A Christmas Song for Kids Young and Not-so

Greetings to all. It is time for the annual posting of a Christmas song by my own dear brother, Peter. As you may know from last year, he is a squirrel nut. Every year, to celebrate the holidays and honor his favorite rodent, he writes a song. This is something you do not want to miss!

If you click Here you can read this year's squirrel newsletter; always an inspiration.

Or, if you'd rather go straight to the song, click Here then sit back and enjoy.

Happy Holidays!

Liza the Brave

Yesterday morning I was sitting in my favorite chair sipping tea and feeling at peace with the world. My pup, Cody scratched on the door and I let him in paying little attention to the clump of soggy vegetation he had in his mouth.

As I went back to my chair, Cody deposited a large leaf on the floor then stretched out for a nap. I idly studied the leaf, it was red in the middle with brown tips. I decided it was a Maple and it was probably staining the rug.

I went to pick it up but as I reached for the stem I realized it was a long, skinny tail. I looked more closely, the autumn hue I'd been admiring was guts and the brown leaf tips were claws. It was a mangled, half-eaten mouse!

I must pause for a moment to explain my feelings about mice. Not only do I cringe at the thought of a them, I go into screaming-meemie-hysterics if I even suspect there might be one in my house.

I needed to act fast before the fleeing portion of my fight or flight instinct kicked into overdrive. With bare fingers, I lifted the rodent by the tip of its tail. I dangled it at arms-length as I walked through the kitchen, dropped the disgusting remains in the waste basket, slammed the lid, then scrubbed my hands so hard the skin almost came off.

I returned to my chair and tried to feel proud of myself for walking into my fear but my revulsion was too strong to let me feel anything but grossed out. After giving myself a stern lecture about how courageous I'd been, I went to make lunch.

I rolled some cheese into a pita bread and went to stick it in the microwave. The microwave next to the waste basket with the dead mouse in it! I made myself breathe deeply while after-shocks of disgust wracked my body.

When I tried to eat the sandwich the oozing melted cheese almost made me barf. All I could think of was that dead mouse. I needed to get the damn thing as far away from me as possible.

I grabbed the plastic bag out of the waste basket, ran it out to the trash can in my garage, and threw it in. I locked down the heavy duty lid to prevent the mouse from escaping if it had a spontaneous healing, then hurried back into the house to wash my hands Lady MacBeth style - over and over and over - until I felt that I'd removed any airborne mouse cooties that may have gotten on me.

Now I'm worried. Are there mice outside my house trying to get in? And what about Cody? He's a mixed-mixed breed. Does he have some kind of mouser in him? Will he continue to hunt rodents and bring them to me? Will he get tape worms from eating mice? Or die if he chews on a mouse that has recently been dining on D-Con?

These are a lot of questions for which I have no answers but of one thing I am certain; that dog is never going to lick me again.

I Been Had

I am a person who has no business having two blogs. But I do. Why? Because one is for recording my deep and often captivating thoughts (that's this one, by the way.) The other, City Slicker on a Country Road, documents my amazing experiences as an Appalachian Mountain-girl wannabe.

Now, here is the hard part to admit in a public forum: neither one of my blogs is read by anyone. Well, hardly anyone. A big week for me is two hits.

So, this morning as I responded to an email from a friend who had commented on my recent blog entries, advising him he is one of my only readers, I got an email from Blogger. It was a comment to one my older blogs. From a complete stranger!

"You write very well," the person said. I couldn't believe my eyes! The timing was perfect. I quickly sent a p.s. to my friend and told him I now have two readers.

Then I went to the blog that was commented on, as I read it my head began to swell. It was pretty good. I modestly thanked the sender in the comments section. Then I decided to snoop. Who was this secret admirer?

It was an insurance company! Yep. The link to this person took me straight to a site that is all about the good deals that can be had if one purchases this particular brand of insurance.

I am deflated. I had to send a p.s. to my p.s. advising my friend he is back to being my only reader. What a let down.

A Room by Any Other Name...

Today I got a gigantic urge to show the world my absolute favorite room in my house. I sometimes call it my reading room or, when I'm in a more formal frame of mind, The Library. It's dark without being dingy, and while the wood paneling is knotty pine rather than mahogany, I still think it gives the room tone.

I realize as far as urges go, posting a picture of a room seems pretty lame. So, rather than trying to convince you of the merits of this room, (and therefore, of this blog entry) I'll post the photograph and be done with it. Except, well, seriously....



...waddya think? Is that a humdinger of a room or what?

Is it a Snit or a Sweet Potato Spell?

My dog, Frannie, suffers from separation anxiety. In an effort to alleviate her emotional pain, I adopted a three-month old puppy named Cody. He was to be Frannie's companion; she'd never be lonely again.

I didn't just spring Cody on Frannie, I gave her the opportunity to vet him through visits to his foster home and play-dates. The pooches got along great. They sniffed each others' behinds, zoomed around the yard, and dragged each other by their necks. A sure sign they loved each other. Perfect.

Not. It seems that in Frannie's eyes play-date versus live-in are two very different things. It's three months later and Frannie refuses to play with Cody, she gobbles his food, steals his milk bones, and leans into my legs to prevent him from getting near me. Everywhere I go,Frannie is there, leaning and gazing up looking betrayed. At first I thought she was in a post-adoptive snit but as time wears on I have come to realize it's something much greater than that.

Frannie is having a full blown sweet potato spell. A phrase coined by my great-grandmother when Uncle Bud regularly exhibited his unwillingness to eat sweet potatoes by going into a prolonged, publicly displayed pout.

I'm hoping Frannie gets over it soon because I can feel my own spell coming on. Not only do I now have a Velcro-dog with separation anxiety, I have a bored puppy who expects me to entertain him.





Cody and Frannie waiting for a treat

A Little Bit of Heaven Right Here on Earth

I am positive I am not the original inventor of the Chocolate/Peanut Butter Swirl with Ice Cream on Top. But I am definitely the first person I know who has rustled up this delightful combo. As a decent human being, I feel it is my duty to share my discovery with you.

Plop a generous dollop of Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter into a microwave-safe bowl like so:


(Author's Note: Even if you're a die-hard Smoothy, for this concoction, the Crunchy is where it's at)





Next, submerge the peanut butter in a pool of chocolate syrup:


(Author's note: Hot fudge that must be softened in the jar does not blend properly and should be avoided if possible.)



Place the bowl in the microwave and heat it for 1.3 minutes on half power. If the peanut butter is not fully melted, heat for an additional twenty seconds.

Upon removing the bowl from the microwave, gently swirl the chocolate and peanut butter until it forms an attractive pinwheel:














Add three generous scoops of good quality Vanilla Ice Cream:


(Author's note: I have tried using el cheapo, off-brand ice cream and it does not get the job done. Go for the good stuff, you won't regret it.)






You are now ready to enjoy a bit of heaven right here on Earth.







(Author's note: You're welcome. Please hold your applause until you have set your spoon down.)

It's All in the Presentation

I once tried to describe this sign in a blog but was unable to capture the essence. Sometimes ya just gotta see it with your own eyes.

Reflections On a Windsheild

Friday I drove to Tennessee. It's an eight and a half hour trip and, normally, I put the car on cruise and put my mind in "the zone." But this time the traffic, construction, and weather were such, I was forced to focus on driving.

A drive so boring, I was driven to study the bug splats on the windshield for entertainment. They were large, small, smeared, round, square-shaped, pear-shaped; an entire gallery of yellow goo. My interest began to wane when I spotted one mushy, red splotch. My mind skipped a beat, then boggled. Do bugs have blood? It's something I've never considered. If they do, does that mean they have hearts? Arteries? Blood pressure?

I have since spent a great deal of time pondering this. I even asked my friend, a retired chemist, and his vague answer led me to believe he doesn't know and isn't particularly interested. But I can't stop thinking about it, not so it's driving me nuts, it just bugs me.

Michigan Nature Tour #1

Things I learned while sitting on a park bench next to a lake:

1) Swans rule the lake.
2) Swans hate geese.
3) Swans warn Geese to get lost by twitching their tails.
4) Geese pretend they're not intimidated by Swans but you can tell they really are because they don't take their eyes off them.
5) Swans chase Geese by swimming at them snapping their beaks, or by flapping their wings and skimming across the water at them.
6) After a Swan has run a Goose off, it raises its wings, lifts it's chest, points its beak toward the heavens, and snorts repeatedly as though it's dragging a particularly difficult loogie up from the bottoms of its webbed feet.
7) When a Swan is not showing off, it swims placidly in circles.
8) Ducks don't mean doo-doo to Swans or Geese.
9) My dog, Frannie, thinks Goose poop is a delectable treat.

Oh Those Dancing Feet

Have you ever tried placing a bar of soap under the sheets at the foot of your bed to prevent Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS)? If you're scoffing at the notion, I can tell you've never been driven to madness by the torture of RLS.

You've never heard of it? It's like this. You try to sit still and your legs squirm and twist like night crawlers in a coffee can. The inside of your skin from feet to knees feels infested with burrowing, biting insects. The soles of your feet itch and burn as though you've danced for hours in a vat of Poison Ivy. You think I'm exaggerating? If only!

Saturday night as I lay my weary head upon my pillow, my legs kicked into gear. For hours they itched. They twitched. They attempted to jump off the bed and run up the walls. It was terrible. Sunday, I woke up crabby and fearful, the tingles were still there. As the minutes ticked by, the threat of another wretched night loomed closer. My legs crept and crawled in anticipation.

Desperate, I ran to my computer to look up folklore remedies for RLS. Turmeric, Black strap Molasses, Baking Soda in water, and....soap in bed. I opted to try everything I had on hand. I tucked a fresh bar of soap under the sheet at the foot of my bed then headed to the kitchen. I began with an oozing tablespoon of bright yellow mustard for a healthy dose of turmeric. Ooh-ooh, talk about a sock in the kisser! After I'd finished reeling from shock I noticed the creepy crawlies had stopped. Hot dog!

I read for awhile, and then my legs started to dance. I moved on to the next remedy, baking soda and water. My stomach heaved a few times then stopped. That's it. With legs still atingle I downed another tablespoon of mustard. It worked again. Yes! I was ready to hit the soapy sack. With a feeling of trepidation I tucked myself in. My feet started to wander, found the bar of soap and stopped. Started up again. Stopped.

I had a wonderful night's sleep but had to awaken before dawn to get to an acupuncture appointment on time. I quickly downed Cheerios with bananas followed by a mustard chaser. I was good to go. The acupuncturist (after covertly sneering at my remedies) treated me for RLS then sold me some expensive no-name Chinese herbs supposed to really help (not like those other lame things, harrumph!)

I am now full of mysterious Chinese herbs, and I am prepared to once-again brave the mustard. Right now my right heel is rubbing my left foot. It must be time to hit the sauce. I do hope my legs and I sleep as harmoniously with the soap as we did last night, I don't have to get up tomorrow until I want to.

I Fall to Pieces

Today I gained a huge insight into myself; humorless people intimidate me. If I can't joke my way through a conversation, I turn into a blabbering idiot. The path to this self-awareness began with an email I sent to a company that sells hinge-topped mint-tins. The response I recieved says, "I tried to call you. The people said they never heard of you. Please call me. Vincent"

I grab the phone, dial Vincent's number and get his voice mail.
"Hi," I say, "This is Liza. Sorry about the phone number, I think I sent you the wrong one. My real phone number is...I'm not sure. I think it's 123-4555. No. Maybe it's 123-4455. Wait. I think the first one was right. Anyway, call me."

As I hang up, I realize my message was too stupid for words. I still don't know my number so I look it up. Both the numbers I'd left were wrong. I call back, get the voice mail, and leave the right number. An hour later my phone rings.

"Hello?"
"This is Vincent," he says, clipping off the end of each word with the precision of a neurosurgeon, "What is your phone number?"
"Oh," I say, laughing, "you must think I'm so dumb."
"No, I don't."
I laugh again, "I had to look myself up in the phone book."
Silence. Okay, so he doesn't think it's funny. I decide to get down to business, "My brother and I want to get the back stamped out of a tin."
"What do you mean by 'stamped?'" He sounds mildly disapproving.
"Cut a hole," I say.
"By 'back' do you mean bottom?"
"Yep. We're going to have printing on the top."
"By 'top' do you mean lid?"
"I guess." Does he feel like he's pulling teeth as much as I feel like mine are being extracted?
"Let me tell you the parts of a tin box," he says.
"That's a good idea," I say.
"Lid, body, bottom," he enunciates each word for all it's worth.
"Oh, okay, I'll remember," I say then proceed with what I'm trying to say, "I have a schematic. The length I need, or maybe it's the width..."
Leonard sighs, "We call the longest part the length, the shortest part the width."
"Oh," I say and tell him the dimensions.
"What's the depth?" he asks.
"Um, I dont' know. Not very deep."

And so the conversation goes. Inch by painful inch. I try to crack a joke here and there, Vincent isn't buying it. Perhaps a bit of self-deprecating humor will break through his shell. No dice. I finally give up, knowing he hates me because I'm a tin-box dunce.

Vincent wraps up the converstaion by telling me what he needs to know before we can discuss price, "Send me a schematic," he says, "That includes the depth. Also send your name, address, and phone number. Be sure to include your phone number."
"I will," I say, "I'll even look it up again to make sure it's right."
Leonard does not chuckle, he bids me adieu and politely hangs up.

I set the phone down and wipe the sweat from my frazzled brow. I am such a fool. I don't know the first thing about anything. I replay the conversation in my mind, where did I go wrong with Vincent? It's because I gave him the wrong phone number, it has to be. But, he called me! It doesn't matter.

Another Fine Old Family Expression

Texas Sit/v. When two or more people gather to spend countless enjoyable hours talking about anything that happens to come up.

Texas Sitter/n. A person who comes to visit then stays long past their welcome, ingoring their hosts' glances at the clock, donning of pajamas, and other subtle hints suggesting the visitor leave.

Resurrecting the Slang of My Youth

Bochuggie is a word that may be indigenous to my family. It was popular with all the little Martz's during our teenage years in the late '60's. It means, "to wig out, usually over something insignificant."

Example: When my parents see the "Frank Zappa" tattoo on my forehead, they're gonna have a bochuggie.

Chinese Spam

My brother is a creative genious. Really. He could make a lot of money with his recent invention only he doesn't want to market it. So I decide to do it for him.

First we need to manufacture it. In his prototype he used a tiny part he hacked out of a product bought at a dollar store. Read this as - Made In China. The part is essential to the success of our venture only neither of us knows what it's called. We'll just have to work around that.

I start my search for the gizmo at Alibaba It's a Chinese-based operation, sort of a dating service for buyers and sellers. I fill out the usual registration information - name, email address, etc. and get busy. I spend an entire day searching fruitlessly for a supplier of this item-without-a-name then decide on a new approach. If I can't go to the supplier, let the supplier come to me. I'll use the "Post Buying Leads" feature.

I attach a photo of the cannibalized part to the advertising form. Next, I'm asked to provide a concise description of what I want. Since I don't know what it is, I wing it. Then I must fill in some key words. Those are pretty easy, I explain what it does. A description of what we want? "Like the item in the photograph." They want to know about our business, I make up a bio. What do we expect to pay? How do I know? I guess ten cents a unit sounds good.

Then I'm supposed to put in a "nice" request, an invitation that will entice suppliers into doing business with us, something to woo them. I write, "We are looking to form relationship with supplier based on trust and happiness." It sounds like a message inside a fortune cookie but I can't think of anything else.

I'm nearing the end and hit a wall. I have to fill in some boxes and the example given is "10~1000." Anyone know what this means? I sure don't. Maybe it's a price range so I put ".10~.20" Done!

I hit the submit button. Nothing happens. I scroll down the form and right in the middle, in tiny print, is the following: Failure due to --- the reason is written in Chinese! I bet it's those boxes. I change them to look like the example "10~1000", hit submit, and I am in.

After all that effort I've heard nothing. Nobody writes. Nobody calls. All I've gotten is an inbox full of Chinese spam. Hear my head against the wall? Bang. Bang. Bang.

I Don't Know What This Means

I'm driving along in Tennessee. It's Sunday morning, nothing but churches and flea markets are open at this hour. The highway goes up, up, up until it reaches the top of a mountain, then down it goes dipping and curving like a roller coaster ride.

A sign beside the road tells me there's a flea market ahead. The next three signs describe the treasures to be found there:

Knives and Swords

Sam's Quilts

Nothing Unique

The last one makes me want to stop. What do they sell? White socks? Ketchup? Marine engines? Don't you want to know? I may have to mosey on back and find out. If I do, I'll let ya'll know. In the meantime, take a gander here and read more about the interesting oddness of country life, or so it seems, when seen through the eyes of this city gal.

Zounds! A Website Has Been Born

So what if I have nothing to say. It's not totally nothing. I mean, I can tell people I'm a writer, that's something. And I can give them links to my two blogs, always a winner with blog addicts. I'll include some photos, of me, of my dog, of my road - fascinating stuff. And I'll top the whole thing off with a song about moi. What's not to like?

Give it a look and let me know what you think. Please? Liza Martz