Lynn Kellan's Blog, page 25

My neighbors can’t stop crying and it’s not my fault

Yesterday, I caught my neighbor sobbing in her front yard.

She pointed to her driveway and blubbered, “It’s starting.”

Oh, dang. She was right.

No wonder everyone is on edge.

As the saying goes, ”What comes up must come down.”

We just say, “Drat, it’s autumn.”

or

“Honey, buy gas for the leaf blower.”

or

“Where the heck did the driveway go?”

Rather than complain about my upcoming battle with the leaves,

I’m cooing to my leaf blower.

Oh, leaf blower, how I love thee so.

Don’t tell my husband that you are my beau.

During the autumn, my esteem for you grows,

I’ll cook you dinner and serve a nice red bordeaux.

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Care to submit an ode to autumn in the comment section?

My couch grows hair. Want some?

She ignored me when the UPS truck rattled by.

Even though I was used to this treatment, it still hurt.

While she wasn’t paying attention, I tried something new. I brushed her.

Please remind me to never, ever, ever try something new again.

Oh, the hair.

Gobs of the stuff.

Funny…our couch is covered in this hair.

She’s not allowed on the couch.

So, my friends, riddle me this:

How is the dog hair getting on the couch?

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This post brought to you by rules.

Apparently, Shelties don’t follow them.

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My neighbors can’t stop crying.

Yesterday, I caught my neighbor sobbing in her front yard.

She pointed to her driveway and blubbered, “It’s starting.”

Oh, dang. She was right.

No wonder everyone is on edge.

As the saying goes, ”What comes up must come down.”

We just say, “Drat, it’s autumn.”

or

“Honey, buy gas for the leaf blower.”

or

“Where the heck did the driveway go?”

Rather than complain about my upcoming battle with the leaves,

I’m cooing to my leaf blower.

Oh, leaf blower, how I love thee so.

Don’t tell my husband that you are my beau.

During the autumn, my esteem for you grows,

I’ll cook you dinner and serve a nice red bordeaux.

.

Care to submit an ode to autumn in the comment section?

I’m having sects all weekend.

It’s the last weekend of the summer.

Please remember not to drink while you write.

This post brought to you by Spellcheck.

Correctly spelled words don’t necessarily make a sentence better.

Blueberry lime jam changed my life

I’ve always wanted to learn how to can, because I can’t.

Bwah ha ha ha. So punny. But seriously, I wanna can because I can’t.

My neighbor said, “Lynn, you can help me can, but only if you can stop making bad jokes.”

I promised to be a solemn sous chef.

Canning is best done with two people or more,

because there are a lot of jobs to get done in a short amount of time.

We washed blueberries, grated lime, measured ingredients, and turned up the heat.

Heat is a very important component to canning, for sterilizing and cooking.

We cooked the lime/blueberry/sugar/pectin mixture.

Did you know blueberries are green inside?

And they turn pink when squished?

What a fascinating fruit.

We put the cooked jam into the sterilized jars and lidded them.

The jars returned to the water bath for 15 minutes or so.

Voila! Homemade blueberry lime jam in a can.

Turns out, I can can after all. To celebrate, we did the can-can dance.

I stole all the jam, ran back home, and hid the jars from my family.

Can you can?

If so, what do you can?

I’m obsessed and I want to know.

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This post brought to you by Anything You Ask and The Strong Silent Type.

Written by me, published by The Wild Rose Press and available now.

Teens make you do very bad things

Unfortunately, my teens have figured out how to operate the kitchen.

Pair their joy of cooking to their joy of Pinterest,

and the results are disastrous

…for my waistline.

Spurred by a love of peanut butter and enviable metabolisms,

my daughters hatched a demonic plan.

They stole my car.

They bought graham crackers, chocolate, and sugar.

They snuck into the kitchen.

They melted butter. They melted chocolate chips.

They melted my willpower with no-bake Reese’s peanut butter cups.

If you love peanut butter and chocolate, you’ve GOT to try this recipe.

Reeses peanut butter no-bake bar recipe from I Heart Naptime.

In other news, I’ve banned my teens from the kitchen

…because they refuse to make salad.

Splattered with bug guts, and still sexy.

So you’re covered in bug guts.

No big deal. I still think you’re sexy.

When I look at you, I remember all the good times.

The road trips. The laughs. The soda spilled on the carpet.

Yeah, there may be some wrinkles that we can’t explain.

But they only make me love you more.

Oh, and the scars?

Well, they prove how strong you are.

No. I’m not talking about my car.

I’m talking about the way people see you.

You might have a few dents, but the way you make people feel

…makes you look absolutely beautiful.

My dog loves sex scenes

I decided to practice reading excerpts of my books aloud

…in case Stephen King wants to invite me to his house.

I recruited a small audience. I opened my book.

I read. My audience was enthralled.

I kept reading.

She LOVED the story!

When I got to a sex scene, she did this:

Is she embarrassed? Or moved by the emotional depth of the scene?

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This post brought to you by Anything You Ask and The Strong Silent Type.

Written by me, published by The Wild Rose Press and available now.

My garden slugs are the size of basset hounds

Five months of arduous gardening has produced SQUAT.

Nothing. Nada. Crap. An embarrassment of blah.

The constant rainfall has produced garden slugs the size of toddlers.

Toddlers with ravenous appetites for tender green shoots.

Toddlers who eat plants in a single day.

Toddlers who LOVE vegetables.

The only thing I’ve been able to grow is FERNS.

Apparently, twenty-five pound slugs don’t eat ferns.

I carried one of my slugs to show my neighbor, and she thought I’d had another baby.

Perhaps wrapping the slug in a blanket wasn’t a good idea.

I’d show you a picture of the gigantic slug, but I don’t have a lens big enough.

Plus, it’s really disgusting. They’ve got a face only a toad could love.

In fact, we’ve got a crop of huge toads burping in our yard.

No wonder I can’t sleep at night. Ribbit!

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Please tell me how to stop the rain

…because I’m afraid a slug will eat my dog.

If you can identify a fallopian tube, you can help me with this.

It’s time we discuss a very uncomfortable topic.

I think we’re mature enough to handle this controversy.

After all, we survived middle school sex education, so what could be worse?

Okay, here goes. Remember, be kind and circumspect when you share your opinion.

** This is a mean-free zone. **

HERE IS YOUR QUESTION:

Do you prefer burgers or dogs?

I’m asking you this question because I can’t decide.

Whenever my burly husband asks this question, I freeze.

Admittedly, I’m stunned by his biceps. How can I make a decision when he’s in a t-shirt?

So, help me decide.

Which is tastier?

Burgers or dogs?