Jeff and the girls drove to the library last night and picked up Cake Pops. This afternoon after school, the girls decided to go through the book and flag each of the recipes they would like to try sometime soon.
When they were finished with the flags, they decided that flagging wasn’t good enough. What if the flags failed? What if I secretly removed one of the flags without telling them? (They really do believe that I spend time plotting against them.) As a back-up to their system, they decided to sit on the floor and make a list of every flagged recipe.
Meredith: Now Harper, what should we do with this list?
Harper: What do you mean?
Meredith: I think we need to put it in a secret place so Mommy doesn’t throw it in the trash.
Harper: Let’s have a secret meeting in our room to figure out where to put the list so Mommy doesn’t destroy it.
So, here I sit. I have no idea where the list is. But I know one thing: I’ve removed all of the flags from the book, and if I find that list I’m going to RIP IT TO SHREDS!
Yep. Kidding.
I just received word that one of my book clubs has chosen Agatha Christie’s “Murder on the Orient Express” for our next meeting. I couldn’t be more excited about this, because I firmly believe that these glasses make me look like someone who sits on the couch with hot tea and a mystery, and I’m ready to make it happen. The only thing needed to complete the scene is snow. Bring it.
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I am pleased to report that the door man arrived at 10:00 this morning. Five hours later? New door. And, because it’s a small world after all, I learned that he also vacationed in Jackson Hole over the summer. (He did it the hardcore way—with camping supplies. We went the route of delicate flowers. We all put our pants on one leg at a time.)
The library just called. My copy of Cake Pops is ready to be picked up. I reserved this book nearly six months ago, and it’s arriving just in time for me to leave on our trip. Here’s hoping I have time to put together at least one batch of balls before the weekend. (That link doesn’t sound like it’s totally safe, but it is. Gutterhead.)
I just broke a vase by accidentally slamming another vase into it. Survival of the Fittest Vase is playing out in my kitchen sink, all because I still haven’t adjusted completely to my glasses. Watch out! I might be driving to the grocery store tonight! We’re out of milk, you see, and the Oberweis guy won’t be here until 10:00 tomorrow morning. If you follow that link, you’ll notice that Oberweis is trying to make me (and you) buy some of their egg nog. I’ve had egg nog once in my life, and that was back in college at a dean’s Christmas party. I don’t handle alcohol very well. Also, I’m intolerant of lactose. I do remember wearing a very cute skirt to that party, but that’s pretty much where the good memories end.
If you know me at all, you know that I’m pretty relaxed. I occasionally get ruffled, but it’s nothing that a five minute goofy typed rant won’t solve. AND, best of all, 89.73% of my rants end without confrontation or consequence, and then I’m back to baking a potato or folding laundry or whatever. Okay.
Last winter, it snowed. You might be wondering where that sentence came from, so let me elaborate. It snowed, which means the temperature was sort of cold, which means our front door wouldn’t open without a significant amount of force. One particularly cold morning, Jeff left to go to work and he closed the door behind him. Twenty minutes later, when the girls and I tried to leave so we could drive Meredith to school, I couldn’t open the front door. I pulled and tugged and kicked it (you know, to loosen it up) for nearly ten minutes with no luck. The only way we could get out of the house involved walking through nearly eight inches of unshoveled snow from the back door around the side of the house to the garage. (We don’t have a door that leads from the house directly to the garage. We’ll talk about that charming feature some other time. Actually, let’s get it out there right now. The people who built the house forgot to put the garage on until after the house was built. Because of this, our kitchen has a big lovely window that looks directly out into the garage. (Our neighbors love that story.))
Anyway, after picking both kids up and carrying them to the garage so they wouldn’t get all wet (I am Superman, and I know what’s happening), I locked the back door and we drove to school. During the drive home, it occurred to me that I don’t have a key to get into the house through the back door. (I didn’t then. I do now.) My mind EXPLODED and I called my dad.
Me: So, yeah. I can’t get into my house through the front door even though that door is UNLOCKED, and I can’t get in through the back door because I DON’T HAVE A KEY FOR THE BACK DOOR and Jeff is in a meeting so now Harper and I HAVE TO SIT IN THE GARAGE ALL DAY!
Dad: If you can wait thirty minutes, I’ll come up and get the front door open.
Me: I can’t wait thirty minutes. I’m kicking the door down.
Dad: Do NOT kick the door down. I’m on my way.
I parked the car in the driveway, stomped up to the front door like Henry Rollins would, and kicked it down. And I didn’t just kick the door down, I became a prime candidate for one of those trashy late-night cop shows by going all Van Damme 360 Spinning Kick Compilation! on it. (I kept my shirt on.)
Five minutes later, Harper and I were drinking hot chocolate and baking muffins or something similarly hypotensive. The only consequence of my rant? I sort of screwed up the door and ruined the door frame. This resulted in over one thousand dollars worth of damage because our door is not a standard sized door (who knew?!), and that’s so crazy because Paul, I think I told you, I’m a lover—not a fighter! My dad came over, fed me a big spoonful of I Wish You Wouldn’t Have Done This, and repaired the door as best as he could.
Tomorrow we get a new front door. It’s infused with the calming scents of lavender and jasmine, and if I approach it at a speed that exceeds three miles per hour, it will belt out this beautiful song, which will either reduce me to tears or put me to sleep. Everything’s under control. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
I almost forgot to post today. So there you go. Let’s see.
I got up this morning at around 8:00 with the deepest pillow wrinkle my cheek has ever seen. (It is now nearly 7:00 in the evening, and the pillow wrinkle is still there. Please don’t tell me to drink more water. I know.) Um, I went on a cardigan hunt with my mom and ended up with something red with sort of a funky neckline, if I may use the word funky without sounding like a complete tool. I ate some pesto.
All of that is boring, but this I love: Last year I knitted a baby hat for Meredith’s kindergarten teacher, who was about to go on her maternity leave. She called this afternoon to tell me that the hat was lost today, and she was wondering if I would be able to make another. This is exactly why I knit. I am now working on replacing that little boy’s hat, and am doing it knowing that the mom loves the hat and the baby wears the hat. (This is rare in the world of knitted gifts! Am I right, Knitters?!) Excellent. (And because I am who I am, I’m going to throw in an extra hat in Christmas colors! It’s coming, People. And because it’s coming, I just spent nearly thirty minutes putting together my holiday Facebook profile photo. I’m an expert at the wasting of time.)
Despite the girls’ weirdness with coughing and stomach ailments, the parent/teacher conferences went surprisingly well. In fact, both girls left the elementary school feeling ultra-confident and super-smart, and the moment we got into the car Meredith took the opportunity to judge MY performance.
Meredith: Mom, I think we should talk about YOUR report card. You’re sort of mean.
Harper: And immature.
Me: If you think *I’m* mean and immature, how do you feel about Daddy?
Harper: Well, we’re ALL a little IMMATURE. Even the cats.
Me: Wait. So, I’m the only mean one in the house?
Meredith: You just need to learn how to offer us more choices. Like if we’re fighting, instead of yelling at us, you should say, “Okay. Here are your choices. You can either keep fighting, or we can go out for ice cream.”
Today, because there is no school, Jeff is home from work, and I quietly confessed to being headache-free with the new glasses: Meredith is trudging around the house with a puke bowl, and a feverish Harper is still coughing as if she has taken up a fairly severe smoking habit. We’ve canceled all weekend plans and have decided to hunker down with a heavy dose of liquids, stomach-friendly foods, and couch time. (Meanwhile, Jeff is cleaning out the basement. Superman.)
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Today was an early dismissal day at school. As I type this post, Harper is on one couch with a sore throat and a cough. Meredith is on the other couch with a stomachache. I have canceled my plan to go to my book club this evening, and am currently trying my hardest to not be a bit bummed out. Hrm. I suppose if they’re going to get sick, I’d much rather they get sick now and not when we’re headed out to Disney World. AND, it’s the beginning of a three day weekend! The perfect time for illness! Whee! This is a GOOD thing.
I’m feeling a phantom buzzing sensation thing in my left thigh at the exact location where I carry my phone. SO, I keep grabbing for my phone, and no one is there. My phone is not vibrating. My leg is vibrating. It’s doing it right now, actually. Also, and I’m not going to say this very loudly, but: My headache, at this moment in time, is gone. The receptionist at my eye doctor’s office was quick to sing songs about how “90% of headaches are NOT caused by eye-related issues, but I’ll go ahead and set up an appointment.” During the appointment, after hearing me drone on about my head, the doctor (whose glass appears to be half-full) said, “Well, 10% of headaches are actually caused by eye-related issues!” Anyway. I haven’t yet started to knit a pair of socks for him, but I’m starting to feel the urge. 48 hours with the new glasses, and my almost eight week old headache feels like it’s gone. I doubt that’s a coincidence.
I haven’t had meat for nearly five months. However, if Jon Hamm were to show up and ask me to share a kielbasa tray with him? I’d grab the mustard (obviously) and dig right in. I wouldn’t share a kielbasa tray with just anyone, mind you. Jon Hamm is my current “Screw the vegetarianism, it’s time for Eastern European sausage!” guy. (Incidentally, he grew up less than ten miles away from where I live right now. My current local honey is his childhood local honey. (I’m not talking about Jeff. I’m talking about bees.))
I shall now drink hot tea and telepathically transfer the healing properties to my kids. Can I get a Lapsang Souchong?!
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Just so you know, this morning I took vinegar and a cotton ball to a pair of shoes that had grown moldy on the inside. I did NOT make a video of it. (You’re welcome.) I’m still a bit bewildered/disgusted by the whole idea of Mold in the Shoe, and when I tried to find information on the internet by searching for “Mold in my Dansko”, I discovered that I am the first person to ever be willing to discuss this problem publicly. Anyway, the vinegar sucked it up, and everything is back to normal.
Someone sent an e-mail asking about the brand of glasses I’m now wearing. Interestingly enough (to 3% of you, maybe), they’re Eco, also known as Earth Conscious Optics. The model number is 1030, and because they’re made of recyclable materials, I fully expect them to start decomposing on my face sometime in the next few months. Next year at this time, they’ll have reduced themselves to a monocle, and suddenly, top-hatted and with a wrinkled outer shell, I’ll invite you to come over and eat peanuts with me.
We’ve once again reached that time where the school asks parents to bring in food for the parent/teacher conferences. Last year I fell down and threw a pan of brownies across the parking lot. This year I took the easy way out: Two sausage/cheese plates and a box of Ritz crackers. (The local grocery store calls this particular combination “Nibbler Tray! Carb Diet Delight!” which is sort of embarrassing and sort of awesome depending on my mood.)
When I got home from delivering the food to the school, I quickly surveyed my refrigerator to see if we had anything else the teachers might be interested in. The newsletter was pretty specific: The teachers prefer items tailored to the Grab and Go style of eating. I quickly cleaned out the bottom shelf and labeled everything to appear as delightful as the Nibbler Tray.
“Meatballs from The Puddings’ Tuesday! Fifteen were made! Only six were eaten! Refresh your inner man!”
“These three sweet pickles are older than a certain kindergarten student named Harper! Gormandize!”
“This is part of a tater tot casserole, which actually seemed like a good idea at the time! Take sustenance!”
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So, a few years back I kicked off NaBloPoMo with a video representing a day in the life of me.
This morning I decided to try it again. (Funny how two years have passed, yet I’m still (pretty much) the same, Bob Seger.)
(In case you’re not a fan of nonsensical silent movies (ah, but it’s not silent with Sondre Lerche playing in the background, is it?!), here is my commentary: I ate some bean soup, I got my first Scout’s Swag yarn club shipment in the mail, I decided to determine if a new smile is needed to go with my new glasses, I knitted part of an owl cozy, I ate one of my final Mihow Pepper Pops, I read a book written by a local favorite, and I enjoyed a mid-afternoon condiment. AND, the day is still young. World? Oyster.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
In about ninety minutes, I’ll be attending my new book club, which means I now belong to two book clubs. (If you’re curious about my other book club (and I know you are because you’re still reading), please know that we’re meeting on Thursday to discuss The Corrections, and no. I still haven’t finished The Corrections. But don’t give up on me just yet.) Anyway, I’m standing strong in my belief that one can never have too many book clubs.
Today’s book club will be discussing Still Alice by Lisa Genova. I didn’t read it, either, but I DID listen to the audio book (unabridged!) and it was actually read by the author, which is often such a mistake, but not in this case, because: So Many Medical Terms, and this particular author is a neuroscientist. Spoiler Alert! (Not really.) Alice (who really is Still Alice, hence the title) tries to make white chocolate bread pudding in the book, and that’s EXACTLY what I’m trying to do right now, because I’m nothing if not relevant.
In about fifteen minutes I’ll be melting a bunch of Ghirardelli white chocolate into a pot of simmering whipping cream. That’s what I call sauce. (Incidentally, that’s what Epicurious calls sauce, too. I’m using their recipe.)
