Archives for the month of: December, 2009

Summary Judgement

December 31, 2009 //
0

I couldn’t think of anything else I should be doing as the Better Half retreated into the bathroom with his Christmas present for the maiden read, so I cleaned the stove.

*****

As time passes, I learn more about myself. I would have thought I knew myself by now, but no such luck.

It seems as though I can only tolerate sitting still if I am the one controlling the conditions. Being inactive because of someone else’s poor planning causes my heart to race, my teeth to grit, and me to fantasize about stabbing hand with a fork to get though the moment to keep my head from spinning three hundred and sixty degrees. These are my issues.

*****

We sat in my mother’s den worshiping the television as older people are wont to do. Though my mother is definitely a cat lady, she IS NOT a crazy cat lady, in spite of her lengthy conversations with the four legged denizens of her home. As she fought the urge to nod off in her chair, her loyal roommates took turns waking her up by gently pawing at her face, head butting her shoulder, and jumping on the seat back in an effort to convince her they were ready for bed.

*****

My sister’s house has more activity than any other place I visit (including airports). With 1 husband, two children, two dogs, four exotic lizards, seven cats, and approximately one thousand meal worms, there are many breathing things begging for your undivided attention. I try to distribute it, but the competition is….fierce.

*****

Colds have strange consequences. It doesn’t matter how great or how minor they are…they always zap my appetite. Alcohol? meh. Chocolate? meh. Spicy sausage lentil soup? meh. Bacon and eggs? I’ll have to get back to you on that.

*****

My cat, the Gatherer might have sleep apnea. He woke me from a deep sleep at 2:30 AM snoring. It was so loud I thought someone was talking outside my bedroom window. Snore Wheeze. Snore Wheeze.

Categories cow tipping

Why don't we….

December 21, 2009 //
3

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look at the snow (earlier this month)….rather than discuss the rainy conditions that have wrecked havoc for the past two weeks. 4 inches of rain in 24 hours…yadda, yadda, yadda….main road washed out….yadda, yadda, yadda… hairpin road crowded single car passing at turns…yadda, yadda, yadda…flooded basement….yadda, yadda, yadda…gutter guard guarantees are useless…blah, blah, blah.

So I have been left to my own devices for seven days as the Mister has been away on business. This morning my sister was kind enough enough to email me a picture of my crack bracketed between a festive sweater and a pair of “not so mom” low slung pants. I am the ass of Christmas. My SIL only dreams of being the ass of Christmas. I’ll refrain from posting the photo. Crack kills.

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My orchid seems to walking softly into the dark night, but the blooms lasted an entire month. And it was under my care! I suppose I’m getting cocky. Maybe I should try growing something else.

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The town is getting into the Christmas spirit with tacky lights and static displays.
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I’m not sure what to make of the decapitated police officer. Maybe he was in the book of Mathew?
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Categories cow tipping

Rolled

December 16, 2009 //
4

Holiday shopping used to be enjoyable, and not the chore it became after years of monogamy. I want to do something thoughtful for my partner, but both of us have slipped into that phase of the relationship where it becomes increasingly difficult to purchase gifts for each other. Either we purchase things we want as we see them, or we want things that are uber expensive and completely unnecessary to maintain any quality of life. I’ve surprised him a few times, but those instances are rare.

Most years I keep things simple. This year, I tried for even simpler and suggested we get gutter guards for the house. I thought win win. No more getting on the roof with the leaf blower, no combing the catalogs, or searching electronic stores for the “it” gift, and no disappointing him with a pragmatic gift he needs rather than the extravagant gift he probably wants. He wasn’t having any part of it. Gutter guards were not sexy enough for Christmas. He said we’d get them anyway, in spite of Christmas not for because of it. Shit. Shopping.

******
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The year we bought our first house, we agreed to scale back Christmas spending for each other. Occasionally pragmatism wins….but this time it won in the form of a foosball table. Not my idea of a sexy Christmas Gift, but I was so elated about not having to shop for something Better Half would like, I eagerly agreed.

Instead of writing a check or swiping plastic, we paid with found money. Found money being a margarita bucket full of loose change and over seventy bucks in one dollar bills. We did have the decency to roll the change…..at least most of it. The poor dude at the checkout, though, took longer to cash us out. Considering he spent his days swiping plastic and verifying checks, he was very patient with our rolled quarters and one dollar bills.

Categories cow tipping

Moron Moments…I Haz Dem

December 10, 2009 //
5

I get in a hurry. Not exactly impatient, but a self-inflected rushing. I assume since I dislike waiting idly, people waiting in line behind me feel the same way. So, I hurry racing against a fictitious stopwatch, for what or against what, I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter, because I’m behind schedule, whose schedule, I can’t say.

During one of these self-induced scrambles I scalded my wrist with hot coffee. I was waiting at the counter of one of those carefully branded coffee boutiques, and rattled, because it took longer to place the order. In my mind the great scone debate of 2009 lasted five minutes, not thirty seconds, so in my head I was one of THOSE high maintenance customers. When my order was up, two tall coffees and supposedly a cinnamon chip scone, I did as I always do. I balanced one cup of coffee on the lid of the other to pick up both cups with my left hand, while using my right hand to carry the pastry bag.

So this time the cups weren’t balanced as well, and the top cup fell over as I stepped away from the counter. It splashed my shirt, maybe covered is a better description, and scalded my right wrist before the cup fell to the floor. Groan.

It’s unlikely I would have scalded myself, had I not created this artificial pressure to get out of the way. Ironically, in an effort to dispel attention away from me, I attracted more.

When we returned home, I perused the interwebs for treatment options and quickly discovered I box of bandaids does not constitute a first aid kit. In typical DIY fashion, I confiscated one of the Better Half’s cotton t-shirts, and used it for bandages, sterilizing it in the microwave first. Instead of the painter’s tape, I opted for electrical to hold the cotton strips in place. It looks like Bob the Builder was hired to do the costume design for Xena, Warrior Princess. Cheap, tacky, and strangely effective.

The Better Half is concerned about scarring. I’m concerned about ability to go on as if nothing ever happened. Both of us might be ready to concede the necessity of a decent first-aid kit.

Categories anecdotal, over thinking

Cranberries R Majik

December 2, 2009 //
3

Do you remember being the age when you showed those first signs of self-awareness that other families do things differently? You are sitting at the table at your bffs house and, oh crap they’re blessing the food, or maybe, oh crap, you can eat without blessing it, or the more sublime, you mean you can prepare beef without over-salting it and roasting it to the consistency of tire rubber?

When Better Half and I got engaged, we were cranberry sauce novices. Our combined experience was limited to the mysterious gelled substance that made a disgusting slurping noise as it was disturbed from the the vacuum that sealed it in the can. If it wasn’t cylinder shaped and ribbed, it wasn’t a cranberry sauce, it was some sort of fancy impostor.

On impulse, we purchased a bag of ripe cranberries, We assuming people purchased them for snacking on because they were next to the grapes in the produce department, and the dried cranberries tasted pretty good, and heck they had fiber, you can’t really go wrong with fiber.

We popped a few cranberries into our mouths, which immediately caused my face to contort like one of those scary denture-less old ladies you see in the hospital wearing the backless gown wandering down the hallway trying to remember where she parked her Buik, then I spit them into the sink and threatened to lick the shag carpet to eliminate the memory of the unfortunate assault on my taste buds. We decided those berries might not be ripe enough, and chose darker berries for taste test number two, and dude what the hell, those were bitter too. We threw away the bag.

Fast forward to the following year, and my aunt invites us to join her for Thanksgiving dinner. Like a gracious guest who is relieved not be saddled with the burden of cooking for eight, I ask if there is anything we can bring?

Yup, you guessed it. A bag of fresh cranberries. I asked if she was sure, and the Better Half went into a lengthy diatribe about the bitter truth about cranberries. Unconvinced, she insists. Fresh. Cranberries. In. A. Bag.

Fine.

So, we show up with fresh cranberries. In a bag. My aunt tells us, oh the cranberry sauce is easy. Just follow the instructions on the bag. Better Half gives me the, you can’t turn shit into shinola eye-roll, and I think to myself, THERE WERE INSTRUCTIONS? ON THE BAG? FOR REALS? I am such an idiot.

It was easy. Sugar repairs a host of ills when it comes to cranberries. But they aren’t really ill, just misunderstood. It’s easier to make cranberry sauce from scratch than it is to coax that gelatinous glob out of the can….although homemade is ridge-free and I find that suspect.

Categories anecdotal, food
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