Evil Potato Chips and a Diabetes Head

by Shirley Bahlmann
A partially eaten bag of potato chips can be perfectly harmless, unless a hungry dieter dips her hand in for "just one." Well, just one in a bag that's already been picked over will most likely be broken, so it doesn't count. Then you eat just two, then a few more partial chips, and then you get down to crumbs, and how bad can a few potato chip crumbs be? Happy tongue, grumpy waistline.
My hair is extremely resistant to curling. Extremely. It has to be layered in hairspray and held prisoner in curlers at least overnight for it to conform to curls in the morning before making a break for straight at night.
But one day I wanted curly hair, so with a clear evening, I rolled the resistant locks in my pink bendy-tube curlers. THEN I got a phone call "Shirley, we're having our choir dessert night." DESSERT? Well, I had to have some sweet to counterbalance the chips. So I went, curlers and all. My friend, Sarah, came in her pajama bottoms, but she said I had her beat with the curlers.
THEN my 9-year-old wanted to go to the store for apple juice. I thought of a couple of other things I needed, too, so there was nothing for it but to go into the store. I wrapped my head in a scarf and trotted on in to get my grub. When we came out, I was feeling pleased that no one had mentioned my lumpy head. So I said to Michael, "Does this scarf look okay?"
He tilted his head up at me, took a somber look, and said, "It looks like you have diabetes."
So much for pulling off a great disguise! (But I did like that apple juice.)

Getting That Eagle Feather

Hey, my five oldest sons are now Eagles! Zack (far left) and Brian (second from right) joined brothers Andy (second from left) and Jeff (far right) in the Eagle's Nest on Sunday! Big brother Scott is an Eagle Scout too, but couldn't make it to the festivities.

Four Busy Grandkids at Grammy's house!

Wow, four grandchildren have come to visit this weekend! (I have five, but Landon is not walking yet and is with his mom.) What fun! What thrills, spills, and wills! They make me feel young and old at the same time, if that makes any sense.
Hey, I wonder if the Portrait of Dorian Gray felt the same way? Interesting book idea...

Check out Monkey's Zoo!

Hey, I blogged on Monkey's site, so go read about the adventures of Junior Genius by clicking here!

You Stink, Idiot!

by Shirley Bahlmann
When my nine-year-old Michael asked me to write a note for him, I was a little distracted. "Mom, please write 'You Stink Idiot'," he said.
I started scribbling as quickly as I could, "YOU STINK..." Then I stopped and looked at Michael. "What was the last part?" I asked.
He stared at the paper for a moment. "Mom, why did you write that?" he asked.
"You told me to."
"No, I said, 'Please write use sink'."
"Use sink?"
"Yeah, the one upstairs that Dad fixed. I want people to know they can use the sink."
"Then what was the last part?" I asked.
Patiently, he repeated, "Use sink. It's fixed."
"OH!" I cried, laughing. "I thought you said something else."
He regarded me with his solemn green eyes, then said slowly, "I'll get you another piece of paper."

CHICKEN PILLOWS!

by Shirley Bahlmann
I never would have dreamed it up myself. When I went to speak at a dinner the other night, we were served a nice, toasty brown square that smelled like, well, chicken. When I bit into it, it was chicken, with a creamy soft topping inside a melty tender croissant dough. Yeah, it was worthy of seconds.
One of the ladies at the table said it was chicken something-that-started-with-a-"p." I tried Chicken Panini, Chicken Parmesan (but there was no Parmesan flavor. It still sounded exotic.) Chicken Patchouli.
Then the mystery was solved when a lady came out with seconds. "What are these called?" I asked.
"Chicken Pillows," she answered.
I nearly choked on my parsley sprig. Chicken Pillows? At first I imagined a coop full of chickens hunting everywhere for their little pillows so they could go to sleep. Then I realized the chickens were IN the pillows. Hm. I suppose Heavenly eternal rest works, too.

What's it all about, Alfie?

I used to sing a crazy mixed up song from the 60's titled, "What's It All About, Alfie?" I think I deserve sparkly-name-on-the-marquee recognition for the fact that I know all the words. I deserve a new car and a Caribbean cruise for knowing the melody, which is even more random. (Did you ever learn to beat time to music? This tune is so random, you'd bettah forgetaboutit.)
So, what is it all about? Bob has asked me for a long time why I spend time blogging. It's because I've been told to by higher uppers in the publishing business. What I want to know is who reads these anyway? Sometimes a friend or two will comment on my posts, but I'm not even nice enough to write back on their blogs. Who has the time? If I want to write books, I can't be on the computer all day.
In case you were wondering, the picture, here, is of one son feeding another son a hot dog on the end of a sword. The feedee did not appreciate the offer of food, however, because he was afraid he might get his tongue sliced off.
Hm... less back talk... but, no, I don't recommend it. Go get yourself some plastic forks.