BBQ Novice

By Tricia Gillespie

Last week I was dreaming of white sandy beaches and barbeque.  I couldn’t get the luscious dark red sauce out of my mind, so I decided to make pulled pork sandwiches this weekend.  I remember seeing, like, thirty thousand barbeque recipes on Pinterest, but when I went looking, I hadn’t pinned a one. 

Huh?  I always Pin when I’m hungry.  They have the most tantalizing photos of food.  I can drool all night and not gain an ounce.  It’s kind of like the patch for smokers, only it’s for food addicts.

So I did what any fearless culinary novice would do: I improvised.  I saw no less than a hundred recipes that used three ingredients – soda, BBQ sauce, and salt/pepper.  Lots of people use diet soda in their BBQ, but I decided to throw caution to the wind and use the real stuff.  I do not think anyone with sweet tea running through her veins would use Diet Pepsi.  Correct me if I’m wrong.

In the lineup is Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ Sauce, Dr. Pepper, and Seasoned Salt. 

I sprinkled the roasts with seasoned salt, put the roasts in the crockpot, added Dr. Pepper with abandon, and squeezed about half the large bottle of barbeque sauce all over the meat.  Then I let it cook.

After about seven hours, I drained off some fat from the top, and pulled apart the pork.  I returned the pulled pork to the crockpot and let it absorb all the juice.  In its pulled form, it stayed in the crockpot for another hour.  Then I loaded it on whole wheat rolls, because I’m healthy like that, and gave it another good squeeze of sauce.

The only thing missing was the banana pudding, but I’m on a diet, you know.

Bio:  Tricia Gillespie cooks up fun over on The Domestic Fringe.  When she’s not busy putting out stove fires with sweet tea, she’s finding humor in this reality we call life.  She has two kids, one husband, and a Betta fish named Hot Shot.  She wishes it rained chocolate and French fries, because then she would never cook again.  Go visit her at thedomesticfringe.com.

Reality of Pet Proportions

By Tricia Gillespie

My dog is many things:

She is a pain in my rear – BIG pain.

She is a food thief.

She is a laundry lifter.

She is a mailman hater.

She is a butt-sniffing, shoe-biting, smelly beast.

She is a climb-up-into-your-lap-and-throw-her-arms-around-your-neck-for-a-kiss kind of dog.

But the thing that really bothers me…

The thing that requires intervention…

The thing that makes me scratch my head in wonder…

The thing I’m most ashamed to admit…

My dog is a HOARDER.

I didn’t think you would believe me, so I attempted to photograph her kennel, the ‘box’ as we call it; however, shame overwhelmed me.  I’d rather show you a picture of my son’s room on a bad day in the dark month of May.  I’d rather show you an up-close-and-personal photograph of the backseat of my car in all its crushed cracker, mud-laden, trash-drifted glory.  I’m sad to think I’ve allowed a member of my family to get so out of control, become so compulsive, live in such disarray, but I’m obviously a mommy failure of pet proportions.

At this moment Oriona the hoarder has the remains of a full roll of toilet paper, a package of once-unused coffee filters, a knit winter cap, two logs, one glove, and an assortment of unidentifiable objects that I presume are garbage. Oh, let us not forget the scarf that I crocheted in a moment of creative passion after reading an issue of Martha Stewart Living.  That’s in there too, but it is dead.

My Dog The Hoarder will air Tuesday’s at 9 p.m. on TLC, Eastern Standard Time.

See you then.

Bio:  Tricia Gillespie, the pet enabler, lives on The Domestic Fringe with her husband, two kids, one fish, and a lizard.  She has fond memories of her loveable trash-collecting dog, Oriana.  Unfortunately, due to extreme health issues in her family, the dog is now hoarding in another family’s home.  She writes about her adventures in life on her blog, thedomesticfringe.com.  Come visit and find out what Hot Shot the Fish and Slippy the Lizard are doing these days.  And, she’s only kidding about the TLC special. 

500 Miles with a Kazoo

by Tricia Gillespie

Have you ever heard "Taps" played on a kazoo?

No?  Me either, until recently.  The tune is about as mournful and haunting as a kazoo can be, and believe me, I’ve been haunted by a kazoo for a quite a few years now.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mom, eyes wild with the look young mothers get when they are torn between selfless love and wanting to eat their young.

She stood above my brother and me, we must have been around five and seven, and held up my brother’s plastic kazoo.  My brother loved this kazoo like Mozart must have loved his grand piano.  The sound wasn’t quite the same as Mozart’s, but my brother was young.  He had years of fine tuning and practice ahead of him.  I’ll never forget the sound of the scissors chomping through the plastic.  I wanted to hide my eyes, but they were glued to my mother’s heartlessness as she sliced and diced until no tiny resemblance of “ka” or “zoo” was left.  We stared at the carnage.  My brother cried.

That’s why, when my son was old enough to blow, I bought him a metal kazoo.  Given my family history, I didn’t trust myself with plastic.

For a short stretch of parenthood, I thought myself better than my mom, but a girl can only listen to so many stanzas of “The Wheels on The Bus”, especially when played on the kazoo.

I didn’t want to repeat the carnage, though.  I wanted to spare my son years of pricy therapy, so I put away the scissors (metal cutters and sharp knives) and hid the kazoo.

We enjoyed happy and carefree living until I began packing for our road trip.  Over spring break we were going to drive from New York to Georgia to visit family.  When I went in search of luggage and tote bags, I discovered the long-hidden kazoo.  Chuckling to myself, I buried it deep in the trash.

I blocked out all kazoo memories as we set off on our trip.  Everything went smashingly until we wandered into a gift shop at the base of Stone Mountain in Georgia.  The kids disappeared in search of a keepsake while I wandered around, astounded at the price of chotchkies.  As I debated buying a new water bottle, my son ran up to me holding out his treasure.

“Mom, I found a new kazoo!  I lost mine a long time ago and I miss it so much.  Can I get it?  Please.”

Just when I let my emotional guard down, mom guilt came in the form of a kazoo.  I looked into my son’s excited face and said, “Yes, of course you can get it.”

Five hundred miles and four thousand verses later (alternating between “Amazing Grace” and “My Country Tis of Thee”), my husband looked at me and said, “Has anyone ever strangled a child while he was playing Amazing Grace?”

“You can’t.”  I said. “It’s my fault.  God is punishing me one shrill note at a time.”

That’s when my son switched to playing Taps.

Bio:  Tricia enjoys life with her husband, two kids, and a kazoo.  It’s rarely quiet at her house, but she’s learning to love her ear plugs children’s musical expression.  You can visit them anytime on her blog thedomesticfringe.com.

Doodling My Way into Spring

By Tricia Gillespie

I adore spring and I love that it came early this year.  It’s a time of new life, sunshine, and getting out of the winter rut.  Isn’t it easy to do the same thing day after day?  Before you know it, the seasons blend and another year is gone. 

Not this year!

This spring I’m on a mission to discover the “new”.  I want to shake off the ugly winter caterpillar and transform into a lovely butterfly.  I want to try new things.  That’s why I enlisted the help of my family.

When asked what new adventure I should try, my husband thought for about twenty seconds and said, “Maybe you should buy one of those little Nintendo’s the kids have and learn to play video games.”

Huh?  My husband is a game hater at heart.  I knew it all stemmed from a video he saw of a ninety-six year old woman keeping her sanity by playing a DS every day, but I still have fifty-three years before I hit my nineties and lose all my marbles.  I want to spread my wings and fly, not fold them around a video game, so I went in search of my children and a better suggestion.

My daughter said, “Learn to play video games.”

That apple didn’t fall far from the paternal tree, but my son was a bit more creative.  “Get a job at McDonalds.”

I want to be a butterfly, not a french fry!

That’s when I decided to ignore those closest to me and try Zentangle®.  They say it’s “doodling with purpose” and I was sure I could do that.  You should have seen my notebooks in high-school.  They were doodle-licious!  

I’m already a doodling fool, I thought.  I can bust out some “Zen” and “tangle” with a pen and paper.

Little did I know there are patterns to learn, and squiggles must be planned and precise.  Zen-doodlers are serious about their craft, so I studied shapes and patterns and learned the art of Zentangle®.  Realistically, I suspect I’ll be learning it for many years to come, because I am hooked.  It’s so relaxing, it’s better than therapy.

Hormones gone haywire?	Zentangle®
Kids gone wild?	Zentangle®
The boss getting on your nerves?	Zentangle®
Bad hair day?	Zentangle®
Bank account at zero?	Zentangle®
Pipes burst?	Zentangle®
Snow till July?	Zentangle®

When you Zentangle®, it’s like being in another world – a happy world where it’s spring and you’re a butterfly.  Your family will stand in awe of your doodles.  They’ll forget they ever wanted you to play video games and work at McDonalds. 

How about it?  Want to try something new this spring?  Will you join me?  Grab a piece of paper and a pen and doodle your little Zen heart out.

Here are two websites to help get you started: 

Zentangle.blogspot.com
Tanglepatterns.com

Bio:  When Tricia is not doodling, she’s telling funny stories and sharing mishaps from her life on the fringe.  You can visit her @ TheDomesticFringe.com.

Romance on a Budget

Did you ever try to celebrate Valentine’s Day on a budget?

My budget includes borrowing art supplies from my children and crafting a card that would rival any second grade artist, but I wanted more for this year’s love fest. 

I asked myself if I could make a romantic dinner for two at home, after tucking the kids snugly in their beds.  Sounds budget-friendly and doable in theory, but allow me to demonstrate a real-life romantic dinner at home:

5:30 pm - Throw several dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the oven, rescue favorite stuffed animal from the grasp of the dog’s jaws, inspect and sign homework papers, and throw the clean laundry into the dryer. Take the dog outside because she’s chewing on your slippers.  Answer the phone.

6:00 pm – Get OFF the phone and scrape all black residue from the chicken nuggets. Serve your kids dinner. 

6:30 pm – Listen to reading homework; make sure the kids shower and brush their teeth; do the dishes; don’t kill the dog; go to the bathroom.

8:00 pm – Assign your daughter the job of setting a ‘fancy’ table.  Make her promise not to lick each fork to remove dishwasher spots.  Send your husband down to the corner market to get the cashews for the cashew chicken.

8:30 pm – Tuck your kids into bed, and take a much-needed shower.  Put the dog in her crate so she doesn’t push the bathroom door open and run off with your clean underwear.

8:40 pm – Tame your hair, paint your face, and dress in the first clean outfit hanging in your closet.

8:55 pm – Snack on the burnt crisps leftover from the kid’s nuggets.

9:00 pm – Start cooking.  Again.

9:30 pm – Serve a lovely cashew chicken dinner minus the cashews, because apparently there was a run on cashews this afternoon.

9:40 pm – Light the candles and take out the crying dog.

9:45 pm – Just as your husband leans into the flickering light of the candles to smooch your lips, the dog freaks out because your neighbor decides he’s going to shovel the sidewalk. Save the kiss for later and grab the dog before she wakes up your kids.

9:47 pm – Too late.  The kids filter through to use the bathroom and get a drink.  It’s an emergency, of course.  You can faintly see symptoms of dehydration in their eyes.  Let them taste your cashew-less chicken.

9:55 pm – Explain the importance of alone time between parents and threaten their lives with ten years of morning-til-night homework, year-round school, and a chore list that stretches to New Jersey and back.

10:00 pm – Throw out the cold chicken and go straight to dessert.  Assure your spouse that yawning and drooping eyelids are the latest signs of true love.

Reality says, when you have children, romantic dinners at home do not work.  My heartfelt advice to you is, forget the budget and GO OUT.  Beg your parents, friends, coworkers, family, neighbors, and the teenagers next door to watch your kids for a few hours.  Even if you have no money, go sit in the car (without the kids) and steam up the windows.  Just get out of the house! 

Tricia Gillespie is looking forward to a Valentine’s Day when she takes her own advice and goes out, sans kids.  She writes about real-life chaos on her blog, TheDomesticFringe.com.  She’d love for you visit!

The Sweet Smells of Christmas

 by Tricia Gillespie

 I felt the skin of my arm stick together like a piece of double-sided tape that had somehow made its way into the deep recesses of my armpit. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and I went running as inconspicuously as possible through the crowded, candlelit church. I bee-lined for the basement and ran full throttle into my mother.

“Oh, mom! You made it out earlier than expected.” I blurted a quick greeting while pushing her back into the ladies’ room.

‘Mary,’ draped in biblical robes, was stealing one last check in the mirror before taking center stage in the Christmas play. I frantically lifted my arms and stuck my nose into my pits, all my worst fears coming to fruition. Lady’s Speed Stick had failed me, or worse, I had failed Lady’s Speed Stick.

My mother’s eyes bugged and she swung her head in shame as I announced that although I forgot to use deodorant, I HAD taken a shower within the hour.

“Do you think I smell already?” The questioned mainly directed at the woman who’d birthed me.

Before I knew what was happening, Mary popped her nose into the pits and stamped my forehead fresh. Thankfully I used gobs of fig and brown sugar body cream when I dressed, but I didn’t want to smell like a week old casserole by the end of Christmas Eve service.

When ‘Mary’ declared me odor-free, a chuckle escaped one of the stalls. Oh, no, tell me it’s not a guest, I thought.

“Lord, of all nights, on this eve of your son’s birth, please let me know the face behind the chuckle.” This short, but fervent prayer lifted heavenward as my mouth questioned “Who is in there?”

“Diane!” She called back with a chuckle.

“Thank you God” I uttered up to the ceiling. I much rather embarrass myself in front of a friend than a stranger.

If there were ever a time I needed a long lasting deodorant, it was tonight. I spent the evening in a frenzy preparing all the refreshments for the fellowship time directly following the candlelight service. I set up the chairs, decorated the serving table, and enticingly displayed the food. Food must look lovely even if it doesn’t taste yummy.

Now on the eve of this the biggest holiday of the year – the holiday I hug my friends, foes, and family, I forget my deodorant! This year I’m trying to remember not to smell bad. There’s nothing worse than being mistaken for a casserole at the Christmas party.



Tricia Gillespie is a stay-at-home mom and freelance writer who loves Christmas. She’s always on the hunt for vintage ornaments and new holiday recipes; however, she swore off casseroles after her fish-stick/cream-of-mushroom soup disaster. This holiday season she’s trying to remember deodorant, but if she forgets, she now keeps an extra Lady’s Speed stick in her purse, the car, and her desk drawer. You can visit her on her blog, The Domestic Fringe. She wishes you all fresh smelling holidays.

Pet Adoption Preparedness

by Tricia Gillespie

What causes reasonable, relatively intelligent adults to desire the company of a four-legged beast?

Perhaps my family experienced an emptiness that they attempted to fill with the love of an animal.  Perhaps their need for physical affection was left unmet.  Perhaps I should have licked their hands each morning and chewed on their bare toes. Maybe then they would have been satisfied with our family of four humans and our pet free, dander free, hair-ball free home.  Maybe then I would have two whole slippers, one more shoe,  and 54 more dollars (money spent on paper towels).

Pet adoption is not easy.  In fact, leaving the hospital with a newborn required less paperwork.  The hospital didn’t even ask for references.  They should have.  Just ask my kids.  On second thought….  Home visits, doctor visits, vet visits…about the only thing this pup didn’t require was a 2 am feeding, but she made up for it with an early morning pee-pee walk.

If you are in the early stages of family pet planning, remember these simple steps.   They will prepare you and those in your home for a four-legged addition.

1.  Leave puddles of water in various locations throughout the house.

2.  Put at least one slipper through the paper shredder.

3.  After a long day at work, greet your spouse with a wet lick on his cheek.

4.  Keep a bowl of dog food right in front of the coffee pot so your husband (or wife…equal opportunity) will step

in it.

5.  Place a foul smelling pile of rotten, steaming meat-loaf under the kitchen table.  (this will represent poop)  Now step in it with bare feet.

6.  Have your child mop the floor 62 times in one day.

7.  Set an alarm clock for 2 am and march the family through the backyard (preferably without a coat in the middle of February) whispering “hurry up and pee already!”

8.  Bury your couch cushion in the dirt and retrieve it one week later.  Return to couch.  It will smell just right.

9.  Throw up in your car.

10.  Bark incessantly at every movement you see through any window in the house.

Now you are fully prepared for pet adoption!

Just don’t forget your checkbook, phonebook for references, and be sure to clean your house for the ‘inspectors’.  Enjoy Fee-fee or Fido or Spike or Daisy….you get the point!

Tricia Gillespie's dog, Oriana, could be sleeping in a dirty alley and eating out of dumpsters; however, she’s sleeping on her couch and eating from her children’s plates.  Fried eggs are a breakfast favorite, and she wouldn't have it any other way.  Pet adoption may have turned her home upside down, but how could she resist a pair of brown puppy eyes?  Not to mention the two kids whining and begging...come visit her and her family on The Domestic Fringe.

A Good Cooking Cycle - Tropical Jerk Chicken

by Tricia Gillespie


Either I’m a good cook or a bad cook, but never anything in between.  Tracking my cooking cycles is almost as difficult as tracking my hormonal cycles, maybe worse.  Unfortunately for our guests, I never know in advance whether I’ll be a good cook.

Eating at my house is much like playing Russian roulette with slightly less risk.  No one has died from my cooking. Yet.  A lack of organization and planning is my number one problem in the kitchen.  Being a positive person, I view myself as spontaneous.  Spontaneity doesn’t work in a kitchen unless your kitchen happens to be right smack in the center of a grocery store.

I often find myself scrounging through the kitchen cabinets around five-thirty wondering what in the world I’m going to create for dinner.  By then my kids have been feigning starvation and grumbling so loudly I pray the Lord will send manna from heaven and rescue me from wandering in the wilderness of domestication.

What does a person make with 3 cans of varied beans, pasta with no sauce, and salad dressing?  I always have salad dressing and not a person in my family uses it.  Other people tend to bless me with rather large bottles of Italian, Caesar, and if we’re all lucky, Ranch.

At times, I peruse cook books, gather delicious looking recipes (only ones with pictures) and make indulgent grocery lists; however, 3 aisles into shopping and realty strikes. I realize my budget is blown and I only have food for one meal.  I then abandon any ideas of feeding my family fancy food and reapply my lip-gloss just in-case the Take Home Chef happens to be in my store. 

If I am ever in the same supermarket as Curtis Stone, there’s no way he’s going home with anyone else.  My daughter thinks “he’s cute and may marry him when she grows up.” As his potential future mother-in-law, he’d have to pick me.  His marital happiness depends it.
Anyway, the whole point is that I’ve created a great recipe and I want to share it.  Don’t be scared, I’ve been having a few good cooking days. 

TROPICAL JERK CHICKEN

1 can papayas (don’t ask me what size can, I have no idea)
1 can Libby’s tropical papaya mix
3 large chicken breasts cutlets (you can cut in half to make 6 or use 6 individually frozen cutlets)
Jamaican Jerk Rub

Drizzle olive oil in an oven safe fry pan (I used a square griddle) and place chicken breasts in the hot pan. Generously sprinkle the chicken with Jamaican Jerk rub and sear.  After you have nice brown marks on either side of the chicken, dump both cans of fruit (with liquid) over the chicken and bake uncovered in oven at 375 degrees for about an hour or until your chicken is cooked.  Serve over rice.

I made this recipe up, but don’t let that stop you from trying it.  I promise I had an epiphany between defrosting cutlets and emptying the dishwasher.

Happy cooking!


Tricia Gillespie is a wife, mommy, and blogger who tries to stay out of the kitchen as much as possible.  Her husband eats most of her food, but banned fish-stick-casserole after only one taste.  Although she realizes her daughter will probably never marry Curtis Stone, she still hopes that she can take him home so he can cook dinner for her one day. If you want to chance trying more of her recipes, visit her on The Domestic Fringe and search the 'Food' category.

Everything But The Kitchen Sink

by Tricia Gillespie

My brother and I eagerly climbed up into the back of our 1977 burgundy Oldsmobile Station Wagon.  Because vacations of my childhood always began in the pre-twilight hours when most of the world was tucked into their beds, my parents folded down the back seat, giving us a queen size snooze through New Jersey, Maryland, and Virginia.  We never closed our eyes; surprises awaited us, every mile a new adventure to discover.  My mother packed everything we owned.  At seven years old, I heard the kitchen sink cursed more than once; however, packing forty-two bags, a grill, an adult size cooler, two children and the kitchen sink was acceptable.  Wagons could hold anything a family packed, even my four-foot Raggedy Ann.

My brother and I pumped our little arms, begging every tractor trailer to blow his horn; we wiled away hours sticking out our tongues and contorting our faces at the people traveling behind us.  We flipped shutters closed in race to win travel Bingo, and we asked the four words that make every parent want to eat their young - “Are we there yet?”

Today I don’t have a station wagon for my children to lounge in.  My youngest gets buckled into a harness that would make Houdini sweat, while my oldest buckles up for safety, his booster seat propping him high in the air.  My children don’t play travel Bingo; instead Disney entertains them for hours at a time.  After all, portable DVD players are an investment in a mobile child’s future.  Even though we bring only the necessities and leave the kitchen sink at home where it belongs, the adventure is the same and surprises never disappoint.

Finding clean bathrooms for a little potty training girl is like finding a good sale on designer shoes.  They are far and few between.  When my daughter was two, we traveled from Maine to Florida and back.  Every time she had to go potty, my husband would pull over; I’d run out and inspect bathrooms, retaining the power to veto a rest-stop. 

This day, we were on our third bathroom inspection.  I knew I must accept the fact that clean is subjective.  So I pulled out baby wipes, paper towels, and anti-bacterial soap, cleaning the toilet for my daughter.  I was proud she did so well potty-training on the road.

Now it’s never easy for moms to relieve themselves.  By the time you squeeze into a two foot-by-two foot cubicle with a small child, a traveling nursery conveniently named diaper bag, and a purse, there’s no room to unbuckle your belt, much less squat over a toilet.  Thankful the bathroom was empty of people, I stood my little baby girl in my line of vision, right next to the sink across from my stall.  I held her little hands by her side and warned her not to ‘touch’ anything or else she would surely end up sick.  Since I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, translate 'sick', in the ICU with doctor’s scrambling to call the Center for Disease Control.  

Never taking my eyes off my daughter, I set about doing my business.  After four cups of coffee and a Diet Coke, it was a relief.  Mid-stream I watched my daughter turn her little head to the nasty sink, open her mouth, stick out her tongue and lap the side of the public rest-stop bathroom sink from bottom to top. 

If a woman could die a thousand deaths while squatting over a toilet, I died every one of them.

My daughter is nine now.  She didn’t contract any non-curable diseases from her sink lick, but my breath still catches and my heart gives a little flutter every time my husband suggests a road trip.  Like my mom, I wish I could pack the kitchen sink.  At least I’d know it was clean when my daughter decided to lick it. 

Station wagons have been replaced with SUV’s and Bingo has given way to television, but some things will never change about road trips.  I’m still the one asking “Are we there yet?”

Tricia Gillespie, wife and mother, is finding her happy moonlighting as a freelance writer and blogger. She lives on the domestic fringe in denial of her actual age, avidly avoiding scales, and eating too many M&M’s. She desperately hopes another road trip is in her near future!

It's snot what you think...

Genius does what it must, and talent does what it can.

- Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Some have genius, others talent, and yet there are those few who amble through life void in their very being of all skills useful and necessary. Fortunately for Napoleon, he’s got skills.

Unfortunately for me, I don’t have skills…like you know, nunchuku skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills…

I don’t have spitting skills either. Normally I wouldn’t count this as an aptitude deficit or a character flaw; however, an individual with as many boogies as I posses needs certain skills, namely spitting skills. My lack of technique was never more apparent than on a road trip to Maine one chilly morning.

Shortly after we wed, my husband and I had the screwy idea to purchase a house in Maine. Not just any old house would do for the new couple…my, no. It needed to be house nearly condemned with no electricity on the second floor, no real kitchen, and no usable bathroom.

I only mention the house to explain our weekly trek from New York to Maine. Each Friday night after work, we’d hop in our car and drive to Maine to toil (I do mean work, sweat, bleed, labor and travail) on our “new” home.

For reasons that escape my memory, this particular weekend we left during the pre-dawn hours of Saturday. Notice I said PRE-DAWN?

I’m not a morning person. A mommy bear protecting her young cubs is more cordial than I in the pre-dawn, dawn, and slightly post-dawn hours of the morning. My children know that when I stumble from bed, it is their job to silently hug me and point me in the direction of the coffee pot. Sudden movements, commotions, and happy chatter are NOT welcome in the morning.

During the hours of first light, my ordinary skills do not perform at peak capacity…spitting skills included. However, my sinuses work double time engulfing my nasal cavity, throat, and chest with goo as thick as a jellyfish and as abundant as cockroaches in a New York City tenement.

An accurate representation of my morning snot.

This booger problem requires no less than 15 boxes of tissues be scattered throughout the house. Paper towels are preferred for the first blow due to their ability to handle extreme pressure.

On this chilly morning, I was trapped in a vehicle without a tissue. Unwillingly I coughed up a booger that filled my mouth like you only wish your jelly donuts were filled. I had to rid myself of this gelatinous ooze and quick!

My ever helpful new husband, says “Spit it out the window.”

He hadn’t yet been privy to my lack of skills. Hoping for the best, I rolled down my window. With the wind in my face, I blew with the fervency of a child blowing candles on his birthday cake and silently wishing for a new bicycle. All appeared well. I was free of my snot, or so I assumed.

About an hour later, we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts in Connecticut to get coffee. As we entered the cramped coffee shop, I decided to head to the bathroom first. I’d almost reached the bathroom when my husband pulled me back by the sweatshirt. I stumbled as he burst out laughing.

“Whaaat?” I grumpily glared at him.

He could only point to the back of my shoulder. Dried into a cement-like compound was my ginormous booger. I wasn’t free after all. Apparently the loathsome wind had blown the snot back in my face. Thankfully it missed and landed on my shoulder.

Some women carry chips on their shoulders. Me, I just carry a wad of snot.

I’ve learned that my skills have their limits. I’ve also learned to keep a box of tissues in the car.



Tricia Gillespie, wife and mother, is finding her happy moonlighting as a freelance writer and blogger. She lives on the domestic fringe in denial of her actual age, avidly avoiding scales, and eating too many M&M’s. Go visit her on the fringe!

For The Love of My Thighs

by Tricia Gillespie


Every time someone mentions the words diet or exercise, a thousand Rocketts begin dancing across my mind, each leg kick higher than the last.

My thighs are my troubled half and believe me, they carry at least half of my body weight.  Unfortunately each of my thighs resembles a tree trunk with the consistency of a Twinkie.

About twice a year, I go on a reconnaissance effort to take back my legs – once in the spring when I know beach season looms near and once again in the fall when I try to squeeze back into my jeans.

Liposuction has always been a consideration; however, I’ve never been able to fully convince my insurance company that cellulite of the thighs is correlated to sudden death.

They don’t realize that I am doing squats at deaths door.

It was during one of my ‘slim my body in a hurry’ panics that I discovered my library had an exercise video targeted directly at thighs.

The Rocketts rejoiced.

I began squatting, lifting, kicking, and crunching with near immediate results.  If such a thing is possible, it seemed the Twinkies were turning into Twix.  The only problem was the video could only be checked out of the library for two days at a time.

Renewals not permitted.

One night after I’d just washed an arsenal of age-fighting makeup down the drain and changed into paint stained yoga pants, I realized that I needed to exercise.  I couldn’t risk another day without making my cellulite scream in defeat.

With bedroom eyes and the sweetest tone I could muster, I begged, pleaded, and groveled at my husband’s feet.  He finally conceded to run to the library and pick up that video.  After all, he enjoyed the benefits of a firmer and more agile me.

Furtively glancing around the library, he sheepishly slinked up to the counter and wordlessly placed the video in front of the librarian.  You can never quite tell what a librarian is thinking.  They are assumed smart, and are respected because few other people can master the library ‘whisper’.

With a smirk, she told him he could keep the video for a week this time.  Apparently his thighs looked to be in worse shape than mine, and I scolded myself for not sending him sooner.

A few days later my unsuspecting husband returned to the library with my son.  As he walked up to the counter, the librarian looked up past her minty green glasses and asked, “How are your thighs doing?”

And that is why I love my husband.  He puts kindness into action as he sacrifices his reputation for my thighs.

Splurging for Ugly This Christmas

by Tricia Gillespie

After several years of living on a shoestring budget, I decided that I was going to create a fabulous Christmassy mood in my home this year.  I mean, even the mice are getting tired of the popcorn strung on my tree and our stockings have wear holes because we use them for extra socks throughout the year.

This Christmas would be different.  This year I’d buy real presents and not just re-gift my mother’s work cast-offs, I’d buy a new tree, and even splurge on pretty wrapping paper.  I was so excited.  My husband would surely be impressed and my children would dream of sugar-plums dancing in their heads.

My husband has vehemently hated our tree for several years.  He’s deemed it worse, much worse, than Charlie Brown’s pathetic twig.  He calls it a dollar store knock-off of a folk art nightmare.  Ok, so you can see bark (the cheesy paper mache kind) through the sparse branches, but I never hated it.  I simply don’t like the fact that the tree is skinnier than I am.  When I stand in front of a tree for a Christmas picture, I definitely want the tree to be wider than my behind.

I went to purchase a new Christmas tree last week.  I shopped around online for artificial trees and discovered that they are much more expensive than I’d anticipated.  You know how it is – inflated prices, the economy, moths in my wallet.  Because I didn’t want to spend sixty or eighty dollars on a 4.5 foot tree, I went to The Christmas Tree Shop.  If you’ve ever been to one of these stores, you know it is only one step above the dollar store.  Their motto is “Don’t you just love a bargain?”  Oh, I do, I really, really do.

My daughter came shopping with me.  After fighting our way through the crowds of shopping carts, women cranked on Starbucks, and grumpy old men, I found the perfect tree.  It was only $19.99.  My only problem came when I realized that I couldn’t see it or touch it…definitely a gamble.

I held the box up and wondered out-loud, “Do you think this is ugly?”

A middle aged woman stopped, looked at the picture on the box, and in all seriousness asked, “Honey, are you going for the ugly look?”

Pages from December’s Country Living Magazine flipped through my mind as I shook off the fog of my fabulous Christmas mood.

“Well, no” I said, “but I always seem to hit that mark.”

She looked at me with pity in her eyes, shrugged, and went about her bargain hunting.  What was I to do now?

“Buy the pink tree, mommy.”  My daughter’s full of good ideas.

I put the tree back on the shelf and retrieved it at least four times, finally buying it.  The entire drive home I regretted every penny of the $19.99.  After opening the box and actually seeing the tree, I went into a week-long depression.  This would be the most hideous Christmas ever.  I even considered using the folk art nightmare.  This tree had plastic branches.  It wasn’t even pretending to be real!

I took two Zolofts and decided to dress my plastic branches as if they were genuine Blue Spruce.  I’m happy to report that I love my highly processed, definitely un-organic tree.  I’m in the Christmas mood, Santa is on his merry way, and my children are dreaming sweet dreams.  Life is good no matter the trimmings.

My tree is still skinnier than I am.  I’m considering joining weight watchers, but since I’m not sure how many pounds I’ll need to lose, my tree will have to attend weigh-ins so we can both be measured.

FringeGirl lives on the domestic fringe in denial of her actual age, avidly avoiding scales, and eating too many M&M's. She is mother to two spazzy kids and one electrifying husband.  Her blog, the domestic fringe, is dedicated to finding humor in daily life.  FringeGirl enjoys using her God-given love for the written word to encourage others in the monotony of every-day.  She hopes you find your smile today!

Photo credit: blog.seattlepi.com