Tag: Family

I scream like a girl

Published on by NouveauSoileau4 Comments

Unfortunately the Chez Soileau small-animal problem is continuing and, I am sad to report, has resulted in some uncharacteristic behavior on my part. Specifically, I stood on a tall kitchen chair wearing minuscule, high-heeled ankle-strap pumps (possibly with bows) and screamed for 45 minutes.

OK, it wasn’t a mouse and actually, I was wearing flats — but that’s not the point. One of the adorable rodents living high on the hog in my front garden and beneath the back deck has moved into my garage.

Now chipmunks, exposed and in the daylight, are not scary at all. In fact, they’re laughably benign, except where their garden-gnawing is concerned. But put one of these scampering suckers in a dark garage and you’ve got all the makings of full-on fright.

Take last Sunday. I descended into the garage via the three or four wooden, rail-less stairs. We’ve got a motion-sensor light in there, so usually the first step or two is in the dark. Such was the case on Sunday. Between step two and three, however, roughly at the exact time the light was going on, a scrabbling, scratching scurrying occurred right beneath my feet. That’s when I did it.

I screamed. I did. I screamed like a girl.

Tras, who was right behind me, seized my left arm in a manly grip. On the way to said grip, he managed to scratch a good-sized hole out of my left thumb. (OK, the mere term “scratch” more accurately describes this wound.) All this was in service to his dear wife, whom he thought had lost her footing and was about to plummet head-first two feet down the stairs and into a large bag of hair.

“I’m OK!” I shrieked, beginning the tippy-toe dance absolutely everyone does when confronted with scrabbly, scurrying animals. “It’s one of those damn chipmunks!”

This information sent young Trassie caroming back to my side from the further reaches of the garage on his way to the back seat of the car. “It’s all right, sweetie-pie,” I said. “He’s not going to hurt us. I’m all right. I was just …. surprised.”

This led to some not-so-muffled snickers from the Two Trasimonds.

But it also dislodged a confession from the elder of the two; appropriate since we were on our way to Mass. It seems he spent a semester living with a friend at another university while he took a semester or two off from his.

Like your typical slovenly college males, they lived in squalor in a trailer. One afternoon, what should emerge from a pile of some dank underwear (or maybe it was something else, I forget) but a large rat. The buddy, hilariously, immediately hopped up on a chair and began squealing like the aforementioned little girl.

What makes this story, though, is the conclusion. Upon seeing his friend, Tras started pointing and laughing hysterically at him for his girlie-girl behavior … right up until the time he noticed that he, himself, had leaped off the floor and onto the couch in his own girlie-girl spasm of rat-fright.

So this morning I’m walking down into the garage, wondering again if we still have our onerous little visitor. I pause at the landing. I cup a hand to my ear. And what should I hear but an audible, extremely distinct PLOP from somewhere near the garage door. And then the tell-tale scrabbling.

“THAT THING’S STILL OUT THERE!” I holler toward the other end of the house. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU” comes the reply.

Uggggggh. I punched the button on the garage-door opener, realizing that if the little bastard is indeed in the garage, the noise of the door going up is going to drive him back into the recesses of the garage, where he can hole up in the boat or, more probably, the bag of hair.

What happened next is something that makes me grateful that The Truman Show was a movie and not even remotely likely to occur in real life … that millions of people are daily tuned into The Ellen Show and laughing mercilessly at my ridiculous behavior.

“SHOO,” said I to the vicinity under the boat trailer. “Go away you ratty little chipmunk. Get. G’won, git. Git outta my garage, ya hear?”

In times of pique, I usually revert to talking like Granny Clampett.

I stomped further into the garage, opened the door of the Prius, slid behind the wheel and began backing out. And that’s when I noticed it.

The passenger side window. It was open.

Open. Open all night. In the garage. Where the chipmunk(s) was/were. One could be in this very Prius. Right this very minute.

Little girl? Check.

Scream? You know it.

As it turns out, jumping out of the car and doing the tippy-toe run around the vehicle doesn’t deter rodents any better than it scares away boogiemen who may or may not be creeping around the house when everyone else is in bed.

Further, running in a circle with your hands up in the hair going, “get out of the car you disgusting vermin!” probably wouldn’t flush any disgusting vermin out either. But then opening the trunk and slamming your hand down on the floor certainly doesn’t hurt your chances of dislodging them either.

Not that I would know, of course.

We have a 2319

Published on by NouveauSoileau3 Comments

If you’re like me and have children, you’ve seen most Disney movies approximately 3,298 times each. In addition, you probably foresee a future when you watch one Pixar offering or another at least another dozen times or so before it’s retired and the kiddoes have moved on to MTV, Horders, slasher flicks or some other horror that passes for popular entertainment.

But some of us are still squarely in the Cars, Up, Finding Nemo, and Monsters Inc. phase. With each repeated viewing, the dialogue becomes ever more cemented in we, the adults,’ consciousness and with alarming frequency, we start quoting them as we go about our daily lives.

To take an example from television, any form of agreement is now rendered, in my house, as “Yes. Yes I am,” a la Phineas from each episode of Phineas and Ferb on the Disney Channel. “Aren’t you a little young to be building a nuclear reactor?” he’ll be asked. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Similarly, we went through an intensive few years when Trassie was addicted to the Disney/Pixar feature Cars. At one point Mater, the grungy tow-truck voiced by Larry the Cable Guy, is asked if he’s got his tow cable. “Well yeah, I’ve always got mah tow-cable,” he answers. Now, if anyone is asked if they’ve got a particularly something with them … purse, car keys, water bottle, whatever … the answer is always, “Well, yeah, I’ve always got my tow cable.”

Which brings us to Monsters Inc., a general favorite and in heavy rotation a few years ago. If you recall the movie, you’ll remember that it’s a huge plot point when the scream factory is contaminated with an artifact of the human world. A sock returns to Monster World with a monster just fresh from a kid’s closet. Immediately there is a shut-down on par with a nuclear core meltdown. Decontamination experts are dropped from the ceiling. It’s a 2319!!

Much to our amusement, the address of the local elementary school which Christopher attended for one year and where now Trassie is a kindergartner is 2319.

Yes, sirree. The location that is filled to the brim with children, those toxic beings of Monsters Inc. The individuals who could bring Monster World to its knees, to quote the movie, merely with their mind powers are contained each day within a school at street address 2319.

This amuses us to no end … and often, when we take one child or another over there, it is just impossible not to say, “We have a 2319! 2319!”

It helps if you can make your voice sound like it’s being broadcast over a PA system.

“2319! 2319! Bye kids, have a great day! If anyone tries to run from you, don’t pick them up with your mind powers, now, and shake them like a dog!”

Let George feed you

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I like to cook. I mean, I really do. I enjoy being in the kitchen, selecting ingredients, whipping things up for my family to eat with my own two hands. Growing herbs, yeah baby! I sprinkle them on everything.

Like lots of people, apparently, I gravitate to about 10 different meals. These have morphed over the years; for example, I almost never make baked chicken and rice any more because I’m thoroughly sick of it.

Now I tend to make a lot of homemade pizza because I’m a loon and obsessed with it. I make the crust in the breadmaker, make the sauce in the food processor, and whip up an obscene number of toppings on the stove or fling ’em raw from the fridge (like olives; don’t worry I’m not killing my family with raw meat). Recipes coming next week.

I also like to grill indoors. Meet George.

Specifically, this is the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat X Grilling Machine. With George Foreman signature.

George holds quite a nice amount of food. See his nice wide maw?

You will also, no doubt, notice the yucky looking spots, which are not crud but probably water spots from the dishwasher for lo, this George Foreman model grill features removable grill plates, which can be washed in the dishwasher. Let us pause for a moment and thank all the saints.

If you don’t mind cutting up a few things, you can have a decent dinner on the table in a half hour with George. Here’s what I did the other night.

Here we have some marinated pork slices, which I purchased already cut this way at the grocery. I usually marinate cuts such as this with a mixture of olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, and balsamic vinegar.

Then I halved some “baby bella” portabello mushrooms, a few green peppers and half a Vidalia onion. Simple and easy peasy lemon squeezy. I steamed the broccoli in the microwave, and drank the wine.

So throw the meat on the grill.

And close the lid. After about four minutes, it’s cooked. Just put it on a plate and cover with foil, and then grill the rest of the meat, if you have more.

Now here’s the funny thing. The George Foreman grill is designed to grill things without fat. All the fat and juice runs off into the little tray below. Since I always choose lean cuts of meat, I have no problem whatsoever with saving the juice. Frequently, I’ll pour it over the vegetables so they don’t dry out. Then I grill them as well.

And so here you have it, my finished dinner. Served with broccoli, and possibly a green salad, it’s a low-carb, healthy meal that’s fun to make … if you invite George along.

Of course, now that outdoor grilling season is upon us, poor little George can go away in the pantry until next winter. But eh, I grill indoors a lot in the summer too.

It’s simple and a fairly obvious dinner, in my view. But if you’re like me and sometimes stumped for easy dinner ideas, I offer it to you … and George, if you ask him along.

Spot the comatose teenager

Published on by NouveauSoileau4 Comments

Over the weekend, my 13-year-old son, Christopher, spent the night out at a friend’s where, predictably, they stayed up most of the night playing video games.

This leads to the Sunday-afternoon phenomenon known as Zombie Teen.

When you let your son or daughter spend the night with a friend when he or she is, say, 8, what you get the next day is Psycho Kid. This monster resembles your darling child only physically; and then, only remotely so — you don’t recall such vast black circles beneath the eyes of said child only a day earlier. And in disposition, oh my no. This new being is grouchy beyond any conceivable normal limits. The snarling anger and immediate dissolve-into-tears the instant Things Don’t Go My Way is completely off the charts. You question why you let them go in the first place. An evening’s peace? So. Not. Worth. It.

Then they get a little age on them and, while generally a cantankerous lot, teenagers who are sleep-deprived are dreamcicles compared to the tired versions of their former selves when they return from an overnight with a friend.

No, the returning teen is a comatose teen, droopy eyed and lethargic — until the inevitable moment when he or  she starts to sink into (in this case) the couch and is rendered nearly completely invisible.

Can't see him no how

Please excuse the untidiness. This is my living room, den, all-purpose room, playroom, and partial office. A lot goes on here. A lot of stuff gets dropped here.

Think of it as camouflage.

Where’s the sunken kid?

Ah, there he is. Melted into the couch.

Amazing, isn’t it? Television a-blarin.’ Computer beeping. Music playing. Oblivious. Oblivious he is, the youngster operating on three hours of sleep. He knows nothing but the slump and the slumber, deep in his beige cocoon.

There he blended, until suppertime, when the only other thing known to drive children of this age springs into action — the promise of food. Since I’d planned a balanced meal, the pull was not quite as forceful as say, junk food or McDonald’s. But it did propel him back into the land of the living.

I just hope I don’t lose him again. Good thing we’ve got the maroon blanket — he might have stayed gone for good.

Hm.