contact us

Use the form on the right to contact us. We will do our very best to get back to you within 24 hours. Unless you are a robot. Then we will not be getting back to you. Because robots are evil.

Thanks!


Crofton, MD, 21114

A long-running personal blog shared by two authors with completely different approaches to life. And a lot of large, beautiful photographs of dogs and nature and places we've traveled to. Rich in commentary and irreverant in style. 

Blog

We started blogging a long time ago. Our work hours never aligned with recommended psychotherapists and we needed to get our thoughts out. We are great friends, total opposites and long-time housemates. This was a way to communicate. With each other. With strangers. With consumer marketers. With sub-par meteorologists. With distant friends who wanted to see pictures of stuff we were up to.

This is the place. Our bucket of thoughts to share. You are welcome. 
(We realize that most of you are here for the dog pictures.)

The Cobblers Diet

Healey

My son and I had another bonding weekend. Friday night I picked him up from Tae Kwon Do and his father where he clearly stated - in all the authority a 9 year old can muster - “I do not want to be rushed this weekend. I am tired of being rushed.”

We promptly rushed to Annapolis, dropped the confused dog off at my parents house and rushed to meet our party at the Mexican restaurant where they were waiting for us. I got the rolling stink-eyes throughout the meal and then comedically drove 2 mph all the way back to my parents house after the meal with horns honking at us and people gesturing with middle fingers.

“My son won’t be rushed!” I gleefully shouted back at them while waving like a lunatic. “He won’t have it!” (middle finger back-a-cha) The boy hid in the footwell of the open top wrangler looking to hide any identifiable parts of his head.

We watched 20 minutes of TV and opted to crash in their guest room for the night. I awoke to my fathers 2 yr old Golden Retriever Barley licking the inside of my left armpit as if someone had hidden peanut butter in it. I stared at the ceiling fan for a few moments thinking that this was as close to being molested as I had ever experienced. Slowly I lifted my head to look him in the eye - he sat back. Stopped breathing momentarily. And then punched me in the nose.

Two hours pass. My mother leaves to walk their lunatic dog and I take mine out in the opposite direction. We pass many white haired men with their second and/or third wives along our way. What do these people do for a living that they can look so simple and still afford the level of luxury they live at? I don’t understand other people’s finances... and it mystifies me. I return to the house to rouse my son from his death slumber. He will not rise. 45 minutes later - seemingly out of hollow threats I announce that if he is not in the kitchen in 15 seconds that all digital devices will be locked up for the weekend.

This is where I end up with that.

We headed home shortly thereafter to help Yenny set up the new projector in the workout room. I am going to start exercising again soon. I have big plans to become smaller. I just have to find the energy first - then it will all fall together. In the mean time I am going to quit the gym and learn how to make the best blueberry cobbler the world has ever seen.

I drag my un-rushed child to Wegman’s to get cobbler ingredients. I buy 3 pie dishes, 4 crates of fruit, a bag of sugar, ice cream and decide to make an additional dessert recipe of caramelized pears with heavy cream while still at the store. PMS? Never heard of it. Clearly I am still on Atkins. At checkout I explain to my son that I will refer to him as legendary French cook “Jacque Pepin” for the remainder of the day. And he should refer to me as “Julia” wherever necessary.


“No.”
“Qua? What is this Jacque?”
“Stop it. I am not Jacque. I hate that name. I am not going to play your stupid fake french game.”
“en francaise ci vous plait.”


This continues for an hour. At certain points I have completely exhausted my french and just start making french sounding sounds to insert into my one sided conversation. He relents somewhat and allows me to call him simply “Chef.” I call him Chef Jacque. He will no longer look at my face he is so disgusted with me.

I continue to act as if I am the Pink Panther’s retarded butler.

Somehow we produced two blueberry cobblers and two flats of caramelized pears with heavy cream and pistachios. I have 19 small cuts on my hand because I used “the sharp knife.” Every family has one. The knife that is too much knife for them. It’s like meeting the neighbors cat for the first time. over. and over. and over again. You walk away wide eyed and frowning while clutching your balled fingers to your chest.

We ended the evening eating mass amounts of desserts disguised as fruit a la mode watching Captain America and then Avengers.

We argued over which of the Avengers would make the best Step Dad for him.

We agreed that Pepper Potts had a line on Tony Stark that should not be crossed and that Bruce Banner is a little sketchy with that Hulk thing. Captain America is very repressed and would likely take to the drink soon. Seamus - for some reason - decided that Thor was out for me. (WTF? He’s hot. AND a God.) I announced that Fury was OUT. I am not looking for a man that has one eyeball and wears a leather trench coat thank you.

Can you see him on the boat in Maine for ice cream? No. No you can’t. So all that was left was Hawkeye.

Talk about first world problems... being left with Jeremy Renner is not something to complain about. (Never cover those arms!)