, however, I decided to pull out ALL the luggage and backpacks and free totes, hoping that one might contain my lost sunglasses, rendering them found. What I am warming up to is that our laundry room resembled a war zone.

All week I plotted my attack, knowing it best to wait until Jim could supervise Otis. No telling what Otis could get into while I was distracted with the laundry room.

Today was D-Day. And let me assure you, I have less to fear from the coronavirus than from what was lurking in the laundry room…

I won’t detail the mold. It is distasteful and is now vanquished. But I WILL discuss some of the other cleaning challenges.

First, the evidence of my good intentions:

• Three full and one half-full bottle of Murphy’s Oil Soap
• Three cans of Pledge, one of which had corroded, reminding me of Chernobyl
• Three bottles of hydrogen peroxide

Those were exact duplicates. If I were to categorize by function, the duplications abound. A couple of spray bottles of degreaser (not sure that I have EVER used a degreaser. What does one degrease?) Several — and I mean several — different variants of products to clean and shine the wood in your life (and this is in addition to the Murphy’s Oil Soap and the Pledge). Lots of rug cleaning items. Bathroom cleaning items.

Next I spot the specialized tools.. The mismatched rubber gloves. The squeegee for the shower door (since the kids have moved out, we rarely use the shower with the shower door and have never even been tempted to squeegee it) and the blind cleaner. I can assure you I have never used this to clean blinds. Never.

I move on.

Our lightbulb collection has overgrown its storage receptacle. All different varieties, which is good, because who the hell know what bulb goes where anymore? Lightbulbs confound me. It used to be so easy. You need a 60 watt, 75 watt, or a 3-way. You go to the store, see the white package with the accordion insert, check the wattage, and you’re good to go. But now, where to start? I turn off lights when I leave a room, not to save the planet, but to save me a trip to the light bulb aisle.

Overwhelmed by the duplicative cleaning supplies and confounding light bulbs, I pivot back to the luggage and decide a sensible approach is to store all duffel bags in the mother of all duffel bags — the biggest and bestest one (and adorned with Jim’s initials no less). Alas, it smells. I report this to Jim, reluctantly, because I am thinking that I can do a little treatment, but it may well be that the initialed bag is headed for the garbage. Jim shakes his head knowingly. “Yeah I think one of the kids borrowed it and threw up in it.”

What???? So, so many questions!!

• First of all, why would someone throw up in a borrowed duffle bag? And then return it
• Secondly, if the duffel smelled like vomit, why would Jim store it for later use?

I ask Jim why he believes someone puked in his initialed bag. His proof is scanty. I wipe it down with white vinegar, wishing what it really needed was a couple of bottles of Murphys Oil Soap, scrubbed in with a blind cleaner, with a chaser of degreaser. The jury is out on whether the initialed bag will remain in our fleet of travel bags.

After hours of diligent effort, I grow weary. I scramble and organize shit and duplications of shit I will never use, just so I can get to the final act — scrubbing the floor.

Done.

nancy is getting ready to get back to this blog. this is a test/

Tomorrow is my birthday; I will turn 58. My Dad was 58 when I was born.

I can’t say I hope to have a baby this year.

Everyone likely has an opportunity of a lifetime. The challenge is recognizing it as such and capitalizing on it.

For example, my sister got into a kerfuffle with an airline over the cost of her ticket. The details are unimportant. What IS important is that she was able to recognize and seize on an important opportunity, in fact, in all likelihood, the opportunity of a lifetime.

You see, once she was irritated, she demanded to talk to a customer service representative. And she was connected with one named Buster. Perfect. Excellent. Once he regurgitated the company spiel re cost of one-way v. round-trip flights, she was able to say, “Listen Buster . . . ”

Like I said, what an opportunity.

I know, I know. I’ve neglected you. It is not that I haven’t thought of “putting pen to paper,” rather every time I’ve considered it, I have filtered myself. (“I can’t write THAT! What if X reads it . . . “) You see? These are the problems of having a readership of a half dozen people.

So, this evening I decided I must write something. Let’s dispense with writing about the weather because it sucks. That is not a word I use often, rather it has crept into my vernacular having spent several years with younger people. But really, it is the word of the hour. It is April 22 and we are undergoing yet another major snowstorm. Really I don’t care about the snow or even the temperature, but the gray will do me in. Please Lord, a little sun is all I ask.

I have been thinking a lot about grammar lately. (Am now probably down to three readers.) In my freelance editing life, I am editing test questions for 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. Hope they know what an adverbial phrase is because I am not so sure. At the same time I am tutoring foreign speakers. In fact, I went hog wild and said I would help a Spanish speaker prepare for the GED. I taught her to write a 5-paragraph essay. She did a bang-up job, but now I need to tackle grammar. The organization is there, the content, but damn gerunds to hell.

My mother could wring her hands like the best of the Irish, and she wrung them plenty over the fact that I was never taught to diagram sentences. A horrible shortcoming. I distinctly remember weeping in grade school about my inability to identify adverbs. My mother assured me that knowledge would come with time.

Well, Mom, I am 54, it is snowing like crazy, and I don’t know how to diagram sentences. Life sucks.

It is quite clear to me, that in a former life, Hunter, my dog, was a horse.

The evidence is as follows:

1. He rears up on his hind legs to greet people. I do not mean he jumps on them. Yes, this happens but he also just rears up, like an over-zealous uncle who screams, “WELCOME.”
2. He rears up and uses his front paws to knock the leash from my hands when he is unhappy about my directional decisions. “NO, NO, NOT THAT WAY. I DO NOT WANT TO GO THAT WAY.”

Every time he executes his horse-move, I am reminded of one of the illustrations in my childhood copy of Black Beauty. (I believe it was when she (he?) had to be blindfolded because of a fire in the stable, but this image will do.)

black beauty (futurely known as Hunter)

I liked BB (Black Beauty), Flicka was my friend, and I didn’t think Mr. Ed was a stupid show. In fact, I “rode” a chair in our living room, as well as some old tires in the backyard. These horses had various names, but all were loyal to a fault, initially wild beyond compare, but tamed by moi.

I was always torn between owning Flicka v. Lassie so I am grateful that in my old age, I have a dog who thinks he is a horse.