on the pros and cons of purchasing holiday candy ahead of time.

As I sit here and write this, I'm munching on early-season candy corns -- those wonderful treats that only materialize this time of year.
They're way more sophisticated than they used to be, coming in several flavors and even shapes. You can get candy pumpkins now, too. I'm a traditional candy corn girl, though I do enjoy those orange and chocolate ones, too. 
This is not a new problem. When I was a kid, and on some fine summer evening my dad would say we were having sweet corn for dinner, I'd get all excited and look for the pumpkin bowl filled with candy corn, thinking Halloween had come in August.

Now, while candy corn is a fat free food (yeah!) it isn't sugar free, folks. Sorry. And it isn't real corn, either, so it won't fulfill a serving of fruits and veggies.
I won't trouble you with the number of calories in a serving...suffice to say it's more than 10.
So, are you a pre-season holiday candy-muncher?
Do all the candy canes disappear from the Christmas tree weeks before the Yule? Do the all the chocolates in the red, heart-shaped box have bites taken out of them by February 12? Do the marshmallow peeps still have their heads come Easter morning? And if you optimistically purchase eight or 10 bags of mini candy bars for Halloween distribution, how many do the neighborhood kiddies actually get?
Come on, be honest.
I know darned well that if I buy Halloween candy before October 29 I'd better have some pretty good tricks up my sleeves, cause there aren't gonna be any treats left. Sorry, kids!
I have very little self-control when it comes to sugary sweets. My kids think I disapprove of chocolate Santas and Easter Bunnies because as far as they know, I've never bought them any.
Well . . . let's just say I don't disapprove. Any chocolate characters that enter my home are in grave, grave and imminent peril.

And no love of my life has ever received those cute, little candy hearts with messages inside, let alone a box of chocolates. Hah! As if.
I thought about you while I was eating them, my love!
So, the cons of purchasing holiday candy early are obvious: You'll get fat and your teeth will fall out. And nobody will like you.
I can live with all that.
The pros are also obvious: You'll get to eat it all yourself!
Hey, I'm out of candy corns. See you in the holiday aisle at the store!

On how to jump start your car -- you'll impress your friends with this valuable knowledge!

If you leave the lights on in  your car overnight and wake up with a dead battery, are you dead in the water?
There's no need to use up a AAA call to deal with this common dilemma. And if you have two cars, there's no need to bother anyone else to come help you, either. If you only have one car, you'll need a sympathetic friend or neighbor's help.
Position the two vehicles next to, or facing, each other. Don't let them touch each other, though. This could lead to electric shock or short.
Turn off anything you don't need in both cars, such as radio, lights, flashers. Turn off both cars, and place in park or neutral.
Look at your battery. Find the positive and negative leads. Often the positive will be red, and the negative black. But make sure. You don't want to mix these up.

Take out the jumper cables you ALWAYS carry in your car, and untangle them. It's important that you don't let the copper ends touch each other once they're hooked up to either car. You'll get a heck of a spark if you do, and could short out the electrical system in the cars. Bad! Bad! (Admittedly, this is easier to manage if someone is helping you.)

Clamp the red clamp of one end of the jumper cables to the positive lead on the battery in the dead vehicle. (You might need to lift a little, plastic cover before you can access the terminal.)
Next, secure the red clamp on the other end of the cables to the positive, (red), terminal on the donor vehicle.
Now connect the black jumper cable to the black (negative) terminal on the DONOR vehicle.
Finally, connect the last black jumper cable lead to an unpainted, metal surface inside the DEAD vehicle . . . and the advice I read says to connect to some engine bolt or something other than the remaining battery lead, though this is how I've always done it. The reason, they said, is that connecting to the final battery lead/terminal could cause a spark and ignite fumes from the battery. That would be BAD. So I guess I've been lucky so far, and next time I'll try their way.
Now, start up the DONOR car. Let it idle a few minutes. Then start the DEAD car, and rev it a couple times. Don't go crazy and flood the engine!
Ok. Disconnect the leads in reverse order: Negative on formerly dead car; negative on donor car; positive on donor car; positive on formerly dead car.
Now run that baby for around 20 minutes, to ensure the battery is fully charged by the car running.
If this happens again, and for no apparent reason, you may have a faulty alternator or a battery that needs to be replaced. Or you just chronically leave your lights on!
QUIZ: Do you have jumper cables in each car you own? Do you know how to use them? Don't be a helpless ninny! Take care of this today.

On How to Save the Ta Ta's!

Big Foot says, "Have you made an early detection plan to help protect you from breast cancer?"

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
And as a woman whose mother had pre-menopausal breast cancer back in the 1970s, and survived it, you can be sure I'm aware of this disease.
But did you know that although one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer, the outlook isn't as grim as it used to be? Today the five year survival rate in women whose cancer is detected early is 98 percent.
Those are pretty good odds.
So how do you ensure that if you're the one in eight, you give yourself the best possible chance of survival?
The National Breast Cancer Foundation recommends every woman have an early detection plan.
This means regular check-ups and mammograms, and monthly self-breast exams.
And if your mother had breast cancer, you start earlier than most.
The newest recommendations are that women begin mammograms every two years starting when they are 50. It used to be annually, starting at 40. And they recommend that you keep doing it until you turn 74, rather than 69 as was formerly recommended.
If you, like I, happen to fall into a high risk group of women, you must start earlier than 50. Talk to you doctor to find out what's right for you.
What isn't right for you is pulling an ostrich and burying your proverbial head in the sands of ignorance. I'm always amazed at women who tell me they haven't gone to a gynocologist or had a mammogram in years.
It's kind of like riding in a car without a seat belt. Why not take simple measures to keep yourself from dying unnecessarily?
There's a lot of good information out there. Do a little research, talk to your doc, and protect the ta tas!
Remember, October is breast cancer awareness month. It's only the middle of September! So you've got a jump on the whole deal. You're welcome!
(Big Foot is pictured wearing a bra in the parking lot of the Caldwell Food Center Emporium, as part of a Relay for Life breast cancer awareness fundraiser.)

How to survive your teenagers' music and television culture . . . without going insane.

Oh, yeah, payback is hell! I, of course, have excellent taste in all things artsy, from music to movies to books. At least, in my own mind I do. My children, unfortunately, do not yet appreciate this fact.
And I have to admit, at least from my parent's point of view, it wasn't always the case.
Forty-five years ago my family lived in a side-by-side duplex in a little commuter town in New York. I was about seven, and the oldest of four at that point. (My two brothers didn't make their appearances until we moved to Ohio years later.)
The people who lived in the other side of our house, the Wathertons, had two kids. One was a girl about our age. The other was a teenage boy. I don't  know how old he was, probably around 17,  but to my adoring eyes he seemed to be about 30.
One night the Wathertons had a party in our shared driveway, and their son's garage band played. I thought they were the height of coolness. They probably stank, but to my ears they were maestros. And no doubt both sets of parents, and all the neighbors, suffered through the sets of music, wishing for the "gig" to end. They sent my sisters and me to bed before the entertainment section of the evening was over, darn-it.
My taste in music, at least from my parent's point of view, didn't improve much over the next 10-15 years.
Thirty-five years ago, a teenager myself now living in Ohio, I played my records as loud as my record player would allow. Kansas. The Partridge Family. The Doobie Brothers. The Who. Shaun Cassidy. The Bee Gees. The Carpenters. The Go Gos. The Cars.
Good music, yeah, but it wasn't exactly to my parent's taste.
Okay, I'd spent my formative years listening to my dad's favorites: Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass. Frank Sinatra. The King Family. And those seasonal favorites, the Firestone Christmas albums, available at a fine gas station near you! So maybe payback was hell for him, too!

(I cherish these albums myself now, by the way, along with his complete collection of classical music.)
And my siblings and I dominated the television set during the day, watching such gems as The Brady Bunch, F Troop, Gilligan's Island, and Hogan's Heroes. I'm sure my parents didn't love these programs. And there was constant squabbling between the six of us over what show to watch.
It was cultural Purgatory for my folks, I'm sure.
Time passed, until, 20 years ago, a young mother myself, I played whatever I wanted, as loud as I wanted, and my kids had to put up with it because I was in control. The Moody Blues; Crosby Stills and Nash; Joni Mitchell; Steve Winwood; Robert Palmer; and others. I also watched whatever I wanted to watch on television -- along, I admit, with a sprinkling of Barney, Sesamee Street, and Nicolodean. Oh, and endless Disney movies, over and over and over . . . and over. Only to be expected.
My cultural life was okay. I was still pretty much in charge.
But this wasn't to last, of course. I was, after all, outnumbered, having had five kids of my own.
The first hint of things to come would have been about 15 years ago, when my younger brother visited, and used my stereo system to blast his music of choice: classical movie soundtracks.
Okay, those are good, but all day, every day? Puh-lease!
Then my kids started to form opinions, and to exercise their wills, and pretty soon, we were listening to Back Street Boys, In Sync, the Cheetah Girls and Selena Gomez. I saw the writing on the wall. I handed over the remote control to my boom box and, like Puff the Magic Dragon, slunk into my cave.
Now, having come full circle, I'm the parent who has to listen to the stuff my kids call art.
Most of today's music I don't mind. I only really object to the screamo stuff that makes me want to grab the singer by the throat and say, "Do you have any idea what you're doing to your voice with that stuff??"
It's the television that drives me insane. It's either blasting some video game, or the kids are watching Japanese anime . . . with subtitles! And the darn subtitles are in yellow, and I can't read them from my chair because my eyes are going. So not only am I irritated by the fact that it's on in the first place, but I can't even tell what the heck is going on because they're speaking in Japanese, and my eyes are still going!
So how to survive this period of my life with my mind -- and artistic taste -- intact?
There are really only three choices: 1. I yell at them to turn the blasted stuff off and earn the title of tyrant, and there is no peace in our house. 2. I leave the living room and hole up in my bedroom alone, pouting and simmering about not being the queen of the universe anymore with complete power over all my subjects, and there's no peace in my mind. 3. I suck it up and occasionally let them control the television, radio or stereo. There may be no peace and quiet, but at least if a poll were taken of the residents of my house, I wouldn't be likely to be voted out as mom.
I guess I can live with that.
Meanwhile, where are my glasses? I want to read these darned subtitles and find out what the heck those Japanese characters are saying!
If you can't beat em, join em, right?

(Noragami Yato)

How to stay young by trying new things! (Though you may find yourself taking a quick trip to Humbleville.)

Did you ever stop to think while doing something fun or challenging that it might be the last time you do it? The last time you ride a bike; paddle a kayak; ride a roller coaster; go whitewater rafting; climb a mountain; have a first kiss. Whatever. Why do we stop doing fun, exciting things as we grow older? I say, never stop! Seek out new experiences and continue doing the things you love. That way, you'll never have to say, "I'm too old to do that."

I had an opportunity to take this advice last summer while staying at Seneca Lake in Southeast Ohio.

I was sitting by the water, dangling my legs over the side of the dock, as I watched a man I'd known for years – not a young boy, but not old, either – agilely pilot a strange, bright yellow, floating board toward where me. He stood straight and tall on what appeared to be a surf board, paddling toward me with sure, even strokes.

“Hey, Doc!” I yelled. “What is that thing?”

“It's a paddle board!” he called back.

I'd never heard of it. 

It looked fun and challenging, but chances were that if I climbed on board, I'd make a spectacular, unplanned dismount. 

“Can I try it?” I asked, tossing caution to the wind.

“Sure!” he said, nimbly hopping off the contraption and handing me the paddle.

“But you'd better get on farther out in the water, and don't paddle too close to the docks or boats. If you fall, you don't want to hit your head.”

Hmmm. Good advice.

My friend, Linda, thought I'd lost my mind as I hopped into the water, waded over to the middle of the little inlet where we'd been swimming and relaxing, and regarded the long, yellow board which, I'd noticed when it's owner dismounted, had a long fin sticking out of the bottom.

Back in the day I'd been able to boost myself out of a swimming pool using my upper body strength and a good kick. I gave it a try, and was absolutely amazed to find myself kneeling on the board. I dipped the paddle into the water and took a few, tentative strokes to get the feel of the thing, then paddled out a little farther in that position before realizing I had to stand up to continue.

Shifting to face the front of the board, I got my feet underneath me, and carefully, feeling like a newborn foal, rose shakily to my feet. The board wobbled a bit this way and that, but remained in the upright position.

When I didn't immediately fall in, I felt a thrill of success. 

I looked around to see who might be admiring my astonishing skill -- or luck. Shoot. Nobody was watching. I tentatively dipped the paddle into the water and propelled myself forward.

I took a few strokes, working my way around the nearest dock out into the lake. Standing straighter and surer, I thought, well! I'm not too old to try new things!

Maybe I could paddle my way to the end of the little inlet and back, and call it a day. Yeah, that wouldn't be too far for a newbie paddle-boarder.

At that moment the board's owner, returning from a quick trip inside his cabin, caught sight of me.

“Way to go, Anne!” he yelled.

And I fell off. 

Well, pride does come before a fall. 

My prescription sunglasses, which weren't secured by a floaty string, fell off, too. I'd just replaced them after stepping on the last pair, and didn't relish the thought of paying for a new pair right away, so I dropped the paddle and dove for them. Luckily I could see them gently drifting downward, and grabbed them. Surfacing, I realized the paddle had gone one way, and the paddle board the other. I swam for the paddle and nabbed it, and turned to see that the paddle board was now a good 50 yards away, floating toward shore. No big deal. I've been a lifeguard since I was 16, and am still certified. So I'm a good swimmer.

However, as I began hauling my out-of-shape self, towing the paddle, toward the board, I looked at the life vest still strapped to the thing and thought, whoops. I'd just broken the first rule of boating and personal safety. What good would the life vest have done me if I'd knocked my idiot-self out falling off the big toy?

None. I'd have joined my glasses on their trip toward the bottom of the lake.

Feeling like a fool, I reached the board, puffing, hearing the laughter of my girlfriend from the dock, and realized I didn't immediately have the strength to haul myself up. So I played it cool, floating for a few minutes and enjoying the sun and water. Yeah. I meant to do that!

Then, with a Herculean effort and a few curses, I hauled myself gracelessly up onto the board – if video of this surfaces, there will be consequences for the photographer – and found myself sprawled on the board out in the lake. 

Determined not to let the darned thing have the last word, I once again staggered to my feet and oh-so-casually paddled myself back toward shore.

“Cool!” called Linda, snapping a picture of me as I headed in. “Can I try?”

“Sure,” I said. “But wear the life vest. I don't have the energy left to come save you if you knock yourself out.”

She, of course, didn't fall off.

If I lived on the lake, I'd get myself one of the crazy boards. An octogenarian couple I know paddles all over the lake on them. There's no better way to stay young than to act young!

So take a risk on humble-ville! Try something new.

But wear your live vest. No point in dying stupid!

Recipe from The Shabby Housekeeper: Super Popcorn a la Fromage

There's no snack to compare with old fashioned popcorn. I don't know anybody who doesn't like it. And it can be prepared in so many different ways.
You can use an oil popper, which generally has a revolving bar which goes around and around the bottom of the popper to keep the kernels moving while they heat up, and keeps the popped kernels from burning.
You can use an air popper, which uses hot air to super heat the water trapped inside the tiny kernels, causing them to explode, and delivering fewer calories than oil popped corn. (Any heat source causes popcorn to pop because it heats the water inside the kernel.)
You can even do what our pioneer ancestors did after the Native Americans introduced them to the treat: put oil in a pan, dump in some kernels, cover the pan, and shake it over a heat source until the kernels pop.
What you can't do, according to recent health reports, is pop it in a microwave oven. Apparently causes cancer. There's a surprise.
After the popcorn is popped you get to dress it up any way you like.
When I was a child, my dad made popcorn for dinner every Sunday night. He'd pop a huge amount of the stuff in a giant stock pot, and we'd melt real butter (there is no substitute) in a little, metal measuring cup on the stove. Then we'd pour on a lot of butter, salt the living daylights out of it, and eat it with tall glasses of whole milk while watching The Wonderful World of Disney on television. Boy, was that good.
These days I like my popcorn with a mixture of real butter and Kraft American cheese squares melted together and dripped over the popcorn, then topped off with garlic salt.
Oh, is that good!
I've tried Parmesan cheese on popcorn, which is also good, especially when mixed with Indian spices.
Actual popcorn salt, which is finer than table or sea salt, is very good too. It comes in various flavors, which are okay, but I prefer the melted butter/cheese mixture to any fake buttery salt sprinkled on my popcorn. I'm a purist, I guess.
Laura Ingalls Wilder mentioned in one of her books that popcorn is the only thing that can occupy a full glass of milk without causing it to overflow. She said you can put kernel after kernel of popcorn into the milk, and it'll absorb it, and not overflow the glass. She said nothing else works like that. They she would eat the milk/popcorn with a spoon. Doesn't sound good to me, but many people say yuck to my popcorn recipe.
What's your favorite way to eat this old fashioned treat? I'd love to hear from you!
By the way, Super Popcorn a la Fromage is just Cheesy Popcorn. Sounds fancy, huh?
Happy popping!

Many hands make light work! (Or at least you get done faster, and can get back to your book and coffee.)

I believe we've established the fact that I don't like cleaning. Yet if were to ask my more fastidious friends whether they find my house disgusting, they'd have to honestly say, no, it may not live up to their standards of sparkling cleanliness, but it is always presentable and rarely smells bad. (If the dog attacks a skunk, I, the Shabby Housekeeper, can not be held responsible for any lingering scent.)
So how do I keep the house from sinking into disgustification?
Easy. Remember the old adage, "Many hands make light work?"
Well, I'm here to attest to the truth of this, folks.
The trick is to get your kids to pitch in on a regular, predictable schedule of home maintenance.
I've never been able to understand people who whine and complain that their kids won't do any chores, and that they end up doing everything on their own.
Call the wah-mbulance!
I suspect one of two things is going on in such cases. Either they are terribly wimpy parents whose kids know how to work them to perfection, or they're control freaks who don't think anyone can clean (or do anything else) to their standards, and so always reject or redo other people's efforts.
Well, you won't catch me making either of these mistakes. If my kids want to eat the food I provide, sleep in my house, ride in my car, go on vacations, wear clothes I buy, etc...they'll darn well pitch in to keep our environment livable.
And as for not being satisfied with the job they do on chores, well, how are they going to learn if I don't let them have at it? I  may offer constructive criticism, but I'm always grateful and appreciative of their efforts.
I know women who reload the dishwasher after their kids or husbands load it. Idiots! Pretty soon, nobody is going to bother to help you!
I know people who won't let their kids cook, vacuum, run the Swiffer Wet Jet, scrub out the toilet, run a load of wash or cut the grass.
Why? Are these people so endowed with extra time that they don't want help? Do they actually want to do everything by themselves?
Well, that ain't me, sister.
So here's the secret of my success: The weekly whole-house-clean-up. Or, if we're pressed for time, the abridged first floor clean-up.
Every member of the family has his or her assigned chores for this event.
We all put away whatever of our stuff has migrated around the house during the week.
I pick up and sort out all mail, piles of paper, and stuff, and carry dishes to the kitchen. .
One kid does the kitchen, top to bottom.
Another kid vacuums everything, including canistering the edges.
I do the bathroom.
I dust (using old, mismatched socks I wear on my hands...fun and effective!)
We each are responsible for our own rooms.
And in about an hour, we have a clean house.
Not bad, huh? So okay,  maybe I'm raising the next generation of shabby housekeepers. But my sons and daughters will know how to scrub out a toilet; clean dishes by hand; use a vacuum cleaner; mow the yard; rake the leaves; dust the furniture; make their beds; and mop the floors.
It'll be good-e-darn-nuff.
And I thank my mother in Heaven every day for not turning me into a neurotic cleaning machine.
Meanwhile, my kids, like me, enjoy reading a good book, and, in their cases, drinking a can of Mt. Dew with it.
God bless em! They cause a lot of the mess around the place, so it's only right they help clean it up.
They can stay until they start eyeballing my coffee. Then they'll to find their own places to keep clean-e-darn-nuff.