I am a woman who is loose.
No, not a LOOSE WOMAN. Get real.
I have the whole evening to myself, by myself. I can paint the town red if I want to, or green or pink or blue. So I have chosen to eat my lovely Chopped Cobb Salad in relative peace and quiet here at the lovely Panera Bread close to my home.
And don't tell anyone, but I splurged and got a decaf cappuccino to go with it.
The whole restaurant was my oyster, figuratively speaking, until just a moment ago. I had an entire section of seating all to myself. I was in my element.
Then the people came.
(Heavy sighing should be inserted here.)
And with the people came multitudes, yea verily, of children under the age of five. And with those multitudes came parents. And noise and cell phones ringing and parents talking on the cell phones covered the face of the restaurant instead of gentle jazz music.
And lo, the cuteness of those children did abound and I found myself in a quandary. Whether to eyeball said imps and eavesdrop on their cute little conversations, or to write? After all, I owe my Vast Readership a blog post since I've been here infrequently the past few days.
(Thank you, Debbie.)
However, it is impossible for me to both write and listen to conversation. It is impossible for me to listen to a book on my MP3 player and write. It is impossible for me to listen to music WITH LYRICS and write.
It is impossible for me to chew gum and write at the same time.
Because multitasking and coordination are not my middle names. I don't even think they were considered, more's the pity.
At the moment the boy child and the girl child are both being taken to the potty. I know this because I overheard the father of the boy child ask him if he needed to go as I eavesdropped on their cute conversation. Not three minutes later, the mother of the girl child asked her spawn the self-same question.
(And now I think *I* have to go potty. Obviously it's the power of suggestion. And the fact that I just downed what amounts to a cereal bowl full of coffee.)
But let's face facts, shall we? I'm old. My idea of "partying" has evolved from bar hopping and staying out late to this; dinner out by myself with peace and quiet and no one expecting me to cook and a lovely little laptop by my side. And after this I will most likely go home, get my jammies on, and crawl into bed at some hour of the evening when I would just be starting to get down and funky if I were young.
(And you may quote me on the getting down and funky. After all, I was of That Era. And still am.)
The girl child is off to the bathroom again, accompanied by her mother. Her father is still at the table and has mercifully ceased his cell phone conversation. The boy child's family left soon after he returned to his seat. I'm back to enjoying the music and the quiet.
It's a party of one.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tackling the Monster
Interpeeps, I've been busy.
Saturday I got tired of moaning and groaning around and decided to get off of my quite substantial behind and do something. The office area here at La Casa de Me has been in more than a shambles for more than an acceptable time.
As a matter of fact, acceptable went over the hill about a year ago and never showed its head again.
I was wishing I could do the same.
However, because we have now slaughtered our FOURTH mouse (and there is at least one more) I decided to de-junk de crappola in de office so there would be no place (at least in there) for them to hide.
It was a mammoth task. And it ain't done yet.
All the stuff from Mom's had migrated into the office. The kids decided the office would be a good place to dump everything from blow-up mattresses from camping trips to piles of dirty socks. It was as if some tornado had blown the junk from the whole neighborhood into one room and left it there.
Or it looked like a teenager's room. Take your pick of comparisons.
At any rate, I have been in such a funk lately that I didn't want to tackle it. The whole task was just more than I could face.
So it sat there, not cleaning itself. The nerve.
And then came Saturday.
I started in one corner. Got that done, stuff put away instead of moved to another spot, then shampooed that section of the carpet and set a fan facing it so it would dry faster. Then I moved to the next corner.
Then I got this brilliant idea to move furniture around as I cleaned. I enlisted the help of The Boy and Hubster, and ended up moving two seven and a half foot bookcases across the room to frame the door. Then I had them move the kids desk/file cabinet to the opposite side of the room.
Then I was a favorite in my house. Not.
Frankly, I think they were all glad when I gave up for the night. Heck, *I* was glad when I gave up for the night. But at least we can walk through the room again, and that's a plus in my book.
Now all I have to do is come up with the "wanna" to finish it.
The monster hasn't won yet.
Saturday I got tired of moaning and groaning around and decided to get off of my quite substantial behind and do something. The office area here at La Casa de Me has been in more than a shambles for more than an acceptable time.
As a matter of fact, acceptable went over the hill about a year ago and never showed its head again.
I was wishing I could do the same.
However, because we have now slaughtered our FOURTH mouse (and there is at least one more) I decided to de-junk de crappola in de office so there would be no place (at least in there) for them to hide.
It was a mammoth task. And it ain't done yet.
All the stuff from Mom's had migrated into the office. The kids decided the office would be a good place to dump everything from blow-up mattresses from camping trips to piles of dirty socks. It was as if some tornado had blown the junk from the whole neighborhood into one room and left it there.
Or it looked like a teenager's room. Take your pick of comparisons.
At any rate, I have been in such a funk lately that I didn't want to tackle it. The whole task was just more than I could face.
So it sat there, not cleaning itself. The nerve.
And then came Saturday.
I started in one corner. Got that done, stuff put away instead of moved to another spot, then shampooed that section of the carpet and set a fan facing it so it would dry faster. Then I moved to the next corner.
Then I got this brilliant idea to move furniture around as I cleaned. I enlisted the help of The Boy and Hubster, and ended up moving two seven and a half foot bookcases across the room to frame the door. Then I had them move the kids desk/file cabinet to the opposite side of the room.
Then I was a favorite in my house. Not.
Frankly, I think they were all glad when I gave up for the night. Heck, *I* was glad when I gave up for the night. But at least we can walk through the room again, and that's a plus in my book.
Now all I have to do is come up with the "wanna" to finish it.
The monster hasn't won yet.
Friday, July 24, 2009
You Gotta Have Friends
My childhood friend, Cindabel, has a part of my heart.
We are exactly one month apart in age, with her being the MUCH older and unfortunately much wiser of the both of us. We seldom see each other, but when we do we act somewhat like sisters. After forty-five years or so of knowing each other people tend to do that.
And margaritas help.
She always seems to sense when things are not going particularly well for me, even though we only talk sporadically. The past couple of weeks have been a tough row to hoe what with selling the house and Mom's birthday coming up next Wednesday. I find myself in tears a lot of the time for no reason, yet I know what the reason is.
I miss Mom.
I know it's part of the "grieving process" to get upset around birthdays and holidays and special events, especially the first year. I know that.
But I'm here to tell you, it sucks eggs. Big time. BIG ROTTEN EGGS.
So in the middle of this, in the middle of all my "poor me, poor, poor me" stuff, I get a card in the mail yesterday from my good friend Cindabel. The friend I love like a sister. The friend who thinks about me from time to time.
To paraphrase, (since I don't have it in front of me) it says, "Friends make each other laugh." Open the card and it says, "Good friends make each other snort!" It also had a lovely, caring note written on the inside.
It was just what I needed to brighten my day.
Well, that and a couple of margaritas with Cindabel.
We'll work on the second one.
Thank you, Cindy. Now I HAVE smiled in a hundred years.
We are exactly one month apart in age, with her being the MUCH older and unfortunately much wiser of the both of us. We seldom see each other, but when we do we act somewhat like sisters. After forty-five years or so of knowing each other people tend to do that.
And margaritas help.
She always seems to sense when things are not going particularly well for me, even though we only talk sporadically. The past couple of weeks have been a tough row to hoe what with selling the house and Mom's birthday coming up next Wednesday. I find myself in tears a lot of the time for no reason, yet I know what the reason is.
I miss Mom.
I know it's part of the "grieving process" to get upset around birthdays and holidays and special events, especially the first year. I know that.
But I'm here to tell you, it sucks eggs. Big time. BIG ROTTEN EGGS.
So in the middle of this, in the middle of all my "poor me, poor, poor me" stuff, I get a card in the mail yesterday from my good friend Cindabel. The friend I love like a sister. The friend who thinks about me from time to time.
To paraphrase, (since I don't have it in front of me) it says, "Friends make each other laugh." Open the card and it says, "Good friends make each other snort!" It also had a lovely, caring note written on the inside.
It was just what I needed to brighten my day.
Well, that and a couple of margaritas with Cindabel.
We'll work on the second one.
Thank you, Cindy. Now I HAVE smiled in a hundred years.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Cornless McCobberson
Today was the day I had planned to put up corn. However, the corn had other ideas.
I met Sis at the Farmer's Market with plans to give her two dozen of the six dozen ears I had ordered. We went to the local organic/natural/health food store first because I have become hooked on (imagine that) a certain brand of granola they carry. She picked up some hummus and pita chips and we proceeded on to the market.
I introduced her to the farmer I deal with on a regular basis, then asked if I could get my corn.
"Uh, no. It just wasn't as good as you need it to be in order to freeze it this week, so we'd like to wait until next week to bring you some that's better."
I almost kissed his feet.
Because really, in my heart of hearts, I had no desire whatsoever to put up corn tonight. And he promises he'll have it for the remainder of the summer, since he planted in different cycles. Right now he's estimating there will be fresh corn up until the middle of September. I'm a little skeptical, but I'll go along with it.
Because I am a lazy, slothful slug who hates putting up corn. There, I've said it.
Sis looked like she had been wrung out like a dishrag, rode hard and put away wet. She was tired. And I could tell she was just as glad as I was that the corn wasn't available. So I bought a couple of pounds of tomatoes and we left.
And yea verily, I was glad.
I met Sis at the Farmer's Market with plans to give her two dozen of the six dozen ears I had ordered. We went to the local organic/natural/health food store first because I have become hooked on (imagine that) a certain brand of granola they carry. She picked up some hummus and pita chips and we proceeded on to the market.
I introduced her to the farmer I deal with on a regular basis, then asked if I could get my corn.
"Uh, no. It just wasn't as good as you need it to be in order to freeze it this week, so we'd like to wait until next week to bring you some that's better."
I almost kissed his feet.
Because really, in my heart of hearts, I had no desire whatsoever to put up corn tonight. And he promises he'll have it for the remainder of the summer, since he planted in different cycles. Right now he's estimating there will be fresh corn up until the middle of September. I'm a little skeptical, but I'll go along with it.
Because I am a lazy, slothful slug who hates putting up corn. There, I've said it.
Sis looked like she had been wrung out like a dishrag, rode hard and put away wet. She was tired. And I could tell she was just as glad as I was that the corn wasn't available. So I bought a couple of pounds of tomatoes and we left.
And yea verily, I was glad.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Bounty
I do love me some summer.
Not because of the temperatures or the skeeters or the humidity, mind you, but because of the freshness and plentiferousness of the food available. Oh my word, it is a good time of year.
Tonight we had campfire suppers. I took sheets of aluminum foil and sprayed them with nonstick spray. Then I sliced potatoes and onions and put them in the center of each. I added two slices of cheese, a hunk o' hamburger to the top, a handful of carrots, and seasoned it all. I set the oven at 400 degrees, folded the foil packets closed, and set them in the oven to bake for an hour.
And then...
I sliced fresh tomatoes (NOT from my plants - not yet), and then peeled and sliced fresh cucumbers. The tomatoes were great naked. But the cucumbers needed a little something. So I took sour cream and vinegar and mixed it together with some salt and pepper, then stirred the cucumbers into it.
Oh, be still my heart...
We also have fresh corn, but I'm saving it for another day. I've been able to get it every week at the market so far. Tomorrow I'm picking up six dozen ears to freeze, but since we have limited room in the freezer I plan to give a couple of them to Sis. Green beans are still too expensive to buy unless I go to the City Market, so I'll wait on those.
More and more I appreciate the effort Mom put into raising her garden every year for the benefit of her children and grandchildren. More and more I appreciate the hours and hours she spent planting, fertilizing, watering, weeding, harvesting and giving us this gift of love.
I had been wishing so much that I had one more tomato from her garden, if only to save the seeds and plant them in my own garden next year. But Hubster and The Boy had torn up all the plants when they cleaned up the garden last year. I resigned myself to having that part, along with so many other parts of her life, gone. Her things, her house...HER.
Sis and I were over at the house last Saturday for what has become our weekly ritual. We meet, drink coffee and pretend to do something for a couple of hours. It gives us an excuse to be together, and it gives us a chance to gradually say goodbye to the house.
Last Saturday we decided to clean out the shed in the garden. Sis got the key and we walked in the back yard up the hill we both loved to roll down when we were kids. We noted the plants we wanted to get starts from, where the maple tree used to be, where the swing set was. We went through the gate into the garden, and something caught the corner of my eye. I turned around, then walked over to where it was to be sure.
There, in the middle of the garden next to the pile of old tomato plants from last year, was a lone plant.
A tomato plant. In full bloom.
Not because of the temperatures or the skeeters or the humidity, mind you, but because of the freshness and plentiferousness of the food available. Oh my word, it is a good time of year.
Tonight we had campfire suppers. I took sheets of aluminum foil and sprayed them with nonstick spray. Then I sliced potatoes and onions and put them in the center of each. I added two slices of cheese, a hunk o' hamburger to the top, a handful of carrots, and seasoned it all. I set the oven at 400 degrees, folded the foil packets closed, and set them in the oven to bake for an hour.
And then...
I sliced fresh tomatoes (NOT from my plants - not yet), and then peeled and sliced fresh cucumbers. The tomatoes were great naked. But the cucumbers needed a little something. So I took sour cream and vinegar and mixed it together with some salt and pepper, then stirred the cucumbers into it.
Oh, be still my heart...
We also have fresh corn, but I'm saving it for another day. I've been able to get it every week at the market so far. Tomorrow I'm picking up six dozen ears to freeze, but since we have limited room in the freezer I plan to give a couple of them to Sis. Green beans are still too expensive to buy unless I go to the City Market, so I'll wait on those.
More and more I appreciate the effort Mom put into raising her garden every year for the benefit of her children and grandchildren. More and more I appreciate the hours and hours she spent planting, fertilizing, watering, weeding, harvesting and giving us this gift of love.
I had been wishing so much that I had one more tomato from her garden, if only to save the seeds and plant them in my own garden next year. But Hubster and The Boy had torn up all the plants when they cleaned up the garden last year. I resigned myself to having that part, along with so many other parts of her life, gone. Her things, her house...HER.
Sis and I were over at the house last Saturday for what has become our weekly ritual. We meet, drink coffee and pretend to do something for a couple of hours. It gives us an excuse to be together, and it gives us a chance to gradually say goodbye to the house.
Last Saturday we decided to clean out the shed in the garden. Sis got the key and we walked in the back yard up the hill we both loved to roll down when we were kids. We noted the plants we wanted to get starts from, where the maple tree used to be, where the swing set was. We went through the gate into the garden, and something caught the corner of my eye. I turned around, then walked over to where it was to be sure.
There, in the middle of the garden next to the pile of old tomato plants from last year, was a lone plant.
A tomato plant. In full bloom.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Literally Literary
There was a trip to the library today during my lunch hour.
For most people that would be a normal, everyday thing. I try to make it a normal, everyday thing. Most times I can accomplish it. But then there are those times when I fail.
Like every time I check out a book in print form. Like today.
I only got one actual printed book today. One. The rest were audiobooks.
I read the entire book today. All 531 pages.
Now granted, it was a large-print book. But even so, long about 8 p.m. my eyes were feeling like a herd of water buffalo had tromped through them.
However, the book is history.
Actually, it was fiction, but you get the idea.
It's a sickness, pure and simple.
For most people that would be a normal, everyday thing. I try to make it a normal, everyday thing. Most times I can accomplish it. But then there are those times when I fail.
Like every time I check out a book in print form. Like today.
I only got one actual printed book today. One. The rest were audiobooks.
I read the entire book today. All 531 pages.
Now granted, it was a large-print book. But even so, long about 8 p.m. my eyes were feeling like a herd of water buffalo had tromped through them.
However, the book is history.
Actually, it was fiction, but you get the idea.
It's a sickness, pure and simple.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Hot Cross Fat Lady
I am in a snit.
I have been for most of the day, which has gone surprisingly fast for being a snit-ful day. I'm thinking it may have started with me dreaming about the mice last night and how they were crawling all over me and everything I owned. People kept throwing cats at me, and because I'm allergic to cats I couldn't breathe and then I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Of course, the bathroom had glass walls and a glass door, and I had to pee like no one's business. Only I couldn't, because a crowd had gathered to watch. And when I looked to find out why they were all staring at me, I found that I was STARK-STARING BUCK NEKKID. And the mice? They were crawling all over me.
And that scared me so much that I woke up. And I wasn't in any way, shape or form in any kind or any sort of a good mood.
Thankfully, Hubster understood. He offered to pick up a large iced coffee with no sweetener at McDonald's as he picked up his breakfast while I took my shower and got ready for work. My head started pounding again while I was in the shower.
"Great," I thought. "Another day in paradise."
I toweled off, dried my hair, got dressed and headed downstairs. No, The Boy had NOT taken the dirty clothes to the laundry room as he promised he would last night. Yes, there were dirty dishes in the living room from his late-night escapades. And there, right there on the couch, was my teenaged son - sound asleep.
Or at least he acted that way.
Hubster got home with the car and I left, noting the drink in the cup holder. I reached over, took a big swig, and...
...headed directly to McDonald's.
It was sweeter than sugar.
The most irritating part of the whole thing was when I walked in and told them my husband had just been there to pick up a large iced coffee with NO SWEETENER for me and THEY REMEMBERED THE ORDER. But they couldn't fix it correctly?
snitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnit....
And the day just went down the hill from there.
I am now having a pity party for one, complete with chocolate Coke that is sweeter than sugar. Because I LIKE my Coke to be sweet, but not my iced coffee. We are having spaghetti tonight, and I am taking my underwire OFF as soon as I hit the door, no matter who is there or what they have to say about it.
Them as don't like it can lump it.
Because really? You don't wanna cross THIS fat lady today.
I have been for most of the day, which has gone surprisingly fast for being a snit-ful day. I'm thinking it may have started with me dreaming about the mice last night and how they were crawling all over me and everything I owned. People kept throwing cats at me, and because I'm allergic to cats I couldn't breathe and then I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Of course, the bathroom had glass walls and a glass door, and I had to pee like no one's business. Only I couldn't, because a crowd had gathered to watch. And when I looked to find out why they were all staring at me, I found that I was STARK-STARING BUCK NEKKID. And the mice? They were crawling all over me.
And that scared me so much that I woke up. And I wasn't in any way, shape or form in any kind or any sort of a good mood.
Thankfully, Hubster understood. He offered to pick up a large iced coffee with no sweetener at McDonald's as he picked up his breakfast while I took my shower and got ready for work. My head started pounding again while I was in the shower.
"Great," I thought. "Another day in paradise."
I toweled off, dried my hair, got dressed and headed downstairs. No, The Boy had NOT taken the dirty clothes to the laundry room as he promised he would last night. Yes, there were dirty dishes in the living room from his late-night escapades. And there, right there on the couch, was my teenaged son - sound asleep.
Or at least he acted that way.
Hubster got home with the car and I left, noting the drink in the cup holder. I reached over, took a big swig, and...
...headed directly to McDonald's.
It was sweeter than sugar.
The most irritating part of the whole thing was when I walked in and told them my husband had just been there to pick up a large iced coffee with NO SWEETENER for me and THEY REMEMBERED THE ORDER. But they couldn't fix it correctly?
snitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnitsnit....
And the day just went down the hill from there.
I am now having a pity party for one, complete with chocolate Coke that is sweeter than sugar. Because I LIKE my Coke to be sweet, but not my iced coffee. We are having spaghetti tonight, and I am taking my underwire OFF as soon as I hit the door, no matter who is there or what they have to say about it.
Them as don't like it can lump it.
Because really? You don't wanna cross THIS fat lady today.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Chocolate and Addiction and More Chocolate
I have a new vice.
I knew you were just waiting to hear what the latest one was. After the s'mores went by the wayside and I grew weary of the venti iced mocha nonfat w/whipped, after the hot fudge had been depleted, after the ice cream binge was over, I knew you were just lurking around thinking "What will it be next?" I could feel you breathing in the darkness in anticipation of my newest overload item.
But before I tell you, let me just mention the common thread that has wound its ugly head throughout all of these - CHOCOLATE. It is my downfall. My demise. And it has been since I was small. Mom used to say I'd eat a cow patty if I thought it was chocolate.
The sad thing is, she was probably right.
Did I ever tell you about the time when I was about seven years old and Dad blindfolded me and gave me three different kinds of store-brand ice cream to try? In one bowl was chocolate, one held strawberry, and the third, vanilla. He spoon-fed me bites from different bowls, daring me to tell the difference in taste. Now, given the fact that the store-brand ice cream really didn't HAVE a whole lot of taste besides sweet in the nineteen-sixties, and given the fact that my tongue was frozen after the first few bites and couldn't really taste, he thought he won out when I couldn't tell him the difference between chocolate and vanilla.
He was an evil man.
But I proved him wrong in the long run. When Baskin-Robbins and Haagen Daz came on the scene there was no mistaking vanilla for chocolate, frozen tongue or not. The man could just not admit that I had discerning taste when it came to chocolate.
In the eighties I went on a health kick - don't ask me why. I frequented the health food stores and learned that cocoa was BAD. Carob, on the other hand, was GOOD. And supposedly it tasted JUST LIKE CHOCOLATE. I tried to convince myself of that for a long, long time, but to no avail. I made carob cake, carob cookies, carob this and carob that.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR CHOCOLATE.
Be it Hershey's, Swiss, Bavarian, German, Dark, Milk, in icing, as a dip, in coffee, milk, baked goods, candy, alone or with something else, chocolate is my poison of choice. There is no twelve-step program for chocolate, and even if there were, I doubt there would be many members. You certainly wouldn't find me there.
Which brings us to the latest craze of this crazed woman...chocolate Cokes. No, I don't have one EVERY day, but I do enjoy two or three (or more) a week. And I have a cheap way to get them now. Instead of trips to Sonic every time I get a hankerin' for some of this liquid joy, I now go to QuikTrip. QuikTrip has a sale all summer long on fountain drinks, so I can get a Coke for .49 - less than it would cost for a can of Coke from home. Add some Hershey's chocolate syrup, and it's a cheap thrill.
Of course, it's not for everyone.
But for this chocoholic?
It's just fine.
I knew you were just waiting to hear what the latest one was. After the s'mores went by the wayside and I grew weary of the venti iced mocha nonfat w/whipped, after the hot fudge had been depleted, after the ice cream binge was over, I knew you were just lurking around thinking "What will it be next?" I could feel you breathing in the darkness in anticipation of my newest overload item.
But before I tell you, let me just mention the common thread that has wound its ugly head throughout all of these - CHOCOLATE. It is my downfall. My demise. And it has been since I was small. Mom used to say I'd eat a cow patty if I thought it was chocolate.
The sad thing is, she was probably right.
Did I ever tell you about the time when I was about seven years old and Dad blindfolded me and gave me three different kinds of store-brand ice cream to try? In one bowl was chocolate, one held strawberry, and the third, vanilla. He spoon-fed me bites from different bowls, daring me to tell the difference in taste. Now, given the fact that the store-brand ice cream really didn't HAVE a whole lot of taste besides sweet in the nineteen-sixties, and given the fact that my tongue was frozen after the first few bites and couldn't really taste, he thought he won out when I couldn't tell him the difference between chocolate and vanilla.
He was an evil man.
But I proved him wrong in the long run. When Baskin-Robbins and Haagen Daz came on the scene there was no mistaking vanilla for chocolate, frozen tongue or not. The man could just not admit that I had discerning taste when it came to chocolate.
In the eighties I went on a health kick - don't ask me why. I frequented the health food stores and learned that cocoa was BAD. Carob, on the other hand, was GOOD. And supposedly it tasted JUST LIKE CHOCOLATE. I tried to convince myself of that for a long, long time, but to no avail. I made carob cake, carob cookies, carob this and carob that.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR CHOCOLATE.
Be it Hershey's, Swiss, Bavarian, German, Dark, Milk, in icing, as a dip, in coffee, milk, baked goods, candy, alone or with something else, chocolate is my poison of choice. There is no twelve-step program for chocolate, and even if there were, I doubt there would be many members. You certainly wouldn't find me there.
Which brings us to the latest craze of this crazed woman...chocolate Cokes. No, I don't have one EVERY day, but I do enjoy two or three (or more) a week. And I have a cheap way to get them now. Instead of trips to Sonic every time I get a hankerin' for some of this liquid joy, I now go to QuikTrip. QuikTrip has a sale all summer long on fountain drinks, so I can get a Coke for .49 - less than it would cost for a can of Coke from home. Add some Hershey's chocolate syrup, and it's a cheap thrill.
Of course, it's not for everyone.
But for this chocoholic?
It's just fine.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Death Toll Goes Up -BWA HA HA HA HA!!!
The count is now three.
Three verminous, furry, icky, tailed creatures are now gone.
Granted, one was released alive, but TWO ARE DEADER THAN DOORNAILS, HALLELUJAH, PRAISE THE LORD.
And I have bought more traps, since it obvious we have been Invaded by Vermin Who Multiply and Eat Furniture. A recent discovery of a hole the size of an apricot in the back of one of the older chairs attests to this fact. It's halfway up the back of the chair. Why on earth they felt the need to gnaw through the fabric in the CHAIR is beyond me, but gnaw they did. And do.
So this is what awaits the pestilence in my home. After trying out a plethora of traps, we found this one works the best. It does the job God intended it to do, and leaves only the tail of the miscreant sticking outside for public viewing after all is said and done.
Kind of like when you barbeque a raccoon and leave one paw on it so people know it's not a dog? Yeah, you know, like that.
Anyway, the tail is there to prove there is actually a mouse inside the trap, even though you can't see its little smooshed neck and/or head and/or guts because it's all nice and neatly covered up. And if you so choose, you can take this trap with the tail hanging out of it and release the little lever as you hold it over the trash can with your eyes closed, and the little rodent that was will plop on top of your trash without you having to see it at all.
And then you can reuse the trap. Of course, I would recommend rinsing it out with BOILING HOT WATER first to get rid of the remaining mouse guts, but that's just me.
And just for the record? We only use these traps once. We throw them away, mouse and all, even if they do cost around $4.50 each because...well...EEEEEWWWWWW. But if you're the thrifty sort with an iron stomach, more power to you!
You're a better man than I am. Or woman, for that matter.
More news on The War as it happens. Film at eleven. Or not.
Three verminous, furry, icky, tailed creatures are now gone.
Granted, one was released alive, but TWO ARE DEADER THAN DOORNAILS, HALLELUJAH, PRAISE THE LORD.
And I have bought more traps, since it obvious we have been Invaded by Vermin Who Multiply and Eat Furniture. A recent discovery of a hole the size of an apricot in the back of one of the older chairs attests to this fact. It's halfway up the back of the chair. Why on earth they felt the need to gnaw through the fabric in the CHAIR is beyond me, but gnaw they did. And do.
So this is what awaits the pestilence in my home. After trying out a plethora of traps, we found this one works the best. It does the job God intended it to do, and leaves only the tail of the miscreant sticking outside for public viewing after all is said and done.Kind of like when you barbeque a raccoon and leave one paw on it so people know it's not a dog? Yeah, you know, like that.
Anyway, the tail is there to prove there is actually a mouse inside the trap, even though you can't see its little smooshed neck and/or head and/or guts because it's all nice and neatly covered up. And if you so choose, you can take this trap with the tail hanging out of it and release the little lever as you hold it over the trash can with your eyes closed, and the little rodent that was will plop on top of your trash without you having to see it at all.
And then you can reuse the trap. Of course, I would recommend rinsing it out with BOILING HOT WATER first to get rid of the remaining mouse guts, but that's just me.
And just for the record? We only use these traps once. We throw them away, mouse and all, even if they do cost around $4.50 each because...well...EEEEEWWWWWW. But if you're the thrifty sort with an iron stomach, more power to you!
You're a better man than I am. Or woman, for that matter.
More news on The War as it happens. Film at eleven. Or not.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Magic Fingers, Take Me Away
Today was Day Four of a migraine.
It hasn't been too awfully severe this time, so I haven't missed any work. What it has been is more of a pain in the neck (and head and eye) than anything else. Annoying. Hurting enough to make me cranky, but not enough to break out the big gun medicine.
HeyJules and I had coffee on Sunday and she suggested this go-round might be due to the stress I was feeling over selling Mom's house. She suggested getting a massage. I suggested the money tree sprout $75 for me to do just that, and we moved on to other topics.
But as the days wore on and the headache persisted, the massage was beginning to sound better and better. So today I looked for a reputable massage therapy provider close to where I work.
I have to phrase it that way because I work in Midtown. I could have said "a massage parlour" instead, but that would have given you entirely the wrong impression, although it would have been completely accurate for the locale. However, a mere six blocks from where I work the neighborhood gets a bit more classy and there actually are reputable massage therapy providers.
I was fortunate enough to find one that had an opening. Not only that, but it was in an almost brand new building and they offered chair massage. I made an appointment for a 20-minute chair massage for $20.
But wait, there's more.
Because I had by that time a blinding migraine, they treated me like a queen. They gave me ibuprofen along with fresh iced spring water to drink. Then instead of a chair massage they took me into one of the dim rooms with a table and had me lie down.
What followed can only be described as twenty minutes of heaven on earth while fully clothed.
The therapist had MAGIC FINGERS. She worked out the kinks in my shoulders and neck, then hit pressure points that apparently released the gremlins that were holding my head and eyeball hostage. By the end of the twenty minutes I barely knew I had a headache. An hour after I got back to work it was completely gone.
See this? This is me, rising up and calling her blessed at this very moment in time.
I am convinced that if I had an hour and a half lunch hour, she could have gotten rid of the entire headache with no problem. I know I would have enjoyed having her try.
The only problem with getting a full body massage at this place is that I'd have to go after work, and then I'd be all greased-pigish and wet-dishragish on the way home, and it's a 30 minute drive. Otherwise I'd LURVE to imbibe on a regular basis.
Because THOSE magic fingers were better than any bed you stick a quarter in.
Oh yes. Yes indeed.
It hasn't been too awfully severe this time, so I haven't missed any work. What it has been is more of a pain in the neck (and head and eye) than anything else. Annoying. Hurting enough to make me cranky, but not enough to break out the big gun medicine.
HeyJules and I had coffee on Sunday and she suggested this go-round might be due to the stress I was feeling over selling Mom's house. She suggested getting a massage. I suggested the money tree sprout $75 for me to do just that, and we moved on to other topics.
But as the days wore on and the headache persisted, the massage was beginning to sound better and better. So today I looked for a reputable massage therapy provider close to where I work.
I have to phrase it that way because I work in Midtown. I could have said "a massage parlour" instead, but that would have given you entirely the wrong impression, although it would have been completely accurate for the locale. However, a mere six blocks from where I work the neighborhood gets a bit more classy and there actually are reputable massage therapy providers.
I was fortunate enough to find one that had an opening. Not only that, but it was in an almost brand new building and they offered chair massage. I made an appointment for a 20-minute chair massage for $20.
But wait, there's more.
Because I had by that time a blinding migraine, they treated me like a queen. They gave me ibuprofen along with fresh iced spring water to drink. Then instead of a chair massage they took me into one of the dim rooms with a table and had me lie down.
What followed can only be described as twenty minutes of heaven on earth while fully clothed.
The therapist had MAGIC FINGERS. She worked out the kinks in my shoulders and neck, then hit pressure points that apparently released the gremlins that were holding my head and eyeball hostage. By the end of the twenty minutes I barely knew I had a headache. An hour after I got back to work it was completely gone.
See this? This is me, rising up and calling her blessed at this very moment in time.
I am convinced that if I had an hour and a half lunch hour, she could have gotten rid of the entire headache with no problem. I know I would have enjoyed having her try.
The only problem with getting a full body massage at this place is that I'd have to go after work, and then I'd be all greased-pigish and wet-dishragish on the way home, and it's a 30 minute drive. Otherwise I'd LURVE to imbibe on a regular basis.
Because THOSE magic fingers were better than any bed you stick a quarter in.
Oh yes. Yes indeed.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Where There Is One...
There is an army.
We have an especially noisy mouse that was spotted today. She is about the size of a teaspoon, and her name is Henrietta. The Boy actually felt a pang of guilt as he went about setting the traps for her, because he was the one that spotted her dashing about in mad circles after feasting loudly on a piece of dog food.
I have no such pity.
This is war.
There are now three traps set and loaded for bear (mouse) in extremely close proximity to where Henrietta was last seen. Just in case you were wondering, we do not believe in "catch and release" in this household. If you are a vermin-infested rodent that invades this house, your only option is to leave. It's your choice as to whether that's of your own volition or in apine plastic box.
I'm hoping to update you early tomorrow with news of Henrietta's demise.
We have an especially noisy mouse that was spotted today. She is about the size of a teaspoon, and her name is Henrietta. The Boy actually felt a pang of guilt as he went about setting the traps for her, because he was the one that spotted her dashing about in mad circles after feasting loudly on a piece of dog food.
I have no such pity.
This is war.
There are now three traps set and loaded for bear (mouse) in extremely close proximity to where Henrietta was last seen. Just in case you were wondering, we do not believe in "catch and release" in this household. If you are a vermin-infested rodent that invades this house, your only option is to leave. It's your choice as to whether that's of your own volition or in a
I'm hoping to update you early tomorrow with news of Henrietta's demise.
In Which I Prove That I Am Still Two Years Old - Mentally, If Not Physically
I have this thing about going to sleep.
There are times when I just get up, go upstairs and go to sleep. It's a decent hour, I know I'll wake up rested, God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.
Then the Sleep Demons take over.
I decide I can stay up for "a while" to do whatever. "A while" turns into midnight or after, and yet I feel the need to stay up "a while longer" because obviously I have not proven my stupid enough yet. Even under the influence of my friend Ambien I have been known to stay up long enough for the initial zonk to wear off. I will literally find myself falling asleep in whatever chair I'm in and refuse to go upstairs to bed because I might miss something.
At 3 a.m. in the morning.
I am understandably less than sane.
Last night The Boy, who has set World Records for Sleeping Late this summer, had to drag my sorry butt out of the chair bodily and force me upstairs to the bed. Now, that's quite a haul for ME, so you can imagine the strength it took for HIM to do that.
It was a sad, sad state of affairs.
However, this is the same child who makes a point of interrupting each and every nap I try to take by coming into the bedroom 1) to ask me a question that absolutely could have waited until sometime the next millennium to be answered, or 2) passing through to use my bathroom because his sister just stunk theirs up and he can't stand to breathe through his mouth for the 1.2 minutes it will take him to stand up and pee, flush, and wash his hands.
Because The Boy is a delicate flower.
So today, please forgive me if I seem a little groggy and out of sorts. It happens if I don't get my full 12.5 hours a night of uninterrupted shut-eye.
I know you understand.
There are times when I just get up, go upstairs and go to sleep. It's a decent hour, I know I'll wake up rested, God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.
Then the Sleep Demons take over.
I decide I can stay up for "a while" to do whatever. "A while" turns into midnight or after, and yet I feel the need to stay up "a while longer" because obviously I have not proven my stupid enough yet. Even under the influence of my friend Ambien I have been known to stay up long enough for the initial zonk to wear off. I will literally find myself falling asleep in whatever chair I'm in and refuse to go upstairs to bed because I might miss something.
At 3 a.m. in the morning.
I am understandably less than sane.
Last night The Boy, who has set World Records for Sleeping Late this summer, had to drag my sorry butt out of the chair bodily and force me upstairs to the bed. Now, that's quite a haul for ME, so you can imagine the strength it took for HIM to do that.
It was a sad, sad state of affairs.
However, this is the same child who makes a point of interrupting each and every nap I try to take by coming into the bedroom 1) to ask me a question that absolutely could have waited until sometime the next millennium to be answered, or 2) passing through to use my bathroom because his sister just stunk theirs up and he can't stand to breathe through his mouth for the 1.2 minutes it will take him to stand up and pee, flush, and wash his hands.
Because The Boy is a delicate flower.
So today, please forgive me if I seem a little groggy and out of sorts. It happens if I don't get my full 12.5 hours a night of uninterrupted shut-eye.
I know you understand.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
RIP Henry - But Not Really
You may remember when I was mental trauma personified last week. A mouse decided to ride the trash compactor basket as I opened it to throw something away, causing me no small amount of stress and the rest of the family no small amount of humor as I ran screaming into the night.
I am here to report that all of the hoopla is now over, at least for the time being.
Henry is dead.
We know this because we found his motionless tail sticking out of one of the myriad of traps set for his eminent demise. I think you can safely say he is now demised.
And I couldn't be happier.
But I still have a hard time opening the trash compactor and looking into it without cringing.
Tonight was Headache Central again, but that didn't stop me from making homemade chicken salad and orange cranberry scones. Both came out rather well, even if I do say so myself. Next time I think I'll use more cranberries and more orange zest, and use orange juice concentrate in the glaze instead of plain old orange juice. The chicken salad is down pat - it's Mom's recipe that I've been making for years on end. But the scones need a little work to perfect.
Sigh.
I guess that means we'll just have to eat scones until I get them right. Darn. I hate when that happens.
Tomorrow is the beginning of another work week. My breakfast and lunch are packed, and I've got an idea of what to fix for dinner tomorrow night. It is obvious the Domesticity Monster is rearing its ugly head again.
At least it isn't the ghost of Henry.
I am here to report that all of the hoopla is now over, at least for the time being.
Henry is dead.
We know this because we found his motionless tail sticking out of one of the myriad of traps set for his eminent demise. I think you can safely say he is now demised.
And I couldn't be happier.
But I still have a hard time opening the trash compactor and looking into it without cringing.
Tonight was Headache Central again, but that didn't stop me from making homemade chicken salad and orange cranberry scones. Both came out rather well, even if I do say so myself. Next time I think I'll use more cranberries and more orange zest, and use orange juice concentrate in the glaze instead of plain old orange juice. The chicken salad is down pat - it's Mom's recipe that I've been making for years on end. But the scones need a little work to perfect.
Sigh.
I guess that means we'll just have to eat scones until I get them right. Darn. I hate when that happens.
Tomorrow is the beginning of another work week. My breakfast and lunch are packed, and I've got an idea of what to fix for dinner tomorrow night. It is obvious the Domesticity Monster is rearing its ugly head again.
At least it isn't the ghost of Henry.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Night Vision
The yard has become a jungle.
There are creatures living in the recesses of the unknown, unchartered bush. It's alive with vines, grasses, and things which shall remain unnamed.
All this in the matter of a week.
The Boy promised to mow today. He told me that if I would just wait until the heat of the day passed he would mow. He said he'd jump right on it just as soon as it wasn't so hot. That I wouldn't have to mention it to him again if I'd just let it slide until the temperature outside went down.
The Boy speaks with forked tongue.
It is now after 9 p.m. It is DARK outside. Fifteen minutes ago, after playing Pseudo Daughter's Wii all afternoon and evening, Hubster mentioned to The Boy that the yard still needed to be mowed. Being as our lawnmower does not come equipped with headlights, he wondered when The Boy was planning on getting that done?
The Boy asked if he could use a portable spotlight Hubster has. Being as our lawnmower does not come equipped with a cigarette lighter to power the spotlight, Hubster declined.
The Boy is now mowing the grass in the dark.
I can only guess at what wonders we will behold when day breaks tomorrow.
There are creatures living in the recesses of the unknown, unchartered bush. It's alive with vines, grasses, and things which shall remain unnamed.
All this in the matter of a week.
The Boy promised to mow today. He told me that if I would just wait until the heat of the day passed he would mow. He said he'd jump right on it just as soon as it wasn't so hot. That I wouldn't have to mention it to him again if I'd just let it slide until the temperature outside went down.
The Boy speaks with forked tongue.
It is now after 9 p.m. It is DARK outside. Fifteen minutes ago, after playing Pseudo Daughter's Wii all afternoon and evening, Hubster mentioned to The Boy that the yard still needed to be mowed. Being as our lawnmower does not come equipped with headlights, he wondered when The Boy was planning on getting that done?
The Boy asked if he could use a portable spotlight Hubster has. Being as our lawnmower does not come equipped with a cigarette lighter to power the spotlight, Hubster declined.
The Boy is now mowing the grass in the dark.
I can only guess at what wonders we will behold when day breaks tomorrow.
Friday, July 10, 2009
I Hear That Change A-Comin'
Who'd a thunk it would go so fast?
Less than a week ago we listed Mom's house with a realtor. He was the same realtor the nurse at my Most Excellent Lung Doctress' office used to buy her house. He came highly recommended, and it was noted that another nurse in the same office was using him to try to find a home to buy. I told the other nurse we had a home for sale, but she didn't seem interested. She thought it was out of her price range.
So we met with Andrew and signed papers.
Lo and behold, he had a buyer for us the Monday after we signed papers on Saturday. Granted, the first offer was more than a bit ridiculous, but it was a starting point. Since then we have haggled back and forth, back and forth, and finally come to an agreement. We sign papers on the sale tonight at 5 p.m.
We're selling it to the other nurse in the doctor's office.
Barring any problems with the inspection or appraisal or anything else, a new family will be moving into Mom's house soon. Things will change again, as they have over the years.
Mom's house is the last on the block to have a new owner. All the other neighbors we grew up with are dead and gone, one by one. The Moories, the Becks, the Coulsons, the McLeods, the Malotts, Mrs. Nye - all have passed on. The gradeschool across the street is now a school for kids with behavior problems. The neighborhood has slowly gone downhill.
But in my mind I still see it as it was on those lazy summer days of childhood. Days when I could go up to the garden and pick a ripe tomato, wipe it on my shorts, and eat it - dirt and all - with the warm juice running down my face. There were plenty there, as well as grapes that you could squeeze out of their skins and pop into your mouth to be savoured whole.
There were forts to be built with the cuttings from canna plants. There was a creek down the street to explore, and crawdads to catch. There was a swingset to climb on underneath the hickory nut tree, and if you were able to swing high enough you could touch one of the low-hanging branches of the giant maple. There was a fragrant lilac bush, and Grandma's honeysuckle grew along one side of the fence. A sour cherry tree had its place in the backyard as well, and provided many pies over the years- as well as switches for behinds of misbehaving children.
The grass was lush and green. A weed wouldn't dare show or it would be obliterated on sight. Flowers were abundant. It was a place to imagine, to dream, to play. There was no air conditioning, and it didn't matter. I never noticed how hot it was because there wasn't anything else to compare it to. We rode our bikes up to the kiddie pool about ten blocks away every day that we could, ate Popsicles and fudgesicles and ice-cold oranges from the fridge. We had hotdogs for dinner with lemonade and chips, and thought we were feasting like kings and queens.
Do I miss it? Oh, yes. And I would go back in a minute if I knew then what I know now. I would be a totally different person. Nicer. Less caring of what others thought. More caring of other people. More discerning about religion, sex, drugs, alcohol, health, marriage, relationships, food, education, career choices. And I might even do it right this time instead of making all the stupid mistakes I've made my entire life.
Wouldn't we all?
But instead we're stuck with what we are and where our lives have brought us as a consequence of the choices we've made. We can only begin from here.
And hope the change keeps on a-comin'.
Less than a week ago we listed Mom's house with a realtor. He was the same realtor the nurse at my Most Excellent Lung Doctress' office used to buy her house. He came highly recommended, and it was noted that another nurse in the same office was using him to try to find a home to buy. I told the other nurse we had a home for sale, but she didn't seem interested. She thought it was out of her price range.
So we met with Andrew and signed papers.
Lo and behold, he had a buyer for us the Monday after we signed papers on Saturday. Granted, the first offer was more than a bit ridiculous, but it was a starting point. Since then we have haggled back and forth, back and forth, and finally come to an agreement. We sign papers on the sale tonight at 5 p.m.
We're selling it to the other nurse in the doctor's office.
Barring any problems with the inspection or appraisal or anything else, a new family will be moving into Mom's house soon. Things will change again, as they have over the years.
Mom's house is the last on the block to have a new owner. All the other neighbors we grew up with are dead and gone, one by one. The Moories, the Becks, the Coulsons, the McLeods, the Malotts, Mrs. Nye - all have passed on. The gradeschool across the street is now a school for kids with behavior problems. The neighborhood has slowly gone downhill.
But in my mind I still see it as it was on those lazy summer days of childhood. Days when I could go up to the garden and pick a ripe tomato, wipe it on my shorts, and eat it - dirt and all - with the warm juice running down my face. There were plenty there, as well as grapes that you could squeeze out of their skins and pop into your mouth to be savoured whole.
There were forts to be built with the cuttings from canna plants. There was a creek down the street to explore, and crawdads to catch. There was a swingset to climb on underneath the hickory nut tree, and if you were able to swing high enough you could touch one of the low-hanging branches of the giant maple. There was a fragrant lilac bush, and Grandma's honeysuckle grew along one side of the fence. A sour cherry tree had its place in the backyard as well, and provided many pies over the years- as well as switches for behinds of misbehaving children.
The grass was lush and green. A weed wouldn't dare show or it would be obliterated on sight. Flowers were abundant. It was a place to imagine, to dream, to play. There was no air conditioning, and it didn't matter. I never noticed how hot it was because there wasn't anything else to compare it to. We rode our bikes up to the kiddie pool about ten blocks away every day that we could, ate Popsicles and fudgesicles and ice-cold oranges from the fridge. We had hotdogs for dinner with lemonade and chips, and thought we were feasting like kings and queens.
Do I miss it? Oh, yes. And I would go back in a minute if I knew then what I know now. I would be a totally different person. Nicer. Less caring of what others thought. More caring of other people. More discerning about religion, sex, drugs, alcohol, health, marriage, relationships, food, education, career choices. And I might even do it right this time instead of making all the stupid mistakes I've made my entire life.
Wouldn't we all?
But instead we're stuck with what we are and where our lives have brought us as a consequence of the choices we've made. We can only begin from here.
And hope the change keeps on a-comin'.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Carry On
Yesterday was bad.
Yesterday was Mom dying all over again. Yesterday was losing my childhood and all of the memories. Yesterday was realizing "home" won't be "home" anymore.
And it sucked eggs. Big, rotten, ugly eggs.
It was one of those days when I was thankful my boss was on vacation, that it wasn't busy, and that I had an office with a door that could be closed. Because even though I was at work, my mind was useless. Much of the day was spent in tears, and the rest was spent in thought.
I am happy to say that time of extreme sadness seems to have passed. Honestly, I don't think I could have survived much more of it. If I'd been smart I would've just taken a sleeping pill and snoozed through the whole thing. As it is, I'm almost snoozing through today.
Seems as though all that drama from yesterday has triggered a migraine. I popped a couple of Vicodin to see if that wouldn't do the trick, and am now having a problem keeping my eyes open.
Especially the one that has a red-hot screwdriver stuck through the middle of it at the moment.
Hopefully we'll be back to more of the mundane and boring content you expect tomorrow.
For now, carry on.
Sometimes it's all you can do.
Yesterday was Mom dying all over again. Yesterday was losing my childhood and all of the memories. Yesterday was realizing "home" won't be "home" anymore.
And it sucked eggs. Big, rotten, ugly eggs.
It was one of those days when I was thankful my boss was on vacation, that it wasn't busy, and that I had an office with a door that could be closed. Because even though I was at work, my mind was useless. Much of the day was spent in tears, and the rest was spent in thought.
I am happy to say that time of extreme sadness seems to have passed. Honestly, I don't think I could have survived much more of it. If I'd been smart I would've just taken a sleeping pill and snoozed through the whole thing. As it is, I'm almost snoozing through today.
Seems as though all that drama from yesterday has triggered a migraine. I popped a couple of Vicodin to see if that wouldn't do the trick, and am now having a problem keeping my eyes open.
Especially the one that has a red-hot screwdriver stuck through the middle of it at the moment.
Hopefully we'll be back to more of the mundane and boring content you expect tomorrow.
For now, carry on.
Sometimes it's all you can do.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
You Don't Want To Talk To Me Today
I am in a funk.
A 99% full moon plus me in a funk does not a funny person make.
A 99% full moon plus me in a funk plus an offer on Mom's house that we may accept makes for a downright depressed me.
There is no joy today.
A 99% full moon plus me in a funk does not a funny person make.
A 99% full moon plus me in a funk plus an offer on Mom's house that we may accept makes for a downright depressed me.
There is no joy today.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
In Which I Suffer Great Mental Trauma And Scare The Neighbors
Last night I decided to haul my quite cumbersome behind off of the couch and start dinner. The boys were putting the finishing touches on the Father's Day swing Hubster received and had to put together, and I was getting hungry.
The Boy wanted to grill burgers. He's into that ME MAN. GRILL MEAT. stage that all testosterone-bound boy-children go through, so we're happy to let him.
I formed the burgers on the plate for him, then busied myself getting the condiments and other things ready to go with the main dish. I thought it would be nice to have an avocado, so I got one and sliced it in half. I removed the seed, and opened the trash compactor to throw it in.
And let out a blood-curdling scream as I galloped across the kitchen and living room.
Because, my friends, there was a mouse the size of Texas sitting on the edge of the trash compactor basket as it came out to meet me. A live, tail-switching, nose-sniffing, nasty, brown mouse. Just sitting there on the compactor, just as if it owned all the trash inside.
Now, I could understand this if it was the dead of winter. But let's get REAL here, folks. It's 105 degrees in the shade. You can't tell me the mice are coming in to cool off!
And we all know that if there's one mouse, there are more.
So next week I'm moving. The kids and Hubster can stay, but I'm moving. I'm building my own cement box on some land we have at the lake. Once I'm hermetically sealed in I won't be coming out again.
I just hope I get good Internet reception.
The Boy wanted to grill burgers. He's into that ME MAN. GRILL MEAT. stage that all testosterone-bound boy-children go through, so we're happy to let him.
I formed the burgers on the plate for him, then busied myself getting the condiments and other things ready to go with the main dish. I thought it would be nice to have an avocado, so I got one and sliced it in half. I removed the seed, and opened the trash compactor to throw it in.
And let out a blood-curdling scream as I galloped across the kitchen and living room.
Because, my friends, there was a mouse the size of Texas sitting on the edge of the trash compactor basket as it came out to meet me. A live, tail-switching, nose-sniffing, nasty, brown mouse. Just sitting there on the compactor, just as if it owned all the trash inside.
Now, I could understand this if it was the dead of winter. But let's get REAL here, folks. It's 105 degrees in the shade. You can't tell me the mice are coming in to cool off!
And we all know that if there's one mouse, there are more.
So next week I'm moving. The kids and Hubster can stay, but I'm moving. I'm building my own cement box on some land we have at the lake. Once I'm hermetically sealed in I won't be coming out again.
I just hope I get good Internet reception.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
The Long, Long Weekend
This weekend has lasted a thousand days. And I have eaten my weight in full each and every day. It is a SICKNESS. A DISEASE. A PLAGUE.
And it MUST STOP.
By rights, I should now weigh just a little less than Planet Earth itself on one of Planet Earth's fat days. I have no idea how I am going to fit into the clothing I need to wear to work tomorrow. Chances are I may have to go partially naked, blinding those with whom I come in contact. Perhaps a tasteful drape ala Scarlet O'Hara would be in order. My friend Omar the Tentmaker is off on holiday or I'd press him into service.
It hasn't helped that I have not been able to be active at all. I have had the energy of your basic slug all weekend, only leaving the house when it was absolutely necessary. I slept and ate, ate and slept, and slept some more. It seems this last little bout of whatever it was is really kicking my behind even now.
One of the absolutely necessary trips out of the house was to go over to Mom's yesterday. We met there with a realtor to list the house, as well as to show it to a prospective buyer. There are still a few things we have to clear out of it, and I'll be taking care of that this week. It will be listed on MLS at the end of the week, so everything has to be gone.
It was harder than I thought it would be to list the house. Sis had shown it once already, and told me she didn't want to do it again. I wasn't wild about showing it either. I'd rather not have any contact with whoever it is that buys it. I just don't want to know. The one father and daughter that looked at it while we were there seemed nice enough, but to have them take over and actually LIVE in Mom's house? Wow. That will be hard.
But we'll get through it. It's part of life.
And it MUST STOP.
By rights, I should now weigh just a little less than Planet Earth itself on one of Planet Earth's fat days. I have no idea how I am going to fit into the clothing I need to wear to work tomorrow. Chances are I may have to go partially naked, blinding those with whom I come in contact. Perhaps a tasteful drape ala Scarlet O'Hara would be in order. My friend Omar the Tentmaker is off on holiday or I'd press him into service.
It hasn't helped that I have not been able to be active at all. I have had the energy of your basic slug all weekend, only leaving the house when it was absolutely necessary. I slept and ate, ate and slept, and slept some more. It seems this last little bout of whatever it was is really kicking my behind even now.
One of the absolutely necessary trips out of the house was to go over to Mom's yesterday. We met there with a realtor to list the house, as well as to show it to a prospective buyer. There are still a few things we have to clear out of it, and I'll be taking care of that this week. It will be listed on MLS at the end of the week, so everything has to be gone.
It was harder than I thought it would be to list the house. Sis had shown it once already, and told me she didn't want to do it again. I wasn't wild about showing it either. I'd rather not have any contact with whoever it is that buys it. I just don't want to know. The one father and daughter that looked at it while we were there seemed nice enough, but to have them take over and actually LIVE in Mom's house? Wow. That will be hard.
But we'll get through it. It's part of life.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Foundering On The Fourth
Must. Stop. Eating.
Oh my word. If my hand goes from some sort of foodstuff to my mouth just once more today, my entire digestive system will spontaneously explode and engulf the known world in a regurgitous mess that would equal none other.
Today I planned to have a big meal to celebrate the Fourth. Since Hubster and the rest of the clan are going out to SIL's for the evening and I'm not allowed to accompany them, I thought we needed to have our own little celebration here.
Only "little" was not exactly what it turned out to be.
Earlier in the week I dropped by the Farmer's Market and picked up sweet corn and tomatoes, then found some green beans. I purchased the other ingredients later on, and it seemed as though the meal just kept on growing in my mind until I began preparing it today. So here's what we had:
Fried Chicken
Mom's Potato Salad
Mom's Baked Beans
Fresh Green Beans
Fresh Sliced Tomatoes
Fresh Corn-on-the-cob
Wilted Lettuce
Homemade Strawberry Shortcake
Homemade Banana Ice Cream
Leftover Coconut Flan
We had Pseudo Daughter, her dad, and Boyfriend over as guests, but there was still plenty left over for another meal. And since this was LUNCH, I'm thinking there will be enough left over for my DINNER tonight while everyone is out shooting off fireworks elsewhere.
So if you happen to hear a particularly loud BOOM! come from around these parts later on tonight, you can say you were warned.
Oh, it's a hard life.
Oh my word. If my hand goes from some sort of foodstuff to my mouth just once more today, my entire digestive system will spontaneously explode and engulf the known world in a regurgitous mess that would equal none other.
Today I planned to have a big meal to celebrate the Fourth. Since Hubster and the rest of the clan are going out to SIL's for the evening and I'm not allowed to accompany them, I thought we needed to have our own little celebration here.
Only "little" was not exactly what it turned out to be.
Earlier in the week I dropped by the Farmer's Market and picked up sweet corn and tomatoes, then found some green beans. I purchased the other ingredients later on, and it seemed as though the meal just kept on growing in my mind until I began preparing it today. So here's what we had:
Fried Chicken
Mom's Potato Salad
Mom's Baked Beans
Fresh Green Beans
Fresh Sliced Tomatoes
Fresh Corn-on-the-cob
Wilted Lettuce
Homemade Strawberry Shortcake
Homemade Banana Ice Cream
Leftover Coconut Flan
We had Pseudo Daughter, her dad, and Boyfriend over as guests, but there was still plenty left over for another meal. And since this was LUNCH, I'm thinking there will be enough left over for my DINNER tonight while everyone is out shooting off fireworks elsewhere.
So if you happen to hear a particularly loud BOOM! come from around these parts later on tonight, you can say you were warned.
Oh, it's a hard life.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Tonight, Food Network. Tomorrow, The World!
Today was extremely restful.
That is, if you don't count the hard work I went through sleeping in until 10:30 a.m., getting up, eating, watching television, taking a nap, and generally lazing around all day.
It could really wear a person slick. It's a good thing I'm in shape.
One of the many and varied activities of the day included watching programs on the Food Network. One of the shows included a recipe for some coconut flan, and I have to tell you it hit home in a big way. I do love me some coconut flan. So I determined right then and there to make some. I went to the grocery store again today and picked up what I needed, then came home and whipped it up.
What is it about the Food Network and the DIY Network and all the rest of those networks that make me think I need to get up off of my keister and do things? Especially things that 1) cost money, 2) take time and energy, and/or 3) mean a plethora of calories.
It is obvious I am a sucker for being shown how to do something. Given that, I'm thinking there needs to be something called the Housecleaning Network. Something that would walk me through cleaning the house every day, if only I'd watch.
There'd be Laundry With Lucille, Dusting With Donna, etc., etc. Of course, all the programs would repeat after running once for those of us that work during the day. I'm thinking it would be easy to sell cleaning products on this network during commercial breaks, which would more than support the shows.
It would be kind of like an exercise channel for the unfit, only this would be for the dysfunctional homemaker. Like me. And maybe you.
Interested television executives may make me rich and famous by purchasing this idea. You just never can tell. It may actually be one of the better ones I've come up with in the past lifetime or so.
So if you happen to be a television exec and are looking for a new and fresh idea, contact me here at the blog.
In the meantime, I'll be enjoying some more of this delicious flan.
That is, if you don't count the hard work I went through sleeping in until 10:30 a.m., getting up, eating, watching television, taking a nap, and generally lazing around all day.
It could really wear a person slick. It's a good thing I'm in shape.
One of the many and varied activities of the day included watching programs on the Food Network. One of the shows included a recipe for some coconut flan, and I have to tell you it hit home in a big way. I do love me some coconut flan. So I determined right then and there to make some. I went to the grocery store again today and picked up what I needed, then came home and whipped it up.
What is it about the Food Network and the DIY Network and all the rest of those networks that make me think I need to get up off of my keister and do things? Especially things that 1) cost money, 2) take time and energy, and/or 3) mean a plethora of calories.
It is obvious I am a sucker for being shown how to do something. Given that, I'm thinking there needs to be something called the Housecleaning Network. Something that would walk me through cleaning the house every day, if only I'd watch.
There'd be Laundry With Lucille, Dusting With Donna, etc., etc. Of course, all the programs would repeat after running once for those of us that work during the day. I'm thinking it would be easy to sell cleaning products on this network during commercial breaks, which would more than support the shows.
It would be kind of like an exercise channel for the unfit, only this would be for the dysfunctional homemaker. Like me. And maybe you.
Interested television executives may make me rich and famous by purchasing this idea. You just never can tell. It may actually be one of the better ones I've come up with in the past lifetime or so.
So if you happen to be a television exec and are looking for a new and fresh idea, contact me here at the blog.
In the meantime, I'll be enjoying some more of this delicious flan.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Starbucks
I got a hankering about 9 p.m. for a cuppa joe and some time by myself, so I hied me to the local Starbucks.
The kids were out in the driveway playing some sort of game with a ball and Hubster was sitting on the stoop watching them. My car was parked next to the street, so I bid them all a fond farewell and left to indulge.
Usually it's somewhat of a straight shot between my house and the local java joint. On a good day I can walk there in ten minutes. A drive takes about three. However, the road that provides the direct route is closed for repairs in one area for a few days and there's a detour through a neighborhood just before the entrance. I wound my way around the roads and came up the hill to park in front of the door.
As I got ready to get out of the car I noticed my phone. Apparently I'd been "rocking out" to the oldies on the radio station and didn't realize it was ringing. Someone had called me FIVE TIMES since I left the house.
Uh oh.
The phone immediately began to ring again. I picked it up, and Hubster was on the other end.
"When you left, you had The Girl's cell phone on the hood of your car. She put it there when she was playing ball in the driveway."
Uh oh.
"I don't suppose it's still there?" hopefully.
I looked.
Lo and behold, upon the hood of my car was a cell phone. It hadn't slipped. It hadn't fallen. It hadn't gotten lost or crumpled or mangled or spindled or damaged in any way.
It was there.
How amazing is that?
The Girl and Boyfriend showed up immediately to claim it, and I settled down with a decaf to celebrate. A little James Taylor on the MP3 to drown out the blaring music here, a little writing on the laptop.
And no extra charge.
The kids were out in the driveway playing some sort of game with a ball and Hubster was sitting on the stoop watching them. My car was parked next to the street, so I bid them all a fond farewell and left to indulge.
Usually it's somewhat of a straight shot between my house and the local java joint. On a good day I can walk there in ten minutes. A drive takes about three. However, the road that provides the direct route is closed for repairs in one area for a few days and there's a detour through a neighborhood just before the entrance. I wound my way around the roads and came up the hill to park in front of the door.
As I got ready to get out of the car I noticed my phone. Apparently I'd been "rocking out" to the oldies on the radio station and didn't realize it was ringing. Someone had called me FIVE TIMES since I left the house.
Uh oh.
The phone immediately began to ring again. I picked it up, and Hubster was on the other end.
"When you left, you had The Girl's cell phone on the hood of your car. She put it there when she was playing ball in the driveway."
Uh oh.
"I don't suppose it's still there?" hopefully.
I looked.
Lo and behold, upon the hood of my car was a cell phone. It hadn't slipped. It hadn't fallen. It hadn't gotten lost or crumpled or mangled or spindled or damaged in any way.
It was there.
How amazing is that?
The Girl and Boyfriend showed up immediately to claim it, and I settled down with a decaf to celebrate. A little James Taylor on the MP3 to drown out the blaring music here, a little writing on the laptop.
And no extra charge.
Rotten Tomatoes - And Kids
The Boy is rotten. And the Pseudo Daughter is just as foul.
However, The Girl is now my shining star and may quite likely inherit my quite considerable fortune and wealth solely.
She alone deigned to weed the tomato plants.
As you may know, I've been a bit under the weather lately. I'm under orders to stay away from the of the out of doors, which pretty much means staying indoors. Since the tomato plants I have are outside it's hard for me to weed them. I suppose it could be accomplished virtually, but then they'd have to be virtual tomato plants and I'd be eating virtual tomatoes come harvest time.
I'm thinking virtual tomatoes aren't too tasty.
Neither are those who have been choked off by weeds.
So I offered The Boy and Pseudo Daughter $5 each to weed the plants. Bear in mind there are FOUR plants. That's $2.50 a plant, for maybe fifteen minutes work. For work that I had to do when I was their age for nuthin'. Only I weeded three or four rows of ten plants each in the hot, hot sun when the ground was baked-hard clay and a hoe would bounce on it.
Of course, I walked four miles to school in six-foot deep snow uphill both ways too, but that's another story.
The point is, they turned me down flat. I thought I was being overly generous, and not only did they turn me down flat, but they tried to get more money out of me. For FIFTEEN MINUTES OF WORK.
So I turned them down. Flat.
Now granted, I could've pulled the "you WILL do this and not get paid and be HAPPY about it" card, but honestly? It wasn't worth it.
So I offered the job to The Girl.
She snapped it up and was happy to do it for what they were going to get. Now they're out the money, she's got it, and my tomatoes are weeded.
And I am a happy camper.
And if The Boy and Pseudo Daughter think they're getting one. single. tomato. off of any of those plants, they have another think coming.
Because I don't get mad.
I get even.
However, The Girl is now my shining star and may quite likely inherit my quite considerable fortune and wealth solely.
She alone deigned to weed the tomato plants.
As you may know, I've been a bit under the weather lately. I'm under orders to stay away from the of the out of doors, which pretty much means staying indoors. Since the tomato plants I have are outside it's hard for me to weed them. I suppose it could be accomplished virtually, but then they'd have to be virtual tomato plants and I'd be eating virtual tomatoes come harvest time.
I'm thinking virtual tomatoes aren't too tasty.
Neither are those who have been choked off by weeds.
So I offered The Boy and Pseudo Daughter $5 each to weed the plants. Bear in mind there are FOUR plants. That's $2.50 a plant, for maybe fifteen minutes work. For work that I had to do when I was their age for nuthin'. Only I weeded three or four rows of ten plants each in the hot, hot sun when the ground was baked-hard clay and a hoe would bounce on it.
Of course, I walked four miles to school in six-foot deep snow uphill both ways too, but that's another story.
The point is, they turned me down flat. I thought I was being overly generous, and not only did they turn me down flat, but they tried to get more money out of me. For FIFTEEN MINUTES OF WORK.
So I turned them down. Flat.
Now granted, I could've pulled the "you WILL do this and not get paid and be HAPPY about it" card, but honestly? It wasn't worth it.
So I offered the job to The Girl.
She snapped it up and was happy to do it for what they were going to get. Now they're out the money, she's got it, and my tomatoes are weeded.
And I am a happy camper.
And if The Boy and Pseudo Daughter think they're getting one. single. tomato. off of any of those plants, they have another think coming.
Because I don't get mad.
I get even.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Duped By American Advertising Yet Again
Take a look at this. Does this not look succulent? Does it not look like you get big chicken pieces, a couple of bites each, maybe, with some sort of tasty yet spicy sauce? Does it not look like something you could eat with a side of rice and veggies and be perfectly satisfied?
Yeah, think again.
The actual dish from the unnamed chain that produces this little wonder (it rhymes with "Bendy's") bears little resemblance to the photo above.
And to tell the truth, I'm just a little bit ticked off about it.
I've been hankering for this little entree ever since I first saw the commercial. Having been an officianado of Buffalo Wild Wings for a while, I was hoping to find the Next Great Cheap Drive-Thru Wings Place. Suffice it to say I did not succeed.
I went at lunchtime today, mouth all set for a taste delight. After waiting for fifteen minutes in the drive-thru I got my order and ...
...drove to McDonald's to use the WIFI in the parking lot as I ate.
Oh hush.
As it ends up, I should have actually eaten at McDonald's to begin with. I got my just desserts.
The chicken "chunks" ended up being nothing more than different odd-sized chicken nuggets - thin, hard and dry. They were covered with what resembled a sweetened, thickened, Italian dressing with red pepper flakes mixed throughout. While it was palatable, it was certainly not worthy of the name "Asian Chicken" or even "Badly Done American Imitation of Asian Chicken" and it is certainly not worth the over $6 I paid for the combo version (with baked potato and drink).
Wendy's, you disappoint me. I didn't expect to be duped by a little girl with pigtails.
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