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

The Belle of the Ball

My daughter's grandfather-in-law passed away the day after Christmas. When I went to the funeral home to pay my respects, my three-year old granddaughter, Mina, grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the coffin.

"He died," she said, then pointed to a cross in her great-grandfather's hands, "That means he's in heaven."
"That's a good place to be," I said.
"Why is he wearing glasses?" Mina asked.
"Because people are used to seeing him that way."
"How does he go potty?"
"He doesn't have to any more."
"What's that?" she asked pointing to the coffin.
"A coffin."
"Oh. Watch this." Mina demonstrated her ability to stand on one leg. After that she led me to couch to sit with her.

"Tell me a story," I said.
She sat up straight and said in a solemn voice, "He got very, very sick and then he died and they put him in a coffee pot."

Then she jumped off the couch and hustled over to shake hands with some new arrivals and introduce herself. She totally cracks me up!

Squirrel Songs Rock!

Christmas is the time for sharing. So, I've decided to share my brother's annual Christmas song with you. Click on the link and you'll be transported to a magical world where squirrels rule! Yes, my brother is a squirrel nut, and he'd better watch out lest his furry friends decide he'd make a delectable treat.

Hear the song for 2007 by clicking on the link below, then clicking on the acorn. Or, scroll lower and listen to the songs from yesteryear. May your days be filled with joy, happiness, and squirrel songs!



The Fur Tree

You Can Call Me LiZa

When I was young I was the only person in the world with the name Liza, well, except for Liza Minelli. It has now become a fairly common name. There are several published authors named Liza, some literary agents, an editor at a publishing house, there's even an attorney in Canada named Liza Martz.

So, why do people who respond to my letters and emails address me as Lisa?

This is not a criticism, merely a curiosity; Lisa and Liza are not the same name. Don't get me wrong, I answer to Lisa; at Panera when my order comes up, in workshops, at parties. I don't bother to correct the mistake when I'll never see these people again.

But people are sensitive about their names. Read interviews with literary agents and editors about common mistakes writers make when querying them. Misspelling their name is frequently at the top of their list. Submission guidelines often warn, "Spell my name right." Needless to say, I double check their name before I send my letter to them.

And, this is what crackes me up...nine times out of ten when they respond it's to Dear Lisa Martz. I wonder if that's why J.K. Rowling went with her initials, Jo must be another toughy.

What Else Could I Do?

I'm sitting at the far end of an empty strip mall parking lot waiting to meet my parents. A woman in an old beater of a van pulls up alongside of me and honks. I look over, an infant carrier is perched on the seat next to her with a small, grubby baby facing my way. As I roll down my window, I know what's coming.

Her: "Can you give me gas money to get to a shelter?"
Me: "Sounds like you're trying to scam me."
Her: "I'm not. I'm trying to get to the [Name of Shelter for Battered Women]."

I take a moment to ponder the situation. I can tell by looking at her she's not from the immediate area. She's also nowhere near the city the shelter is in. I'm 99% sure she's a scammer. But what if she isn't and she really is trying to get to a shelter? What the hell.
Me: "I'm giving you five dollars, and if you're scamming me I'll let it be on your conscience. If you're not I wish you luck."
As I hand her the money she breaks eye contact and looks down. At that moment, I know I've been taken.

I don't feel bad about it. She probably isn't familiar with the word, "conscience," and I can afford the five bucks. And there is still the eensiest chance she really was trying to get to a shelter. I'd make the same decision next time.

A Classic Case of Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I love rocks. I have them in my garden, on my windowsills, sometimes in my pockets.

My daughter, Amy, shares this passion. She recently acquired a stunning, heart-shaped specimen that she proudly displays on the window sill over her sink. I have coveted that rock from the moment I laid eyes on it but realize it would be bad form, not to mention futile, to demand that she give it to me.

Imagine my surprise when I went to her house yesterday and saw a smaller heart-shaped rock nestled against the large one.

"We got it for you," Amy said handing it to me.
"Yep," said Mina, my three-year old granddaughter.

I was delighted with the gift and set the rock on a bench near my jacket. We had lunch, shot the breeze and had a lovely day. When it came time for me to leave, I couldn't find the rock.

"Mina?" Amy asked in a stern voice.

Mina trudged into her bedroom and emerged with one arm behind her back.

Mina: "This is my special, special rock. It looks so nice with the other one."
Amy: "Give it to Grammie. We got it for her."
Mina reluctantly handed it over.
"Thanks," I said.
Mina: "I want to keep it."
Me: "But it's mine."
Mina: "No it's not."
Me: "Yes it is."
"WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Mina raced into the kitchen, "It looks SO-NICE-HERE!"

I looked at Amy. She shook her head. Was I really fighting with a three-year old over a rock? Yes.

I stored the rock in my pocket, made up with the still-sobbing Mina, and went home feeling like a louse. I got a phone call first thing this morning.

Mina: "That really is my special, special rock."
Me: "I know. And I know you want to keep it but you and your mom got it for me."
Mina: "But it looks so nice here."
Me: "It looks nice here, too."
Mina: "Maybe we can share it."
Me: "Hey, that's a great idea."
Mina: "And when I come over, I can take it home."
Me: "No you can't."
Mina: "But we're sharing."
Me: "We'll share it here."
Mina: "That's not sharing."
Me: "Yes it is. Just like we share Frannie [my dog]."
Mina: "Here's my mom."

She is not getting that rock. Now I must go check my birth certificate. Is it possible I was born in 2004?

It's Not an Addiction, It's a Habit

Years ago, while cruising an antique store, I came across a small pamphlet from the 1800's extolling the virtues of an elixir that was guaranteed to help one break free from the chains of "the solitary habit."

The pamphlet was comprised of anonymous testimonials from people who used the elixir and, much to their surprise, no longer felt the need to indulge. As an added benefit, their acne cleared up, some went back to school, others were finally able to hold down a job, and their lives were restored to happiness and balance.

At the time, I thought the solitary habit was, uh, well...you know. But I was oh-so-wrong! I have recently fallen victim to that very habit and realize they were referring to reading the entertainment news on the Internet.

It's terrible. My life is out of control. I no longer write, I haven't got time. Most of my day is spent hunched in front of my computer poring over pictures of Britany at her skankiest, reading about Dog's fall from grace, wondering if Paris will ever go to Rwanda, hoping Foxy Brown will get the model-prisoner-award she's working so hard to receive.

It's terrible. If only I hadn't cast that pamphlet aside with a superior sneer, I would have rememberd the name of the elixir, ordered some today, and gotten my life back on track. Instead it looks like I'll be searching for a twelve-step program. If I'm lucky, we'll meet at an Internet cafe.

Rites of Passage

The other day I drove past an elementary school and noticed the bicycles chained higgelty piggelty to the bike rack in front. That one little glance sent me hurdling back in time to my neighborhood parochial school.

There were no school busses. We got to school by walking or getting a ride from our parents. That is until we reached the seventh grade, when a third option presented itself, the bicycle.

It was no small matter because only the seventh and eighth graders were permitted to bicycle to school.I was bursting with pride when I hopped onto my blue Schwinn racer, slung the chain and lock across my chest like a bandalero, and zipped down the street past all the "kids" who had to walk.

It was the same year I went from wearing a white blouse, green jumper, and matching beanie to wearing a white blouse, green plaid skirt and a plaid tam (fancy name for dorky beret!) I mean, does it ever get better than that?

All of this remembering, took me further backwards in time, to the day my second grade class went to the library, and eack kid got a library card. It was a cold, rainy day; the building was like a cathedral of huge limestone blocks with a slate roof. Golden light glowed behind floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows; inviting us to come in and get warm.

The floors inside were shiny wood. The library smelled like lemon furniture polish and BOOKS! Thousands of books, all waiting to be checked out by me using my very own library card. It never occured to me then that someone had written those books. They were simply there, waiting for me to choose which ones I'd take home.

And here I am, many years later, writing books, with high hopes they'll someday make it to those same library shelves. I am sure the seven-year old me would have been astounded if she could have seen where that library card was going to take us.

Maybe you had to be there...

This morning I was talking to my favorite three-year old on the phone, and she told me a joke she made up:

Question: How does a witch blow her nose?

Answer: Wicked hard!

Okay, so maybe I'm biased, but I thought it was pretty funny.

Favorite Q&A of the Week

Me: What's Carol's last name?

Maggie: Carol who?