Short-lived Obsessions

Why do I watch these at work?????

2012-03-07T21:23:00.003-08:00

Okay. I can't tell you more about this link than this:

Get tissues.

Watch it. Watch it until the very end. No, seriously.

I watched it four times and cried.

Every.
Single.
Time.

Yeah, I'm a dog person. But how can you not love a story like this?

Go. Watch. Call me later.

Sometimes, they speak.

2012-03-05T19:59:00.002-08:00

Sent by VNP

2012-03-05T07:25:00.000-08:00

Very Nice Person and I are still cordial, and as such, we do exchange text messages and chat now and again. This is from VNP, as he credits and/or blames me for getting him hooked on hockey.
See? That's his little hand in the corner. He saw this and had to send it to me immediately, giggling madly as he did.

I never really thought of limited diversity in the fan base, but I did recognize that the vast majority of players are caucasian. While there wasn't a lot of racial diversity in hockey in the past, this is certainly changing. Wikipedia lists the following players [past and future] as having black and African heritage:

Past
Names in italics have won the Stanley Cup. If known, the player's heritage will be identified.
[Players with at least one game of NHL or WHA experience who have retired, or who are no longer playing with an NHL affiliate team.]
Forwards
Darren Banks - Left Wing (Boston Bruins)
Donald Brashear (Bi-racial), Left Wing: (Montreal Canadiens, Vancouver Canucks, Philadelphia Flyers, Washington Capitals, New York Rangers, Atlanta Thrashers)
Anson Carter (Barbadian) - Right Wing: (Boston Bruins, Washington Capitals, Edmonton Oilers, New York Rangers, Los Angeles Kings, Carolina Hurricanes, Vancouver Canucks, Columbus Blue Jackets)
John Craighead- Right Wing (Toronto Maple Leafs)
Dale Craigwell - Centre (San Jose Sharks)
Nigel Dawes (Bi-racial, Jamaican), Left Wing: (New York Rangers, Phoenix Coyotes, Calgary Flames, Atlanta Thrashers, Montreal Canadiens)
Steven Fletcher Left Wing (Montreal Canadiens, Winnipeg Jets)
Dirk Graham (Bi-racial, Afro-Canadian) - Right Wing (Minnesota North Stars, Chicago Blackhawks)
Mike Grier (African American), Right Wing: (Edmonton Oilers, Washington Capitals, San Jose Sharks, Buffalo Sabres)
Val James (first African American and first native-born Floridian to play in the NHL) - Left Wing (Buffalo Sabres, Toronto Maple Leafs)
Brian Johnson - Right Wing (Detroit Red Wings)
Nathan LaFayette - Centre (St. Louis Blues, Vancouver Canucks, New York Rangers, Los Angeles Kings)
Georges Laraque (Haitian), Right Wing: (Edmonton Oilers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Phoenix Coyotes, Montreal Canadiens)
Darren Lowe (Afro-Canadian) - Right Wing (Pittsburgh Penguins)
Mike Marson- Forward (Washington Capitals, Los Angeles Kings)
Craig Martin (Afro-Canadian) - Forward (Winnipeg Jets, Florida Panthers)
Sandy McCarthy (Bi-racial, Afro-Canadian ) - Right Wing (Calgary Flames, Tampa Bay Lightning, Philadelphia Flyers, Carolina Hurricanes, New York Rangers, Boston
Bruins)
Mike McHugh- Left Wing (Minnesota North Stars, San Jose Sharks)
Tony McKegney (Afro-Canadian; first black player to participate in a full season) Forward (Buffalo Sabres, Quebec Nordiques, Minnesota North Stars, New York Rangers, St. Louis Blues, Detroit Red Wings, Chicago Blackhawks)
Sean McMorrow- Forward (Buffalo Sabres)
Ray Neufeld Right Wing (Hartford Whalers, Winnipeg Jets, Boston Bruins)
Willie O'Ree (Afro-Canadian, first black player to appear in an NHL game)
- Right Wing (Boston Bruins)
Bill Riley (Afro-Canadian) - Wing (Washington Capitals, Winnipeg Jets)
Nathan Robinson, Forward: (Detroit Red Wings, Boston Bruins)
Bernie Saunders -Right Wing (Quebec Nordiques)
Reggie Savage - Right Wing (Washington Capitals, Quebec Nordiques)
Graeme Townshend (Jamaican) - Right Wing (Boston Bruins, New York Islanders, Ottawa Senators)
Claude Vilgrain (Haitian) - Right Wing (Vancouver Canucks, New Jersey Devils, Philadelphia Flyers)
Alton White (Afro-Canadian; first black player to score a major league hat trick)
- Right Wing (New York Raiders, Los Angeles Sharks , Michigan Stags , Baltimore Blades) .
Peter Worrell (Barbadian) -Left Wing (Florida Panthers, Colorado Avalanche)

Defensemen
Shawn Belle: (Minnesota Wild, Montreal Canadiens, Edmonton Oilers, Colorado Avalanche)
Sean Brown- Defense (Edmonton Oilers, Boston Bruins, New Jersey Devils, Vancouver Canucks)
Jason Doig, (Jamaican Canadian)- Defense (Winnipeg Jets, Phoenix Coyotes, New York Rangers, Washington Capitals)
Jean-Luc Grand-Pierre (Haitian) - Defense (Buffalo Sabres, Columbus Blue
Jackets, Washington Capitals, Atlanta Thrashers)
Paul Jerrard (Bi-racial, Jamaican) - Defense (Minnesota North Stars)
Rumun Ndur (Nigerian Canadian) - Defense (Buffalo Sabres, New York Rangers, Atlanta Thrashers)

Goaltenders
Fred Brathwaite (Barbadian) (Edmonton Oilers, Calgary Flames, St. Louis Blues, Columbus Blue Jackets)
Gerald Coleman (Tampa Bay Lightning)
Grant Fuhr (Afro-Canadian; first black player inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame and the first to win the Stanley Cup) (Edmonton Oilers, Toronto Maple Leafs, Buffalo Sabres, Los Angeles Kings, St. Louis Blues, Calgary Flames)
Joaquin Gage (Edmonton Oilers)
Tyrone Garner(Calgary Flames)
Pokey Reddick (Winnipeg Jets, Edmonton Oilers, Florida Panthers)
Kevin Weekes (Barbadian) (Florida Panthers, Vancouver Canucks, New York Islanders, Tampa Bay Lightning, Carolina Hurricanes, New York Rangers, New Jersey Devils)

and

Active
Names in italics have won the Stanley Cup. If known, the player's heritage will be identified.
[Players with at least one game of NHL experience currently playing in the NHL or on an affiliate team.]

Forwards
Paul Bissonnette (Bi-racial), Left Wing: (Pittsburgh Penguins, Phoenix Coyotes)
Robbie Earl (African American), Left Wing: (Minnesota Wild, Toronto Maple Leafs)
Jarome Iginla (Bi-racial, Nigerian), Right Wing: (Calgary Flames)
Evander Kane (Afro-Canadian), Center/Left Wing (Atlanta Thrashers, Winnipeg
Jets)
Greg Mauldin (African American), Right Wing: (Columbus Blue Jackets, Ottawa Senators, New York Islanders, Colorado Avalanche)
JamalMayers (Bi-racial), Left Wing: (St. Louis Blues, Toronto Maple Leafs, Calgary Flames, San Jose Sharks, Chicago Blackhawks)
Kenndal McArdle, Left Wing: (Florida Panthers, Winnipeg Jets)
Kyle Okposo (Bi-racial, Nigerian), Right Wing: (New York Islanders)
Ryan Reaves, Right Wing: (St. Louis Blues)
Wayne Simmonds,Right Wing: (Los Angeles Kings, Philadelphia Flyers)
Devante Smith-Pelly,Left Wing: (Anaheim Ducks)
Anthony Stewart, (Bi-racial, Jamaican) Centre: (Florida Panthers, Atlanta Thrashers, Carolina Hurricanes)
Chris Stewart, (Bi-racial, Jamaican) Right Wing: (Colorado Avalanche, St. Louis Blues)
Joel Ward (Barbadian), Right Wing: (Nashville Predators, Washington Capitals),

Defensemen
Francis Bouillon (Bi-racial, Haitian): (Montreal Canadiens, Nashville Predators)
Dustin Byfuglien (Bi-racial, African American), Right Wing/Defenseman: (Chicago Blackhawks, Atlanta Thrashers, Winnipeg Jets)
Trevor Daley: (Dallas Stars)
Maxime Fortunus (Haitian): (Dallas Stars)
Mark Fraser : (New Jersey Devils, Anaheim Ducks)
DerekJoslin: (San Jose Sharks, Carolina Hurricanes)
Johnny Oduya (Bi-racial, Kenyan): (New Jersey Devils, Atlanta Thrashers, Winnipeg
Jets, Chicago Blackhawks)
Theo Peckham (Bi-racial): (Edmonton Oilers)
Bryce Salvador (Bi-racial): (St. Louis Blues, New Jersey Devils)
P. K. Subban (Jamaican and Montserratian): (Montreal Canadiens)

Goaltenders
Chris Beckford-Tseu (Bi-racial, Jamaican) (St. Louis Blues, Florida Panthers)
Ray Emery (Afro-Canadian): (Ottawa Senators, Philadelphia Flyers, Anaheim Ducks, Chicago Blackhawks)

Diversity is happening in hockey, all right. This list doesn't include hockey players of Asian or Middle Eastern descent, either. And while I don't foresee the NHL crossing the gender barrier in my lifetime, maybe that will happen, too.

Okay, maybe not. But I would love to see a 275 pound, 6'9" woman beat Zdeno Chara into a meringue. I can dream.

"We do exist...." Heh. Good one, VNP. Good one.

Are you sitting down???

2012-03-03T19:07:00.002-08:00

Roommate and I were out and about this afternoon and decided to grab some food. Being the kind and giving person she is, Roommate agreed to check out a teriyaki and sushi place we haven't tried yet, as I was jonesing for sushi.

Now, none of this is even slightly surprising, is it, dear invisible friend? Neither is the fact that Roommate ordered chicken teriyaki without salad while I ordered two pieces of tuna nigiri, a tuna roll and a dragon roll.

Hey, I was hungry. Don't judge.

Anyway, the nice people at the restaurant brought us our food and it was exactly what we'd ordered. The teriyaki was pretty good. The sushi wasn't terrible at all. I poured soy sauce into the tiny dish next to my array of fishy goodness and stirred in my usual mondo glob of wasabi as Roommate worked on a few bites of chicken.

And then it happened.

Roommate, who does not, as a rule, eat off of other people's plates, reached out her fork and [wait for it] snagged a piece of my tuna roll. After a cautious sniff, she...

...ate a piece of sushi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, she hated it, of course. But she tried it!

I couldn't be more shocked or impressed or...

Hello?

Helloooo!

Oh, dear. I do believe you've fainted.

A Good Purchase

2012-02-28T06:51:00.005-08:00

Generally speaking, shopping at antique and thrift stores is an exercise in uncertainty. One never knows what stock will be available, and if one leaves something behind, it's not likely one will find it again. I became reacquainted with this universal truth just recently, when I didn't buy a cookbook at a local thrift store.

It wasn't there when I went back. Dammit.

So when I stumbled across this:

I knew I would regret not buying it. Oh, I tried not buying it. I put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then...well, you see where this is going. But eventually, I bought the cookbook and brought it home.

And then Roommate put it tidily away and it took me two weeks to find it.

Anyway. Find it I did and, while skimming through the recipes, I stumbled across a tiny, shining gem of a recipe. It's called "Oat and Sesame Biscuits."

NB: The author, Margaret Briggs, taught school in the UK and Germany for thirty years before publishing this and other books like "Vinegar: 1001 Practical Uses. [I know.] We can safely assume, therefore, that Maggie, bless her heart, means the cookie version of the term biscuits rather than the "and gravy" type.

And! Evidently, Mag-a-rooney, as I just felt like calling her, just had to publish this treatise on all the oat's majesty and wonder. Not only could she not keep the wealth of knowledge of the history of porridge and proper spurtle etiquette to herself, she obviously had way too much time on her hands despite buying and restoring a "dilapidated house in SW France" with her husband, Lol. No, that's his name. Lol. Seriously.

You can't make this crap up.

Anyway. Back to the biscuits.

This recipe has a remarkably brief ingredient list:

Oats,
sesame seeds,
brown sugar and
cooking oil.

The method is as follows:

1. Roast the sesame seeds in a dry pan until golden.
2. Put oats, sesame seeds, brown sugar and cooking oil in a bowl and leave for one hour.
3. Add the beaten egg--

Wait a minute. What beaten egg? Upon closer examination of the four item ingredient list, I see no eggs, beaten or otherwise. Is it one egg that's needed? Is it two eggs? Is it one egg, beaten, but only half used? It is a brown egg? A green egg? An Easter egg?

I really want to call the author of this cookbook and say, "Mags! Babe! What the hell, man???" Sadly, I do not have her phone number. Possibly this is for the best. I'd hate to interrupt critical vinegar use. In a formerly dilapidated French house. With Lol.

You can't make this crap up.

Led Astray. Again.

2012-02-27T09:03:00.003-08:00

On Thursday evening, Roommate and I went to visit our personal trainer/sadist again. Did I mention that her name is Sandi? With an i? Possibly a little heart over it?

Yeah.

Anyway, Sandi, PT/S, was particularly gleeful that Roommate and I were in no small amount of pain even before her regularly scheduled torture session. Roommate told her happily that we'd worked out three times that week already. [I have no idea why Roommate is so happy about this. She may actually be broken.]

My lack of blogging becomes understandable, doesn't it? I was far too busy moaning and kvetching to type. Plus, it really, really hurt.

And then--then!!!--Roommate had to go and blab about my promise to Mr. Man. Mr. Man is my ridiculously dreamy-hot Swedish friend. My insanely fit, ridiculously hot, absurdly intelligent, incredibly focused Swedish friend. I promised...

Sigh. I can't believe I did this.

I promised to jog a mile.

I know!!!!! No, I haven't a clue what I was thinking. Okay, maybe I was distracted by the hotness. But come on! A mile. ME!!! Was he deranged to insist upon it? Was I drunk when I caved?

And Sandi, PT/S, was delighted. Delighted. No, more delighted than that. More than that, even. Okay, not that much. But close. And then she stopped and said, "Why did you agree to run when he asked you and not when I did?"

C'mon, Sandi. Really? Think about it. Hotness. I told her, "Because I have no hope of ever sleeping with you."

Not that I'll ever sleep with Mr. Man. But a woman can dream, can't she? Sleeping with Mr. Man is as unrealistic as my pathetic attempt to jog a mile on Sunday. No, I did not succeed. I traveled a mile, in a combination of walking and jogging, but sadly, I did not fulfill my promise. And everything that hurt before really, really, REALLY hurts now.

NB: When a military guy tries to tell you that pain is just weakness leaving the body, he's full of crap. In case you needed to know this.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Ow. Even sighing hurts now. Gah!

I blame the hotness.

The patient giggled.

2012-02-21T06:55:00.002-08:00

A patient asked me this morning, "Do you know why a chicken coop has only two doors?"

I thought for a moment and said, "No. Why?"

"Because if it had four doors, it'd be a sedan."

Weekend with Ted

2012-02-20T06:57:00.002-08:00

Big Head Ted came to visit this weekend. It was super. He's such a good boy, despite being 144 pounds, at last weigh in, and having toenails made of titanium. Not that he knows that he weighs 144 pounds and has toenails made of titanium. As far as he's concerned, he's the smallest dog in the house.

He and Beagle Bailey did their twin boys impression on the couch. See how small they are?
Can you blame them for getting whatever small snatches of sleep they could? They were exhausted. Bailey bow-OOOOOO-ed Ted until Ted galumphed after him, chasing each other around the living room. The seriously overcrowded and relatively small living room.

Hmm? Bow-ooo? Galumph? These are technical terms. Do feel free to ask if they confuse you, dearest.

Anyway, Bailey did not play fair, as he scuttled under furniture and through spaces far too small for Ted to fit. Ted had his revenge, of course, by bounding up and completely over armchairs and the settee to catch that sneaky beagle as he appeared on the other side. They had a marvelous time.

It is no small miracle that the house is still standing.

Ted is very likely part German Shepherd Dog, possibly mixed with mastodon. He, however, has no clue that he may well be a descendant of one the toughest breeds in the world.

Unless it's that last picture. He can handle that.

Ted. Small dog in a really big package.

In case anyone wondered:

2012-02-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

Daytime. Daytime Theraflu.

Ahem.

LIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We have a winner!

2012-02-15T13:11:00.000-08:00

Champion Palacegarden Malachy. Pekingese. Winner, Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, 2012. See, I don't mind the pekingese winning. I don't. But then, I was delighted with the footstool from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," so maybe I'm not the person to ask.
A lovely group of pet owners have an email circle, to with I was invited fairly recently. While there wasn't an actual hue and cry that went up over the best-in-show decision, there were a few mutters. And this was posted:
Okay, so there's a slight resemblance. But come on! How can you not love that little face??? That ridiculous, goateed, old-eastern-European-man-eyebrowed face?

You just laughed, didn't you? You just thought of someone who looks just like this dog. I know. It slays me, too.

But still, there was a general air of disgruntlement from a few quarters. I did try to offer my support by saying this:

I do like the walking footstool, but I understand your disappointment. I'm
disappointed every time a terrier doesn't win best in show. I think a terrier
should ALWAYS win best in show. And if a terrier doesn't win best in show, the
winner should have some terrier in its background. And if the winner doesn't
have some terrier in its background, it should have some terrier-like traits or
behaviors. And if it doesn't have terrier-like traits or behaviors, it should be
friends with a terrier and hang out with a terrier as often as possible.

'Cause I like terriers. You know. A little.

Shrug. I think I have to view this as I did the 2011 Stanley Cup finals.

Next year!!! We'll take it next year!!!

Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T18:09:00.000-08:00

This is not my wee beastie, but oh! Does this dog have it right! HRHTM would totally love these candy hearts.

In regards to my Valentine's Day, I spent some quality time this morning with my valentines, AKA the dogs. Yes, yes, I did. Because last night, around midnight, my Fabulous Neighbor called. FN had gone to the walk-in clinic with Roommate for several hours earlier that evening; she was very unwell.

"I have something to tell you," she said, "but you can't freak out."

I clamped down the lock on the freak-out button in my brain and said, "Okay."

"You won't freak out?"

"I won't freak out. What's going on?"

FN took a deep breath. "I'm having chest pain and heaviness in my chest."

"Okay," I said calmly. "Then we're going to the ER."

It was the best Valentine's Day ever. Hearts. Okay, cardiac testing, but close enough. Flowers. Sent by FN's daughter. And, considering that the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show was on last night and is finishing up tonight, none of which I will see due to our time in the ER, tremendous acts of love. The four hours of sleep I got with the dogs was merely the ribbon on the package.

Ah, love. What a beautiful thing. Happy Valentine's Day.

In Search Of...!!

2012-02-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

Do you remember that show? I think it was Leonard Nimoy who hosted it, and the point was to seek out the magical and mysterious of this world. I think it needs to be redone. I think we need to go in search of...

...Roommate's Dream Guy.

Not that Roommate spends a lot of time dwelling on this. I, however, do.

Just so you know, dear invisible one, Roommate's guy is going to be called Nick. That might not be his name. But that's what I'm going to call him. Why, yes! I will tell you why.

See, Roommate likes to watch the ghost hunting shows. I, myself, am creeped out by them, but she enjoys them. Quite a lot, actually. One of her favorites is "Ghost Adventures."
This show features three clever fellows named Zack, Aaron and Nick. Yes, Nick!

NB: This Nick is not Roommate's Nick. In case there was confusion. After all, if this Nick were Roommate's Nick, there'd be no need to go....In Search Of....!!!! We'd already know where he is. Just saying.

Anyway. In "Ghost Adventures," Zack, Aaron and Nick go into buildings that are believed to be haunted. Yes. Willingly. After a brief tour, they wait until dark and allow themselves to be---wait for it---locked inside the building. Yes. Willingly!! Then, rocket scientists that they are, they walk around this seriously creeptastic building [oftentimes an abandoned mental asylum, where patients were tortured and neglected, thus creating seriously pissed-off ghosts] trying to irritate the spirits stuck there.

Oy.

And! As if this didn't scare the bejesus out of everyone enough, Nick is invariably sent someplace ultra-creepy. Like the morgue. Where he's occasionally locked into the dead-body-holding thing. No, I don't know what it's called. I do know it's a bad idea. And Zack and Aaron usually end up running around scary building du jour, shouting "NICK! NICK!!"

I help matters, from my spot on the couch, only my eyes peeping over my blanket, by shouting along, "NICK! NICK!!" Thanks to all the shouting, mine included, Nick is located and brought back to relative safety with his buddies. Brilliant creatures that they are.

Now what, you may be wondering, does this have to do with Roommate's Dream Guy? My feeling is, as he walks down the aisle after marrying Roommate, he will be embarking on the greatest adventure of his life. It's only fitting that I shout "NICK! NICK!!" at him as they pass. He might not be facing ghosts, but he will be entering in on a union of two souls, and all baggage therein, that will undoubtedly include family drama, work headaches, excessive couponing, beagles and...

...Me.

Hmm. Maybe the angry ghosts would be easier.

How nice is that???

2012-02-12T19:51:00.000-08:00

Roommate, in the words of a fairly memorable Saturday Night Live skit, "has been berry, berry good to me." Not only did she run to the store--twice--for ingredients for me on Saturday, but she came home with lobster tails and asparagus, which made it into tonight's dinner. How nice, you might be thinking...but what makes this particularly kind?

Well...

Roommate isn't fond of shellfish. And she loathes asparagus.

Yeah, more for me, I know. But she buys this stuff because she knows I love it; knowing, too, that she will be served food with this stuff in it. Except the asparagus. Nothing is going to force Roommate to eat asparagus. Don't ask her. She won't do it. And glaring will ensue if you try.

Word to the wise: Don't try.

Roommate was also left unattended at our latest Weight Watchers meeting and bought this for me:

I don't think the people at Weight Watchers intended it for making cakes, cookies, pies and other naughties, but we're not telling them. Keep it under your hat, would you?

Roommate. What a good egg she is. I'm really going to miss her when she finally gets sick of my crap and moves out.

New Shoes!

2012-02-07T07:14:00.001-08:00

Brace yourself, dearest invisible friend. I have BIG news.

I went shopping.

I know!!! It's not my talent. It's not even enjoyable for me. It's usually something I do only when absolutely necessary, when I look at my clothing or shoes and realize that whatever it was originally, it's now just a mass of thread held together by habit or luck. And I know I shouldn't put it off as long as I do. I know it makes me look sloppy. But I hate shopping.

It depresses me. I hate looking at myself in the mirror, wearing something that doesn't fit or doesn't look good. I hate looking at the things that I think are so pretty, but I cannot wear. And I HATE spending the money on this stuff!! Do you know how many books I could buy with that money? Or cooking/baking equipment? Or hell, sushi dinners?

But, as per usual, I've veered off topic. It's a good thing I don't drive the way I blog.

My dear friend Carla, whose birthday it is today, was an excellent shopping mentor. Actually, she was an excellent shopping enforcer. She would shove me into the dressing room, ignore the whining, and throw clothes over the door. Then she would tell me what to buy. I loved that.

BUT! This past weekend, Roommate and I went shopping with her mom. AND Macy's had shoes on clearance. AND my work shoes were looking a wee bit ragged. So these are my new work shoes:
Not terrible, right? Not like my photography skills. Which are abysmal. But I bought them. They fit. They're useful and sensible. And they were on clearance!!!

Since I was looking at work shoes, I glanced over at a pair that looks like these:

Hm. They didn't set my world on fire. I couldn't really use them for work. But I did need a pair of non-work shoes to wear while being tortured by the tiny blonde sadist [personal trainer] and the hideous Brazilian Butt guy.

Meh.

But it was sensible. If I'm going to do this wretched exercise thing, then I have to plan for it. I have to have the necessary equipment for it. And even though that equipment consists mainly of sweats, shoes and the floor of my living room, all three pieces are fairly important.

But...they were on clearance, too, which eased the sting a little. Sigh. It's sensible. It's necessary. It's logic in action.

And that's as long as that behavior lasted.

Because then Roommate and I both tried on these:

Oh, yeah. No logic here. I can't wear them to work. Roommate made it through an hour in them yesterday at her job before switching to her new flats. I almost never go out enough to justify owning them, or co-owning them with Roommate, since we wear the same size shoe. These shoes make zero sense.

But these shoes live at my house now.

And strangely, despite their ridiculous height and complete lack of support...I feel no sting at all.

Heh.

Why are these people smiling????

2012-02-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

Roommate is no longer allowed to watch infomercials.

Okay, that's crap. I can't control her or her choices of television entertainment---yes, infomercials do so count as entertainment---and I certainly can't stop her from purchasing things like...

This:
Yes, it's the marvelous, magnificent, magical Brazilian Butt Lift!!!!!

Well. Roommate is who she is, after all. How could she resist this? This is the same person, if we recall, who hired a personal trainer for us. On purpose. And she does love to shop, even if it is via the TV. And look! Look! Look at all the neat-o stuff that came with this new and exciting torture device!!!

Oh, it's the Brazilian Butt Lift exercise system! My former coworker Paula, a revoltingly hot blonde Brazilian herself, was wildly amused by our experiences with this. [NB: The term used in Brazilian Portugese to name the bottom is bum-bum. That's pronounced boom-boom, not buhm-buhm. Mispronunciation of this term may cause wine to shoot out of the nose of nearest Brazililan.]

Six fabulous workout DVDs, a booklet on foods that "burn fat," a supermodel six-day slimdown plan, travel workout cards, a tape measure, exercise bands and a pencil! Yes. A pencil. For performing the pencil test.

Hm? Oh! The pencil test. Well, it's a clever and low-tech method of determining how rotten one ought to feel about one's body, particularly one's derriere. The idea is to place the pencil at the point that butt connects to thigh. If the butt cheek holds the pencil in place, one may safely conclude that her butt is horribly oversized and adversely affected by gravity.

I, myself, do not feel the need to perform the pencil test. I have eyes, after all, and can see the land mass that is my rear end. And frankly, if I put a pencil in that region of my body, we may never see said pencil again. That's like sending a plane into the Bermuda Triangle. During a storm. On Friday the 13th.

Anyway. Roommate has used this "exercise system" three times already. I have participated, whining and yowling the whole way, twice. Twice. Let me tell you, darling invisible friend, that our personal trainer, the tiny blonde sadist, would delight in the torments this man has inflicted upon us.
He looks like a nice enough fellow, doesn't he? Yeah. He's not. Not even a little.

Because! He doesn't ever pause. EVER. It's ghastly. He's all, "Four more of these really hard and painful moves!! Three! Two! Last one-and-now-let's-do-this-other-really-hard-thing-immediately-without-taking-one-freaking-second-to-breathe!!!!"

It doesn't matter that there's a little counter on the screen, telling you that there's only eleven seconds left of the squat-down-then-reach-up-for-no-damn-good-reason move. Immediately afterward, he's going to yell at you to kick your leg out in back while simultaneously reaching upward, balancing and filing your taxes.

And the cool down? Um...

This is a pretty darn difficult yoga move, my friend. Not a freaking cool down. And ow. Ow. OW!!!

When it hurts to sit, hurts to stand, hurts to step, hurts to climb stairs, hurts to breathe, it's not an exercise system, it's a cruel and unreasonable thing. Where the hell do these people get their training to do this stuff??????????!!!!!!! Oh. Right. Of course.

Sorry.

How the game is played. I think.

2012-02-03T22:36:00.000-08:00

Oh, the joy of the Mr. Right Now dating website continues. One charming gentleman posted a few questions on his profile for potential dates to answer and earn "extra points." Points. I'm not sure how the point system works. This is a scored game? I had no idea. Are there quarters? How long do they last? Can we call a time-out for consultations with coaches? How do we handle penalties?

And is this fellow the prize? The trophy?

Hm.

Anyway. The guy posted questions. So I replied.

Okay, you asked questions in your profile and I cannot resist questions. Don't judge me. Be grateful you didn't ask about the air velocity of the laden swallow.

Anyway. Here goes:

1)Why can't women put on mascara with their mouth closed?
The act of holding our mouths open helps us hold our facial muscles still and our brows lifted sufficiently to avoid getting mascara on our faces and eyelids. If that happens, we have to take off ALL of our make-up and we won't be ready to go to dinner for at least another hour. Yeah. Suddenly, you WANT us to
open our mouths, don't you?

2) Is it possible to brush your teeth without wiggling your bottom?
It IS possible. It's just not as fun. Or entertaining. And for some of us, it counts as "exercise."

3) If corn oil is made from corn, and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, then
what is baby oil made from?
Ha! Trick question. Baby oil is deceptively named and is mostly mineral oil, with a few additives to soften and protect the skin, and fragrance to cover the aroma of diaper and spit-up. Baby lotion, however, is a whole different story. No, you don't want to know.

Hope you have a good weekend.

So. Who thinks this one will reply?

And do guys really mind the butt-wiggling thing? Really?

Shadow? What shadow?

2012-02-02T15:02:00.000-08:00

Poor hoggy. So much darn pressure.

And this is how I spend my time.

2012-02-01T07:51:00.000-08:00

To be fair--to myself, actually--if I don't occupy my time with cooking and baking until the wee hours, I have way too much time to think about my current situation. This makes me sad.

So I cook.

This is today's Soup Day spread. X-ray tech extraordinaire Vicki's oyster crackers aren't in this shot. But she brought them. We love Vicki.

Cornbread sounded good to me. And I actually had cornmeal, sitting around and looking lonely. So I used it.

And lately I've been naming my food. Remember Hans? The hot vegetarian blonde, AKA red lentil soup ? Yeah. Anyway, this is the name of the cornbread:

And I needed a safety soup, but jeeze, how many pots of lentil soup can I make before people rise up and revolt? I could eat lentil soup every day of the week, but strangely, other people do not share my delight in that lovely little seed.

Yeah, I thought it was a legume, too! But no. A seed. Whodathunkit?

Anyway, I made cheater chili. A whole lotta cans got opened for this soup. White beans. Garbanzo beans. Black beans. Tomatoes. And frozen corn. Because that's what I had. And you have to do a grain with beans to make a complete protein in vegan food. Yes, you do. Yes, you do. Go Google it.

So this is my gluten-free, vegan option of the day:

And this is what I named it:

Then I made the main soup. This soup is what happens when one persists in buying 20-25 pound turkeys for the holiday meal...for four people. One is left with eighteen containers of turkey and stock in one's freezer. But do I learn from this? NooooOOOOOooooo.

Turkey, parsnips carrots and spinach, all held together with approximately 45 pounds of nokedli. You know, the Hungarian version of spaezel. The love child of pasta and dumplings.

And as Nadia G. of "Bitchin' Kitchen" says, "Only parsnips can taste parsnippy." I think there's a lesson in there for all of us.

This soup is what grandmothers use when antibiotics aren't available. Or are too expensive. So naturally, this is its name:

Note the asterisk. Disclaimer followed.

NB: Always read the fine print.

Hey, I'm here to help.

Tongue, meet Cheek.

2012-01-31T09:45:00.000-08:00

"Since I'm going to hell anyway," I began as Maureen drove me home last night, "I really think I ought to be getting something out of it." One hears so much about selling one's soul to the devil, after all. And in my current position, I certainly feel like I'm sacrificing the majority of my time and almost all of my feelings of self-worth. Such as they are. Doesn't it follow, then, that maybe I should just do the soul-selling thing, and at least be solvent enough to leave this place?

Sadly, and inconveniently, I have no idea how one goes about selling one's soul. Google supplied this web page, but again, the actual process and contact information was excluded. [NB: I do not blame Google for this.] Another website instructs its readers on the ways of selling souls and serving the devil after doing so.

Hmm. I don't think so. I serve way too many craptastic, megalomaniacal bosses as it is. I really don't need the pile of nonsense of dealing with the war between heaven and hell. I mean, come on. Look what happened last time.

Sigh. There has got to be a better way.

Guilty Pleasure #4732

2012-01-30T16:20:00.000-08:00

Darling invisible friend, please forgive my absence. I was "on vacation." I use the dreaded quote marks because this, like every other vacation this year, was NOT good. It was the time I'd set aside to see Montreal and the Canadiens, playing in the Bell Centre, with VNP.

We know how that ended.

So I didn't cancel the vacation, wasted the time off that I'd accrued, and lumped around the house for a week. Slept late. Did a lot of laundry. Made the dogs very happy with my presence. Not that they're picky; they'd be happy with anyone who has a pulse. As long as there are cookies involved, and the occasional belly-rub, they're good to go.

I will talk at length with you about other things that happened toward the end of the week, but for now, let's talk about a minor baking activity I had on vacation: sausage rolls.
So yummy. Flaky pastry, filled with rich and spicy sausage. Popular in the British Isles and Australia, and probably many other places I wish to visit too, the sausage roll is a delightful guilty pleasure. It may sound like a pig-in-a-blanket, but it's a little different.

The sausage is of the loose variety, rather than linked. The pastry is usually of the puff variety. I made some this week for a friend and cheated horribly, using the Crescent Roll dough and Jimmy Dean hot sausage. No one seemed to mind.

What? Oh. Well, she had a memorial service to attend and asked me to make them. What is it about funerals that makes us want to eat? Anyway, she came over and was determined to help. It was adorable, watching her carefully brush each roll with egg wash. The rolls turned out glossy and golden brown and gorgeous, and I give her credit for that.

Sausage rolls. My dear friend Cherry, who is from South Africa, nearly crawled through the phone when I told her I'd made some. I foresee making some for Cherry during my next visit, I can tell you that. They're naughty and buttery and zippy and divine.

Ooo! And they're versatile. You don't have to make them with pork sausage. You can make them with beef sausage or turkey or chicken or even, for your vegan friends, with soy sausage and nondairy pastry.

I know, I know. But it makes them happy. Don't judge. And remember, the more vegan friends you have, the more steak is left for you.

Sausage rolls. Sigh.

Yum.

Theory Time

2012-01-18T07:14:00.000-08:00

So I'm here at work, just as I have been for the past two days, despite the unusual volume of snow on the ground. Tonight, the night I don't work from open until close, the walk-in clinics will all close early. Isn't that nice? Yup. Closing early.

One. Whole. Hour. Early.

I might be a teensy bit envious of this fact, and the coworker who will close tonight, but frankly, I'm a wee bit miffed---too miffed, in fact, to have any feelings other than...what's the noun? Miffedness? Miffedocity?

You know what I mean.

I'm a bit miffed at my coworkers from last night, the night we DIDN'T close early. As the x-ray tech and I sat waiting to be released [we stay until we're told by the walk-in staff that all patients are cared for and we're done] those coworkers finished their work and trooped merrily out the door. That's right. On a night of snow, of both the freshly fallen and the partially melted then frozen varieties, they forgot to let us know they [and WE] were done and could scurry home.

I'm also miffed that the "non-essential" staff were released mid-afternoon to go home. Right. Because anything I do at this non-urgent clinic is "essential?" Ah. Well. That explains my paycheck.

And I'm a trifle miffed that today, the physicians in several--excuse me, MOST departments were able to go home, but the reception, medical assistant and nursing staff were required to stay. To---wait for it---answer the phones.

All of this adds up to one simple fact: In my world, I am disposable. If my dating life didn't hammer that home well enough, my work life brought in a nail gun. An hydraulic one, at that. How delightful to realize that my traveling home safely is of absolutely no import to any of my employers! Fer chrissakes, keep the doctors and administrators safe, but the lab rats? The receptionists? The MAs and nurses? Oh, hell, they can die. We can always get new ones.

Hey, maybe this is a way for the clinic to address financial concerns! Maybe that's why they're doing this! If long-term employees die in horrible accidents, the new hires will cost a whole lot less, thus saving the clinic loads of money. And maybe most of the "non-essential" staff have signed up to be organ donors, paperwork held by the clinic and available at just the right moment, which should surely warrant a finders' fee!

Money problems solved.

It's a theory.

Weather Report

2012-01-17T08:26:00.000-08:00

This just in, from The Weather Channel's ace reporter, Chicken Little:

"The sky is actually falling."

Thought you'd like to know.

Saturday

2012-01-16T08:13:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday, Roommate had the sad task of attending her stepgrandfather's funeral; she kindly released me from accompanying her. I will admit to vast and encompassing relief, dear one, as I did not want to attend. It wasn't just my desire not to spend time with Roommate's Unfortunate Sister, who had decided not to attend, either. As she informed Roommate's mother, she had "done" her grieving and did not wish to grieve any longer.

It was, after all, all about Unfortunate Sister. Gramma would just have to suck it up and deal.

But I was still happy to have most of the day to myself, hideously selfish creature that I am. One might be forgiven for comparing me to Roommate's Unfortunate Sister. Other than the fact that I'm not actually related to Stepgrandpa. Or Gramma. Nor did I caterwaul and fling myself about to demostrate my enormous sense of loss at Stepgrandpa's passing.

But that's neither here nor there, is it?

So my Saturday was spent at home. Please allow me to reassure you, dearest, the the beagles of the household were able to rest sufficiently.

I know. It's a weight off the mind, isn't it? Don't they look exhausted? The terrier-ist, HRHTM, was unable to get quite as much sleep because she was watching the weather very closely. At first, I thought she was just staring at the Andy Warhol-esque picture of herself that Auntie Carole made for her, but I realized quickly that she was watching...
...snow.

Yes, it is that time of year again for the Greater Seattle Area. Time to race to the stores and buy out bread, milk, eggs and toilet paper. Time to freak out and cancel all appointments. Time to cause major traffic delays and freeway congestion.

To be fair, the traffic stuff happens whenever there's a Mariners games, too. Or a Seahawks game. Or anything UW-sports related. Or sunshine, that big, scary ball of fire in sky. Or rain, because, you know we don't usually get that here.

Yeah. Seattle traffic. No wonder there's so much heroin use in the place.

But the snow was pretty!

And it fell pretty fast. This was only an hour or so later.

When one considers how little snow we actually see every year, it's pretty impressive. For us. Not for people with real weather. Those people are too busy laughing hysterically right now as Seattle people prepare for "Snowmaggedon."

Snort.

But that was my Saturday. Snow falling outside, dogs snoozing inside. Four televised hockey games on in a single day and cookies baking in the oven.

Screw the beer commercials. It doesn't get much better than this.

Welcome to Obviousville

2012-01-12T09:42:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this post by saying, I am an idiot.

I started the cooking for Soup Day [today] last night at 9:30. Instead of making both soups at once, I made them one at a time, merely prepping for the second soup as the first was cooking.

This is the stuff I brought:
Yeah. I carried all of this, minus one CrockPot, plus purse and travel cup of tea, extra vats of soup and all requisite Tupperware, from the car. Because I'm an idiot.

This was what I ended up with for the first soup:

It's based on a medieval recipe that uses fresh peas, saffron, almonds and ginger. My rendition has frozen peas, faux saffron, cabbage and ginger. And some other stuff. But it's vegan. And I only brought one vat of it.

This is the second soup:

Clam Chowder. Fairly basic. Extra fat, because hey, I am, after all, still me.

This is the culprit that started it all:

Faux Saffron Cake. No decent person would attach "Cornish" to this thing at all. Okay, okay, it doesn't taste terrible, but the flavor of the cake is dependent on the saffron and as we know, my saffron is a cruel, cruel lie. [Pause for sobbing.] Real saffron cake not only has flavor, it has glorious, golden color. And since we knew my cake-like substance wasn't going to be real,

I didn't use the traditional currants in my cake. I used dried apricots and cherries. Because I could. And what were they going to do about it? Hmmm? That's right; nothing. Sigh. My sad, pale, unsaffron cake. I may have to eat it all to save myself the shame.

Bless Madeira Cake and its sweet reliability.
Doesn't it look like it's smiling at us?

Okay, yeah, I'm tired. I definitely need more than 2.5 hours of sleep. Yes, you read that correctly.

Because I'm an idiot.

Prepare to be shocked.

2012-01-11T16:11:00.000-08:00

All right, dearest. Sit down and hold on. I am about to tell you a shocking, yes, SHOCKING tale. You may need to have smelling salts prepared and 9-1-1 predialed on your cell phone. If you have a cell phone. You might not have a cell phone. I don't judge you. Unlike others, who judge me for not being on Facebook. We are above such things, you and I.

But, not shockingly, I digress.

Lately, I have spent time perusing the Internet [not shocking] looking at recipes [really not shocking] for Cornish Saffron Cake [maybe a little surprising] that I wish to make. I decided to try out one of the recipes for Soup Day tomorrow. The directions instruct one to soak the saffron in hot milk overnight. I assume the milk begins as hot and cools in the soaking process, but that's not stated. Neither is it relevant, but since when does that matter?

Since I want to make this tonight, probably after 2200---oh, you do, too, know what that means. It's 10:00 PM. Focus, please. Since I want to make this tonight, I went home at lunch and pulled out the saffron I bought in the market in Luxor, Egypt.

I told you I went to Egypt. No, I did, I'm sure I did. Okay, maybe I didn't. Stop yelling. I'll tell you that saga another day. Back to the saffron.

Now, despite the fact that I all but hermetically sealed the saffron in a glass jar and wrapped the jar in foil to protect the saffron from light, I was a little concerned that age of my saffron might have diminished the flavor, so I was moderately generous with my half-teaspoon measurement. I added it to the hot milk, then left it alone to begin its steeping process as I hustled around the kitchen, prepping for tonight's dinner. Evidently, Roommate doesn't enjoy eating dinner at 2100. [9:00 PM. Don't be difficult.] I thought I'd get a couple of things done beforehand and increase the odds of eating earlier.

So the steak is marinating, the garlic and potatoes are getting to know one another, the salad merely has to be tossed into a bowl, hand-wash dishes are washed, dishwasher is working on the rest of them and I turned and glanced at my steeping saffron.

It's supposed to look like this:

It doesn't. Instead of the strong, vibrant yellow, my steeped milk is...reddish. This may be hard to hear [or read] but now, I believe I was sold fake saffron. Probably chili threads.

This means that an American tourist in Egypt was completely fooled by a spice vendor.

I'll leave you alone to process that. I know. Take your time.

Grappling For Perspective

2012-01-10T07:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes perspective eludes me. Maybe it has something to do with my newly-discovered craptastic vision, but sometimes, I do not have a clear view of my own good fortune and well-being.

The first pair of glasses arrived from Costco.

You know, the ones with the bifocal lenses.

Sadly, I was in a hurry when I picked them up and the people at the Costco optical department were very busy and overworked, so...

I didn't try to read with them while standing there. Big mistake.

I can't freaking read with these glasses.

Not that I read a lot. Oh, noooooooooooo. Only with everything I do. Really, how inconvenient could that be? Pffft!

What a complainer I am.

So. $400, wasted. Glasses that don't work and mock me with their uselessness. A screaming headache from the eyestrain of trying to "get used to them." Okay, not the end of the world.

But they also look like ass on me.

WTF was I thinking, ordering these? Can I blame my craptastic vision????

Insult. Injury. Gah.

Some Wishes Are Easier

2012-01-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

Actual email conversation:

To: Roommate
From: Me
Subject: ARG!!!

I should have checked the kitchen scales while we were at Target!!!

To: Me
From: Roommate
Subject: Re: ARG!!!

Target will still be there Wednesday.

To: Roommate
From: Me
Subject: Re: Re: ARG!!!

You don’t know. It might not.

I long for a kitchen scale. I'm not sure how much of the longing is apparent to Roommate, as I am the subtlest of creatures, but it is a deep and profound longing.

You see, dearest invisible friend, it would just make the baking thing so much easier. And better. No, really. See, ingredients like flour can get all squished together. If that happens, a cup of flour can vary enormously in mass. One cup measurement could be nine ounces of flour and another could be six. And if you think of the flour as being made up of flour molecules, and baking as being an exercise in chemical reaction, having way too many flour molecules in the mix could result in...

...well...

Ickiness.

I know. I hate it when I use that kind of language, too. The chemical jargon right there just threw you off, didn't it? Or maybe you just lapsed into a coma. Sorry. Take a minute. I'm here for you.

Better? Oh, good. Let's get back to me.

Oh, what? Like my inherent self-absorption is a shocker? Pfffft!

What??

What????

Fine. Be all judge-y. Just get me my kitchen scale first and I'll leave you alone to your judgement.

What?????

He's DEAD, Jim.

2012-01-05T08:22:00.000-08:00

Darling one, brace yourself. Get tissues. Have a hugger on deck. This may be tough to take.

Refrigerator is dead.

I know, I know. It was a million years old and hideously inefficient. And in the last few days, it was obviously pursuing its secret goal to be an oven. But I'm always sad when the time comes to let something go.

I do so let things go. Don't be mean. In fact, Roommate and I already set for a new refrigerator! We didn't even take time to mourn, but given our delight in refrigeration, this is not terribly shocking, is it?

Anyway, after a quick stop at Weight Watchers last night, Roommate and I popped over to Home Depot to price new refrigerators. Roommate's mother had very graciously agreed to let us purchase the new fridge on her Home Depot credit card, allowing us to repay her before the next billing cycle. Normally, we'd let our landlords handle this, but we were unable to reach them.

Upside: Home Depot is having a huge sale!

Downside: Deliveries are booked out for the next eleven days!!!

Now, despite the fact that we have Home Depot available and the means to acquire a refrigerator, Roommate has been under a dark cloud since this happened. Really dark. Seriously dark. Looking-for-the-twister-to-touch-down-and-did-you-say-your-name-was Dorothy dark. She's been enormously put out by this situation and even though she and her mother went to buy and arrange for delivery for the refrigerator this morning, she hasn't been able to unclench and see it as an inconvenience that will be solved very shortly.

This wasn't helped by the fact that her mother insisted on returning home immediately after the sales transaction was completed, completely unwilling to have the new fridge loaded into the back of her truck and transported to our house. Roommate spent a fair amount of time trying to reach our friend with a truck to arrange for a pick-up.

So. New fridge purchased. Not yet delivered or transported by us. Dark, flying-monkey-filled cloud hovering over Roommate's head. But really, problem was essentially solved. The solution was simply...pending. I wasn't thrilled at the thought of getting a 172-pound appliance up the three stairs to our house and into the spot in the kitchen, but...[extremely Gallic shrug] What's to be done? The problem-solving was nearly complete.

Until the landlords called us back from an appliance store, having just purchased a new refrigerator for us.

Timing. It's a beautiful thing.

Could I get a little spin on this?

2012-01-04T07:58:00.000-08:00

So I have a Flex Spending Account. It's one of the benefits of working the job I do.

[crickets]

Yeah. One of few. Anyway. It's something that allows money to be taken from my paycheck--WHOO HOO!!! What could be better than that?--before taxes and held in account for healthcare costs not covered by my insurance. All I have to do is send an itemized bill to the flex-account people [or whatever they're actually called] and magically, money appears.

Yes, it's my money. It's not like anyone's just giving it to me. I earned it. But here's the kicker: if I don't spend/submit bills for all of it...

...it's gone.

Gah.

This year was a relatively healthy year. No molars splitting in two for no damn good reason. No out-of-pocket therapy costs, though, whom am I kidding, I probably could have used some. No random, moose-related injury-repair surgeries. So at year's end, I had about $450 left in this account.

What to do?

I had a plan.

The plan was this. I would wait until nearly year's end, go get an updated prescription for my eyes, and replace the glasses I've had for better than three years. This way, if anything, moose-related or not, came up, I'd have my cushion.

It's not just a hat rack, my friend. I'm not just a pretty face.

But that was my plan. it was a good plan. It was a solid plan. And then, in the way of all plans, the Omnipotent Comedian had a giggle. December was an unsurprising bundle of activity and despite my rather remarkable cleverness, my plan fell straight out of my brain. Until the 28th.

Do you know how hard it is to get a medical appointment on the last business day of the calendar year?

I managed to worm my way into an appointment at the vision center at the mall [shudder] on Friday and ordered my glasses from Costco on Saturday.

That's right, Costco. On a Saturday.

Yeah...you're thinking less and less of my intelligence, aren't you? But it really wasn't too bad. The optical department is the least insane spot in the asylum.

Anyway. I went to Costco, ordered two pairs of glasses and managed to blow the remainder of the Flex Spending Account because....

[Wait for it.]

The bifocals I now need cost a whole lot more!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yup. So let's revisit the whole dating site profile, shall we? As much as I adore the brilliance of this suggestion:

"Are you the kind of guy frustrated with women not witty enough to keep up with you, with ladies too demure to offer an honest opinion? Do you like food enough to know the difference between Pho Tai and Faux Thai, and want someone with whom you can watch Iron Chef and shout at the screen when the judges make a bad call? Are you secure enough that you can be around a woman more passionate about hockey than you? Then hey, buddy, have I got someone you should meet..."
By Anonymous on The Search For Next on 1/3/12

There is more information we need to include.

How do we work in the sheer fabulousness of being a bifocal-wearing, Volvo-driving, romance-reading spinster into the profile?

Obviously, I need a spin doctor.

New Year's What?

2012-01-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, dear one. I know we're going to talk about the New Year and resolutions and weight goals and exercise goals and writing plans and blah blah blah. But before we do any of that, you simply must see this commercial:

Crystal Light Bwahahahahaha!

Oh, lord. I'm still wheezing.

The Search For Next

2011-12-29T10:18:00.000-08:00

Darling invisible friend, I need your help. Yes, I will tell you! Seriously, you have to ask? When have I ever held back?

No, that didn't require a reply. Thank you.

Anyway. As I'd mentioned after ending things with Very Nice Person, it is time to meet Next. Ooo! Did I tell you that VNP called me from New York? Yeah. He was in a hotel and feeling lonely.

Mmm. No. I do not operate that way. But we're still friends! Heh.

Back to the point, and yes, I do actually have one. In my quest for Next, I'm utilizing the Mister-Right-Now dating site again. It is free...and I'm pretty much getting what I pay for. But I have a profile up and active there, so why not, right?

Btw, do you think it's telling that my profile was active the whole time I was seeing VNP? Hm. Well, it's neither here nor there, is it?

Now here's my concern--and where I need your help. I'm thinking about updating my profile. I am. I feel like my current profile describes a woman who is accepting and easygoing and really, quite low-maintenance. I have no idea who this woman is, but she seems lovely.

And she's using my picture.

Perhaps I should be a trifle more accurate. The question is, how far do I want to go? Somehow, I think the tagline of "HIDEOUS SELF-SERVING COTFU COW" wouldn't attract a lot of interest.

Then again, as little as I apparently know about men, this may not be the case.

I could just copy/paste the posts I did here of my wants and wishes: The Wish List and The Follow-Up. Or...what? What else could I do?

Darling invisible friend, after all we've been through, surely you have some ideas? Please. Guide me in your wisdom.

After all, Next is out there. Waiting for me.

If nothing else, it'll make for some funny blogs.

Wedded Recovery

2011-12-28T08:22:00.000-08:00

Well, dear one. Wedding done. Please hold for angelic choirs singing hallelujah.

Sigh.

All in all, it was a very nice wedding. Roommate's mother and new stepfather are blissfully happy. Nothing terrible happened. Roommate's grandmother and dear friend Hope stayed with us after the wedding through Christmas. I have no real reason to complain.

This, however, has never stopped me before.

I do have pictures, taken by Roommate, of the cakes I baked for the wedding, but right now, technology is outwitting me. Again. I know. I promise, I will post them later. Yes, I will. I won't forget! Look, you're being unreasonable. My friend Matt refers to me as a Mennonite in regards to my techno-blundering and I think that warrants a little slack in this department.

I'm not actually Mennonite, you know. The Mennonites are better dressed than I am.

Moving on.

Roommate kept saying "we" were doing the baking, but the majority of her help was through emotional support. I have no idea why she does this. She wants me to bake/cook something, inevitably I end up making it later in the evening/into the wee hours, and she stays awake [mostly] as long as she can, just...milling about. Why? Why does she do this? Just go to bed. I can do this all by myself. I'm big now.

She did go to bed. Finally. And I continued to bake cupcakes.

I went to bed around 0300 the morning of the wedding after making 108 cupcakes and a Madeira cake. Btw, Roommate refers to this as "Mederma Cake."

Yup. Evidently, one rubs this cake on skin and scars go away.

I did a double layer Madeira cake, coated in chocolate ganache and then covered with triple cream frosting. Yes, it was a heart attack with a cake topper, all right. The cupcakes were the required vanilla and chocolate. I topped the vanilla with the same triple cream frosting [tinted purple] and sprinkled with edible glitter [giggle---ahem] and the chocolate with the frosting infused with the chocolate ganache.

I frosted the cupcakes on site because unfrosted cupcakes travel better than frosted ones. No, really. Imagine boxes of frosted cupcakes, stacked in Volvo. Imagine Volvo coming to a screeching halt because of unpleasant driving habits of others. Imagine frosted cupcakes, slamming to Volvo's floor. It really is just better to frost upon arrival.

It is. But this is where it got...interesting.

The caterers for the blessed event had arrived a bit before I did and had turned on the oven in the tiny kitchen area. To 500 degrees. They placed foil-wrapped packets of meat into said oven and promptly departed. One assumes it was to gather more of the meal to bring to the wedding venue, but frankly, they could've gone for pedicures, for all I know. The foil-wrapped packets of meat proceeded to leak juicy goodness onto the oven's heating element, set to 500 degrees, producing billowing waves of smoke and...

Oh, go ahead. Guess.

That's right!! Setting off all the fire alarms in the building.

By the time the smoke had been cleared and the building aired out, my chocolate ganache was a trifle hardened. Beating it into the triple cream frosting made a chocolate-chip type effect. That, along with all the other delightful occurrences to numerous to recount here and now, resulted in my heaving frosting on the cupcakes less than forty-five minutes before the ceremony. When Roommate's Unfortunate Sister strolled into the reception area, she was greeted by the sight of me and the KitchenAid, frantically beating frosting and ganache. Her beady little eyes widened and she said in shocked tones, "You're just making the icing now?"

It is only the love of Roommate's mother and Roommate that saved this hideous cow's life.

Let us remember, dearest, that this is the person who informed her mother that she wanted nothing to do with the execution of the wedding; she merely wanted to attend as a guest. This is the person who, after her car was struck by another vehicle, leaving NO INJURIES and a still-driveable car, informed her mother in wilting and deeply dramatic tones, that she didn't know if she would make it the following day to her mother's wedding. This is the person who was blessed with two perfectly healthy children, and couldn't be bothered to actually raise them, really only involving herself enough to screw them up profoundly, thus resulting in the waste of salt that makes up her now-adult offspring.

Yes, I know the last part has nothing to do with the wedding day, but it still pisses me off.

Anyway. Another person, the grandmother of the flower girl, was helping place the sloppily-frosted cupcakes on the cake table after Roommate's Unfortunate Sister sauntered off to be utterly useless elsewhere. She [flower girl's gramma] kept telling me to go and get dressed for the wedding. I told her, sweetly, that it would take me three minutes to dress and be ready. I told her that again, when she pestered me again to leave and ready myself.

And again.

Have I mentioned my love for Roommate's mother?

I can attest, rather proudly, that no one died by my hand that day. I can also tell you that no cupcakes returned to my home. And I may have overstated my three-minute personal prep prediction.

It took 2.5 minutes. I even had time to help Roommate with a touch of makeup.

Roommate's mother is married and delighted with life. Cakes were eaten and enjoyed. Everyone survived to bitch and moan.

Success.

Now. Never ask me to do this again.

T Minus One

2011-12-21T10:53:00.000-08:00

I hadn't really decided to do Soup Day this week, but I got the loveliest card from the walk-in clinic staff, including a gift card. What else could I do but make soup at eleven o'clock at night after a twelve hour shift?

Oh, like you would do anything else! Pffft.

Anyway. Lentil-vegetable soup.
Neither X-ray Vicki nor coworker Tonya are here today, so this was originally a solo effort.

But then I spoke to Smooth and Groovy Steve. He was very excited about Soup Day happening on his scheduled appearance in my building. Why, I bet his heart rate made it all the way to 65! He offered to bring the bread. And he did! Yay, Smooth and Groovy Steve!

Walk-in clinic Wendy brought satsumas, too, so we have a well-rounded meal. Well-rounded, because, of course, we have cake.

Look!

It's my attempt at Madeira Cake! It's probably not as good as the Caked Crusader's, but it's pretty darn yummy, I don't mind telling you. The texture is soft and nubby, and the crystallized sugar on top gives it a teensy bit of crisp. Click on the picture, click on the picture! You get the big view that way.

I bet this would be an awesome substitute for shortcake. With strawberries. And a small volcano of cream. Just saying.

Tomorrow, wedding baking begins. Pray for me.

Wedding Imminent

2011-12-20T07:05:00.000-08:00

Darlingest invisible friend, as I have mentioned, Roommate's mother is getting married this Friday.

Is it too early to start the drinking?

The wedding is in three days. Three days. The day before Christmas Eve. The cupcake baking [120 of the little suckers] is in two days. Lemon bars, salads and whatever else I get sucked into baking will happen the day of the wedding, but I am NOT putting the cupcakes/bride&groom cake off past Thursday.

Roommate's mother, AKA Bride, had decided on two flavors of cupcake, chocolate and vanilla. I've got my go-to chocolate cupcake recipe, but vanilla has proved....problematic. [Note the pause.] I found an "Ultimate Vanilla Cupcake" recipe that was...good. [See that? I paused again.] But I wasn't in love with the texture. I wanted a bit more density. So I tried this:

This glorious thing is the lovely and talented Caked Crusader's Madeira Cake. It is a thing of beauty and deliciousness. I attempted it and I think I did a pretty fair job, but...

[big pause]

I don't think they'll work as wedding cupcakes. They're...

[REALLY big pause]

...too buttery.

I can hear you shrieking now, dearest. "WHAT???? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE????!!!!" you may be saying. Or it may be just a lot of expletives. It's hard to tell from way over here. But before you blow an aneurysm, let me explain.

When I made the Madeira Cake into cupcakes, the wonderful richness of the batter soaked into the paper cupcake liners. This may have been the fault of the baker [me] overfilling the cups. It might also be attributed to an inaccuracy of measurements. This would also be my fault. But the fact remains that the bottoms of the cupcakes had soaked through the liners and foretold disaster in a wedding reception-type setting.

Imagine long, fancy dresses. Buttery little cupcakes. Insufficient napkins. Because it's the law; when one is in a formal/fancy outfit and one foolishly touches something outrageously buttery, there will never be sufficient napkins around. Go ahead, look it up.

Not to say that the Madeira Cupcakes didn't taste utterly decadent and delicious and divine. And a few other D words. In fact, I may have exclaimed a D word after biting into the Madeira cupcake--strictly for testing purposes, of course. I will make Madeira Cake again---and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again---but not for this occasion.

Maybe it'll be just for me. Heh.

Yes, I am a selfish cow.

Anyway. I have two whole days. I'll figure it out. It won't be a ninety-five step process like this baumkuchen--->

But it'll be fine.

Is it too early to start drinking?

Snippet

2011-12-18T22:58:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is going to be a next-to-nothing blog. But look! My first batch of homemade marshmallows.
My plan is to given them as gifts with homemade cocoa mix. That's the jar in the upper part of the picture. They're not perfect. but they're certainly not terrible. I know this because I tested them extensively.

Extensively. Over and over. And over again. [hiccup]

Now, however, I'm completely buzzed on sugar and feel like a squirrel on speed. And I have to be awake and at work in seven and a half hours.

I am an idiot.

See you tomorrow.

Calling it a day.

2011-12-16T22:46:00.000-08:00

Well. It's over.

We all knew it was coming. Very Nice Person knew it, too, and was just waiting for me to say it. Actually, I think VNP wanted me to say it and has been hoping I would end things sooner, rather than later. Yes, dearest, he is still VNP, despite this last visit. I can forgive him for being not-VNP-ish for a few days. But I knew it was time to let him go.

I called him yesterday afternoon, when I was home alone, so the conversation wouldn't be interrupted--at least on my end. With VNP, one never knows when work will interrupt, one only know that it will interrupt. Fortunately, we got through the conversation nearly interruption-free.

I can't remember the last time that happened.

Anyway. I think you'd be quite proud of me, dearest. I introduced the topic calmly and kindly. I didn't assign blame. I recognized and respected the tremendous amount of responsibility VNP has on his plate. And I took ownership of my feelings. It was almost like breaking up with a therapist, only without the insurance paperwork and final bill. While I don't think I hit the gold standard of Best Breakup EVER, I think I handled it pretty well.

And we agreed to be friends. In fact, he sent me a text today, wishing me a happy Friday, to his "friend in the NW." I'm delighted we could end things and be cordial, and wish each other well.

Sigh. Done. Over. After almost a year, je suis fini. And now, in the immortal words of my friend Trish...

....NEXT!

Anywhere But Here.

2011-12-15T09:26:00.000-08:00

It's not the Pacific Northwest, per se. It's just here. I don't want to be here.

I wouldn't mind being there:

I've been told it's attitude, not location, and I certainly see the merit in that statement. But I'd still rather be there.

Red Again

2011-12-13T07:14:00.000-08:00

Random person: Were you born with that red hair?
Me: No, I finally went gray enough I could be any color I wanted.

Believe it of not, some people are surprised when I say that. I don't know why. Is changing one's hair color that big of a secret? I like what Stephanie Hodge said about the stupidity of bleaching her hair blonde, after her mother insisted it would help her "get" a man. She said if you're just doing it to get a man, as soon as he gets your pants off, he's gonna know you're lyin'.

I figure, why lie?

No, I wasn't born a redhead. I was, and in my heart, always will be a brunette. I have been known to look around when someone mentions "the redhead." The moment I realize that the individual being discussed is yours-truly is priceless.

The process, however, is less than appealing.

I opted out of the box-color method a few years back when my dear friend Karina told me about using henna. Given that:

I can't afford a professional colorist,

I prefer to do as little damage to my hair as possible and

Henna is remarkably inexpensive, considering the results, so...

I went with it. Cost, color and reduced damage. Those are the upsides.

Downsides?

It takes me 24 hours to prepare the henna for dyeing. The formula's simple enough. Packet of green stuff that looks like ground marjoram that's been in the cupboard for twenty years + slightly acidic liquid, like very strong black tea + ginger, cloves, cinnamon and honey = activated henna, ready to be glopped on my head.

And "glopped" is the most accurate verb available.

It smells like goose poop. It looks a little like goose poop. Here's a picture I found online of someone using the same method of hair coloring: No. Not me. Because I would then have to kill the photographer.

Anyway. After glopping my head with this aromatic adventure, I wrap my head in plastic--not over the face; too fond of breathing for that--and stay like that for...

...Four to twelve hours. Yeah.

But I end up with this: Yes. That's my red. Not bad, huh?

Anyway. I don't love the time or the smell, but these are bearable. And I like the end result, far more than the box color. I was reminded of this just recently when I had to resort to that chemical experience.

I had mixed up my last package of henna and let it sit on the stove before heading out for an evening. Roommate and I were meeting friends at a local dive to hear a band. It was fun and we had a good time, but we left a bit early. Not sure why; I may have had to work in the morning, or maybe Roommate was tired. Maybe I was being a big poopoohead and whined until I got my way. Regardless, we left the dive and went home to discover that before leaving the house, I had bumped the burner control and the glass bowl containing the henna...shattered. The henna itself? Burned to a crisp. The stench? Magnified and hideously pervasive. After cleaning up the mess and calculating how long it might take to receive new henna, I settled for the box stuff.

When will I learn? I should NEVER SETTLE.

New henna arrived. And once again, all's red in the world.

TupperTales

2011-12-12T08:12:00.000-08:00

Darling invisible friend, do you remember my mention of the Tupperware party? Oh, good. Then I don't have to tell you the whole story again. Not that I wouldn't; I would, I really would, because that's just how much your happiness means to me.

Go ahead. Do the head tilt.

Anyway, now that we've had our moment, I should get to the point. Yes, I have one. I know. I'm impressed, too.

Deb, Tupperware consultant extraordinaire, was to come over on Thursday evening to close the party. That means, she was going to gather up all of the additional orders placed by our friends who missed the party [and they know who they are--pfft!] and tell us about our free goodies. Although the party would "officially" close on Friday/payday, Deb and her hubster were heading up to Victoria, B.C. for a little vacation and needed to have things tidied up before leaving early in the morning. On Wednesday evening, I received a text from her:

Lisa, I am not going to B.C. this weekend. Mark has been in a motorcycle accident and we are at Harborview in Seattle. Not sure where I will be when we need to close, but I will keep in touch.

Harborview Medical Center is the regional trauma center and its name usually provokes a hideous mixture of horror, fear, relief and hope. If one's beloved is airlifted to Harborview, one has the reasonable expectation of excellent medical care being available to the patient. However, the beloved's being airlifted to Harborview usually means that the injuries were grievous and beyond the capabilities of many other excellent medical facilities.

In other words, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Apparently, Mark didn't realize a truck he was attempting to avoid had a boat trailer attached to it. Apparently, Mark went under that trailer. Mark is still alive. Mark came through surgery beautifully. Mark is awake, alert and in remarkably good spirits. Mark also has no feeling from the chest down.

The doctors have been very clear in their point of view that Mark will never walk again, but Deb and Mark both believe otherwise. They're going with the possibility of a miracle. They appreciate the physicians' opinion, but this is what they're choosing to believe.

When told the news of his father's accident, their son Joshua was struck with a deeply irreverent thought. When he shared it with his mother, she insisted that he tell Dad this. At the hospital, Deb introduced the topic firmly. "Mark, Joshua has something to tell you."

Joshua, who I can only assume had a sheepish grin on his face, said, "Hey, Dad, now we can get the disabled hunting permit for you. We'll be able to drive the truck right up to the campsite instead of hiking all that way!"

I believe it was Mark's father who suggested that he might be able to shoot from the truck window.

Mark, I am told, roared with laughter.

Dark. Twisted. Completely inappropriate. I really like this family.

Dearest, if you happen to be in conversation with the Omnipotent Comedian, you might want to drop a word about Mark and the fam. You know. If it happens to come up.

Christmas Cards

2011-12-08T10:58:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. The holiday stamps are out!

Is it me, or does the Christ child look like he's sporting a 'stache? Hey, little J, it's not Movember anymore.

Some messiahs. I tell you!

I haven't purchased my cards yet. Which should I choose?

This one...kind of skeeves me out. Not wild about the art.

This one is lovely. I think it was the art used for a Christmas stamp a few years ago, though.

Retro-seventies fun....tempting. Just for the shock value.

I like this one, too. A faint lavender tint to the classic BVM blue tones of many cards.

Ohhhh! This one is GREAT! Of course, I copied it from the Internet and will probably never be able to find it.

The madonna and child variety pack. I had these last year. Was it last year? I think so. I always feel I should offer it with a side of holy cards.

This one freaks me out. Early Renaissance? Gah.

Oh, this one is sweet. Like it.

Ooo. Now this one is subtle and clean and really almost elegant. Classic BVM blue, too, of the darker shade. I love this one.

Oh. Happy sigh. I think we have a winner.
Now all I have to do is find this one in the store. At a reasonable price. I can do that. Right?

Don't laugh. It isn't nice.

Counting my blessings.

2011-12-07T10:10:00.000-08:00

I have so many blessings, I really do. And sometimes, when I'm sad or angry or depressed or just plain pissy because yet another vacation was screwed sideways--and not in the fun way--I need to remind myself of them. One of my favorite blessings?

My darling friend Debbie.

Here she is with her sweet baby boy Byron.

Byron is her only boy dog. He's very fond of Greek yogurt.

He also likes to share his differences.

Don't judge him.

Debbie is hilarious. And smart. And caring. And she posts comments like this:

Ow. VNP, the old acronym, is now VNP the new acronym. VNP= Very Nasty Pr*ck. To hell with VNP. Sending hugs. - Deb
By Deb La
Monica on The Recent Excursion on 12/6/11

Heeheeheehee!! Snort. Snicker. Sniff. Love that.

And she's such a good dog mama. Here's Rumba, her youngest girl.

Debbie came into my life when I brought my wee beastie, HRH Tuppence Marie, to her for water therapy. She changed our lives and saved my dog.

None of her dogs are spoiled. None. Karma, Julia and Rumba are appalled you would suggest it. They're giving you a Look.

She's a treasure of a person. She defines "good friend." No, really. Check your dictionary. See, that's her picture.

She's totally earned this look of love.

I can almost forgive her for teaching me how to play Angry Birds.

Dammit.

The Recent Excursion

2011-12-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

Well, dearest, as you know, I had a little time away this past weekend. A mini vacation, if you will. And not too surprisingly, I'm simply dying to tell you all about it. Let's start with the good stuff.

Being on my current food bender, I had suggested to Very Nice Person that we go out for sushi one night while I was there. I read reviews online, checked locations and decided on this place:
Interesting location; it's on the ground floor of a condo building in a cluster of condo buildings. One reviewer expressed concern that the location would sound the death knell for the restaurant, but they seem to be doing quite nicely. I ordered a small variety of sushi and rolls and for VNP, tempura veggies and chicken teriyaki.

He was delighted.

The sushi was very nice, though I think Toyama has spoiled me a bit. That's okay, I'm just saying. VNP stated several times that the chicken teriyaki was the best he'd ever tasted. All in all, a lovely time out to dinner.

.
.
.
.
.
.
..........Yup, that was the only good part.

The rest of the time was spent on painful skin reactions to heaven-knows-what, entertaining myself while VNP worked despite his assurances to the contrary, the worst Thai food on the planet that he brought home after calling me to find out what he should order---

---Wait.

This may take more explanation. Yes, it will. Too bad, it's coming anyway.

On Thursday, VNP had to go out and pick up some dry-cleaning and suggested that he stop by a Thai place on his way back. He could grab some food and we could have dinner while watching the hockey game. Sounds great, huh? Okay, it sounded great to me. Sure, I wouldn't have minded going with him, as I'd spent the day in his living room, reading while he worked, but I like reading and welcome the opportunity to do so whenever possible. I suggested we check online for a menu so I could do as he asked and tell him what to order, but he demurred.

Okay.

So he picked up his dry cleaning. And he went to the restaurant next door. And he called me and asked, "What should I get?"

Did they have fresh rolls?

No. All right. How about angel wings?

No. Okay, no big deal. Look for something called Holy Basil or Swimming Rama.

And that's when he said, "Why are you making this so complicated?"
.
.
.
Excuse me?

He came home with something that loosely resembled phad thai, Mongolian beef and fried rice. It wasn't any of these things, but that's what he brought home. Then after eating the worst faux-Thai food on the planet, he decided he had a headache and went to bed.

Yeah.

The next night was worse. The next night, an unpleasant work communication was received, which resulted in unkind things being said to me. While in the bedroom. Allow me to repeat: while in the bedroom.

When he was called on this behavior, he admitted his error and transference of personal distress, and apologized. I acknowledged that the apology was made.

The next morning, he left before I woke up to address this unpleasant work situation and came home in time to take me somewhere for breakfast--the man seriously has no food in his house--and leave immediately after eating for the airport.

I then spent approximately double the necessary time traveling from one coast to the next. It was delightful. Really. While en route, I received a text from him wishing me a pleasant journey home.

And nothing since.

I am done with vacations that suck.

Party Central

2011-12-05T07:16:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is how we refer to my house. No, it's not that kind of party. THIS kind of party:

But with slightly different Tupperware colors. I was going to say different hairstyles, but I think all of these are back in fashion. I think I have that smock, too.

Criminy. I need new clothes.

Anyway. We had the party last night, with very few people and ridiculous amounts of food. Because if you don't have more food than is good for ten times the population of the gathering, it's just not a successful party. It doesn't have to be fancy food, it doesn't have to be a great variety of food. There just needs to be way too much of it. There should always be enough to provoke this conversation:

Roommate: Here, take this.

Guest: Oh, no, I couldn't.

Roommate: No, really. Take it.

Guest: Well, you're sur--

Roommate: Yes. I'm sure.

This is normally followed by the usual death threats [from me] if Tupperware is not returned. Yes, I am serious. Look, it's Tupperware. I adore Tupperware. For once, it's not a short-lived obsession.

Our Tupperware consultant loves doing parties at my house because she doesn't need to bring 90% of her display kit; I already have it. We went to my baking cupboard last night to see the Modular Mates.

Modular Mates. They stack together. They hold a lot of---Oh, just look:

See?

I love my Modular Mates.

Oh! During the party, two of our guests, Adriane and Amber, shared a story about their three-year-old, who is my pal, Mr. D. [I adore him, too, but in a different way than the Tupperware.] Evidently, he was playing with his dominoes at the table when Mom [Amber] hit the wrong switch and turned off the light over the table. Mr. D looked up with surprise and indignation and said:

"Seriously??? I was playing here."

Yeah. He's three.

God save the world.

Advice of the Day: Buy stock in Puffs

2011-12-02T16:43:00.000-08:00

Typical conversation:

Me: Ahhhhh...CHOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Random person: Oh, do you have a cold?

Me: I wish. No, I have allergies.

Random person: You wish you had a cold instead of allergies? Why?

Me: Colds get better.

Random person: Haha!

[NB: I am not joking when I say things like this. I have no idea why people laugh. It's not funny. It's not. It's not. Okay, it is, a little. But still.]

Random person: So...uh...what are you allergic to?

Me: Oxygen.

Random person: Seriously?

[Sigh. Of course I'm not serious. Really, who are these people?]

Me: No, I'm not actually allergic to oxygen.

Random person: Okay. Whew! What are you allergic to, then?

Me: The planet.

[pause]

Random person: You're...joking again, right?

And actually, at that point, I'm not. See, a few years ago, an allergy doctor performed scratch-testing on me. Ten to fifteen lines were drawn on each of my forearms and dots of liquid allergens were dabbed on each side of these lines. Then a blade was used to scratch the allergen into my skin. I was told I would wait fifteen minutes and I should not scratch at my arms.

Sure. No problem.

After eight minutes or so, the doctor popped his head in to see how I was holding up. I extended my arms and showed him double rows of bubbles on my forearms.

"You're done," he said.

I had reacted to every single allergen applied to my skin.

Usually, my allergies make themselves know via sneezing and general snottiness. Oh, sure, I get swollen eyes and itchy spots, too, but as a rule, it's all about the sinuses. And yes, I do sound sexy as hell when my sinuses are completely clogged shut.

I'm stunned that I'm still single.

Anyway, I'm on the east coast right now. Or, as spicy Cuban Mo says, the right coast. Not that she judges the left coast. She's just saying. I'm on the east coast and visiting Very Nice Person. And either I'm allergic to him, or I'm allergic to the coast in general, but this is what happened:

This is my neck on allergens.

The redness extends over my jawline and has blotched up my whole freaking face. It's swollen and sore and itchy.

This is also my allergic reaction to something or the other AFTER gentle washing, two doses of Benadryl, three ibuprofen and a variety of [previously] soothing lotions, gels and creams. My skin is unimpressed with my efforts. Frankly, my skin is pissed off.

I'm looking forward to a return to snottiness.

Only 24 Shopping Days

2011-12-01T13:11:00.000-08:00

And thirty-one days of writing!!

Sorta.

Okay, so I didn't write fifty thousand words this month. I'm not proud of that, but it's done and there's no going back and changing it. Unless someone invents a time machine.

Yes, that was a hint.

But while I'm waiting for that to happen, I have set a small and relatively reasonable goal for December. Given the madness that often accompanies the holiday season and a pending wedding--GAH!!!!!!--some sort of realistic outlook must be preserved.

No matter how it goes against my particular grain. My particular grain, by the way, is teff. Because I like typing teff.

Anyway! With the planning and execution of the wedding, the shopping and decorating for Christmas, the baking and cooking and card-writing and package sending and oh, good grief, everyfreaking else in the world, I have to stay small. My small and realistic goal is to write every day in December, even if it's just a paragraph. I can do that. I can. I believe that and I'm confident and I shall pull this off.

Now...if only I could pull off all the other stuff.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Stay out of the kitchen.

2011-11-29T07:01:00.000-08:00

It's Soup Day again and it wasn't my turn!!

Perhaps I shouldn't sound so gleeful. I do love making the main part of SD, but I felt distressed by the amount of leftovers last time. Okay, so I made approximately three times the volume of soup I normally make. Okay, so one soup was so pasta-heavy it was practically a casserole. Okay, the other soup was a ridiculously rich chowder. And yeah, there was a bakery's worth of bread on the counter.

But still.

This time, lovely X-ray Vicki made chicken chili. Coworker Tonya brought her ever-popular two loaves of French bread. I made snickerdoodles!!

This was my buddy Erik's suggestion. Ooo! According to Wikipedia, that source of information and relentless amusement,

The Joy of Cooking claims that snickerdoodles are probably German in origin, and that the name is a corruption of the German word Schneckennudeln (lit. "snail noodles"), a kind of pastry. A different author suggests that the word "snicker" comes from the Dutch word snekrad, or the German word Schnecke, which both describe a snail shape. Yet another hypothesis suggests that the name has no particular meaning or purpose and is simply a whimsically named cookie that originated from a New England tradition of fanciful cookie names.

I have no idea why I feel the need to know crap like that. I only know that I do. Anyway.

Be assured, Vicki and Tonya have provided secondary testing [Roommate and I did the preliminary round] and these cookies are safe for our coworkers to consume. I'm certain this bathes you in relief, dearest. Take a moment.

I made the cookies on Sunday evening in an effort to avoid my usual staying-up-way-too-late-making-mountains-of-food nonsense. Wasn't that clever? Isn't that great? Aren't you impressed?

Wouldn't it have been better if I managed to stay out of the kitchen last night?

But I didn't. See?

I had to make Firecracker Cornbread. It's Vicki's fault; she made chili. And...I've had the recipe for a while. I really wanted to try it. And I had fresh corn on the cob for it. Look!

It's moist and spicy and delicious, even though I made a few adjustments to the recipe.

I can take the heat, you know. I can stay in the kitchen.

COTFU, revisited.

2011-11-28T08:11:00.000-08:00

In two days, I'm getting on a plane. I am. And yes, the plane will be flying somewhere. We won't just be sitting on the tarmac, screeching "WHOO HOOO!!" for no apparent reason.

That'd just be weird.

I'll be headed back east to visit Very Nice Person. The original plan was to go to Montreal and see the Canadiens play at the Bell Centre, as well as see the city and bop around incessantly. [The bopping-around bit would have had a lot to do with staying warm. VNP really isn't much of a bopper; I do like this about him.]

Plans, however, changed. And changed again. At one point, we were going to Los Angeles, where we could have watched the L.A. Kings, the Anaheim Ducks or the San Jose Sharks play on their respective home ice, but this...

,,,changed.

Now I'm flying to VNP's home, outside of Washington D.C. I do not expect to watch the Capitals play live. Maybe, just maybe, we'll take a road trip and watch the Philadelphia Flyers or the Pittsburgh Penguins.

But I'm not holding my breath.

Darling invisible friend, it's not about the hockey. It's--

All right, quit laughing. I shall amend my previous statement. It's not just about the hockey.

Better? I thought so.

Anyway. It's not. It really isn't. It's more about the fact that despite my affection for VNP and his presumed fondness for me, with him, I am never COTFU. I'm not saying VNP doesn't like me. I'm not saying that I wish to become VNP's reason to live. I'm just saying that, as with the ex, every now and then, I need to be COTFU.

Evidently, it's because I'm a Leo. This means something to those who understand astrology. Which I do not. But this is beside the point.

The point is, I find that in this relationship, I am never COTFU. Never. Ever. Never-ever.

Nope. Not even then. Which really hurts my feelings. And/or injures my pride. Six of one, half-dozen of the other. I don't like it and while I do like VNP, this is becoming a sore point for me.

Sigh.

Anyway. How about those Canadiens?

Thanksgiving 2011

2011-11-24T08:50:00.000-08:00

Beloved invisible one, I wish you Happy Thanksgiving! I wish you moments of reflection and gratitude! I wish you good fellowship and convivial gatherings!

I wish you were here to eat some of this freaking food.

Here's what happened. Oh, stop it. You knew it was coming.

Roommate's mother decided that she would spend the actual day of Thanksgiving at her new soon-to-be in-laws. Roommate and I were invited to join. We were prepared to do so, albeit grudgingly.

Actually, I was the only one really begrudging the location. Although Roommate's mother's fiance's parents are really quite lovely, I don't always enjoy holiday gatherings spent in swath of cigarette smoke. Selfish, I know, but if I can't be honest with you, dear one, with whom can I be honest?

I knew you'd understand.

Anyway, we included a friend who's unable to go to family for the holiday, and her young daughter, in the feast plans and suddenly, Roommate's mom was okay with our staying home and having our own feast. I don't know what changed. But I accept and move on.

How very California Zen of me, huh? I know!

..............................Wait a minute.

Oh, jeeze.

Roommate just called. Our friends canceled. Um. Anybody want to come over for a feast? We...have plenty. Plenty. No, really. Plenty.

This is what I did last night. Pumpkin pie. Because.

Dinner rolls. Massive volumes of dinner rolls. More than it looks.

Seriously, the pie next to the rolls is a nine-inch, deep dish pie.

Massive volumes of dinner rolls.

And this is what I made for the breakfast potluck at work this morning. It's egg and cheese and herbs in a pinwheel of---guess what! Roll dough! Baked until golden.

And look! Enough for everyone. Except the PA who's gluten intolerant. Sigh. I didn't know she was working today. I would have made her a GF treat.

We have a 17 pound turkey, a vat of stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce, a huge salad, an acre of potatoes, mashed, and an ocean of gravy.

I'm so thankful for the abundance in my life.

Leftovers, anyone?

Because Mo Asked.

2011-11-23T11:07:00.001-08:00

She did. She asked. Look!

BUT...what about the NY Islanders??? My home team, from Long Island!
By Mo on Whoa, Canada! on 11/22/11

Um. Well....

Okay, they're not thirtieth in the league! They're not. They're...twenty-ninth.

And Monday's game was not their fault. The one against the Penguins? Yeah. It was a shut-out, 5-0. But I'm not blaming the Islanders.

I'm blaming him.

Yes, Sidney Crosby, Pittsburgh Penguins' captain, is back on the ice after...what? Nearly a year? Two goals, two assists. One would think he'd have had the decency to start back a little sketchier, but nooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo. He had to be all superstarry. Pfft.

But! Tonight the Islanders will face the Philadelphia Flyers. Victory could very well be theirs!!!

Go, Islanders!

Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2011-11-23T09:23:00.000-08:00

See this?

This is a loving little token from one of my favorite people in the world, one of my doctors. He's a sweetheart. It's a toss-up whom I adore more, this man or his partner, but I do adore him. He's hilarious. He's sly. He's a very good doctor.

He brings me food that I really shouldn't have.

These little goodies are four Weight Watchers points for three cookies. That's not terrible, right? I could have three cookies and be fine. I could stop at three cookies. It could happen.

Sure.

But there are five servings in the box.

Fifteen cookies.

Twenty points.

Why can't he give me apples?????????????????

Whoa, Canada!

2011-11-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

Now, before anybody says anything, nooooooooooo, I am not a Canadian. I don't secretly long to be a Canadian. We're just talkin' hockey.

Yes. Hockey. And yowza, what a hockey weekend it was, baby! I don't know what happened exactly, somebody gave the Canadian teams their NHL Wheaties this weekend.

Bruce Jenner had nothing to do with it. I think.

Anyway.

The Winnipeg Jets played...

...the Philadelphia Flyers!

Given her feelings about Pennsylvania in general, Spicy Cuban Mo probably doesn't feel bad at all. The Flyers lost 6-4.

I do feel a little bad for the Jets. Not because they won their game, oh no. But the Winnipeg Jets were moved in 1996 because of financial problems and became the Phoenix Coyotes. Because naturally, when you think hockey, you think Arizona. Then Atlanta, Georgia got an expansion team, the Atlanta Thrashers. Because the next best thing to putting ice hockey in the desert is putting ice hockey in the Deep South. Then the Thrashers were sold and moved back to Winnipeg, where the tickets sold out in minutes. I'm not sure the Jets know who they are and where they live, but they're pretty clear on one thing.

It's freaking cold in Winnipeg.

Moving on. Very Nice Person's favorite/hometown team is the Washington Capitals. I gave him a Caps t-shirt for his birthday, in fact. Tremendous talent on this team, but on Saturday...
...the Toronto Maple Leafs, AKA Roommate's favorite team, spanked the Capitals like red-headed stepchildren. 7-1. Ouch.

Roommate doesn't actually care about hockey, btw. She just made the mistake of playing along and acting all excited about the Maple Leafs during one game. Now, I refer to the Leafs as her team. Because that's what I do. She rolls her eyes. Because that's what she does.

The New York Rangers have been having a pretty good year. They have. But on Saturday... ...they met up with the Montreal Canadiens and...

...got shut out, 4-0. Awww, Rangers. Yay, Canadiens.

Awww...

Yay!

Sigh. My head is whirling.

Finally, after a day filled with commentators screaming, "SCORE!!!!" and nobody buying anybody dinner first, my favorite team, the Edmonton Oilers, had their turn.

Yes, they are still my favorites, despite the location of the ex and my efforts to embrace my inner Canuck. They've spent the last two years at the very bottom of the league, bless their hearts, and on Saturday, they faced the number one team in the league.

2010's Stanley Cup Champions, the Chicago Blackhawks.

Stellar team. Really. Awesome year they're having, too. Did I mention number one in the league? Yeah.... But on Saturday, the Oilers steamrolled right over the Blackhawks, 9-2. [That's not a hockey score, btw. That's a score that one sees at a baseball game.]

Pretty impressive, given that most of the Oilers are twelve years old.

Canadian hockey teams, I salute you. Go ahead, have a beer. Except the boys on the Edmonton team; you're still twelve years old.

The joys of leftover bread.

2011-11-21T08:19:00.000-08:00

Bread pudding. One of many fabulous things one can make with day-old, or stale-ish bread. Easy to make. Delicious to eat. Simple ingredients.

And! And. This is really breakfast food. Bread, eggs, milk, butter. It's the breakfast of champions, really. Well, without Bruce Jenner prancing all over it. Actually, I shouldn't tease Bruce. He's got enough on his plate. Though I doubt any of it is bread pudding. Sad.

Coworkers Vicki and Sandra were extremely disappointed in the lack of whiskey sauce, those adorable little would-be lushes. Coworker Tonya, however, was relieved by the absence of said sauce, as she is our department lightweight. Bless her heart. The upside of this? Karaoke is certainly more entertaining with her around. So this isn't the best workplace idea, so what? It's fun for the rest of us!

I bet Bruce Jenner could use some whiskey sauce. Probably a quart or two.

Anyway. Bread pudding. Damn the Weight Watchers points; I'm having some more.

The Omnipotent Comedian Strikes Again

2011-11-17T09:18:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the greatest conversational invention of all time is the weather. It's safe. It's very difficult to offend anyone with it--and frankly, if someone's going to get offended when weather is discussed, it might be time for some rather serious self-evaluation. Not global warming, of course. Go ahead and get all worked up about that particular topic. Sure. Who can blame you?

Notice I didn't suggest the side one ought to take? That's right. It's not just a hat rack, my friend.

Anyway, several times this week I've had the same conversation with countless people.

Random Person: Wow, it's getting cold out there!

Me: It really is, isn't it?

[NB: As this is the Pacific Northwest, "really cold" is generally defined as anything cooler than 45 degrees. "Really hot" is anything over 80 degrees. We have only two seasons, winter and July. We put on shorts as soon as it clears 65 degrees. We live with cloud cover more than nine months of the year. But we are wimps when it comes to anything outside of our extremely small temperature range. Anyone with real weather should feel free to commence mocking.]

Random Person: They say we're going to get snow on Friday.

Me: [shaking my head] Not going to happen.

[If you are from an area of real weather, please remember: Any snow in this part of the world is hysteria-inducing. People will panic, call in sick to work, keep the children home, have to keep the children home because schools have closed and clear every grocery store around of milk, bread, eggs and toilet paper. All because of one inch of snow. No, I'm not kidding.]

Random Person: No, really, I heard/saw/read it on the radio/KOMO 4/The Weather Channel dot com....

Me: [shaking my head] Not going to happen. I've taken care of it.

Random Person: Really?

Me: Yes. I had my studded snow tires put on my car.

Random Person: Ohhhh.

Me: Yes. We're also completely stocked for food, have bottled water and three years worth of firewood. Chains in the trunks of the cars. De-icer for the steps.

Random Person: Nice.

Me: Yes. So you see, because I'm ready for it, it will not snow. [holding up a hand and shrugging modestly] No, no. You're welcome.

And this morning, when Roommate opened my bedroom door and said:

"It snowed last night."

Sigh. The Omnipotent Comedian wins.

Again.

I'm NOT sick.

2011-11-16T10:43:00.000-08:00

I had a tiny little tickle in my throat. It was no big deal, really, but now my voice sounds a little rough. So I wore a mask yesterday and today. No big whoop.

Then Adriane, the person in charge of scheduling, AKA sick calls, came over to use space in my lab to train someone. "I thought you were kidding when you said you had a tickle in your throat!" Yes. Exactly. That's something I would kid about.

Silly goose.

So she called one of the other floats to cover for me. You can tell they're floats; they hover just above the ground. It's adorable, really. The problem? She called the float at 9:30. AM. In the morning.

Well, I couldn't just leave then. No ride! Roommate not done until noon! Sky falling! Run, Chicken Little, run!!!

Ahem.

So we had to discuss it. Loudly. With a lot of arm-waving. Which the float found incredibly funny. Not to mention the trainee.

But I am going home. Because I'm sick.

Damn it.

Jonesing for the fish.

2011-11-15T07:36:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think people slip addictive substances into food. I told the young lady waiting on us last Saturday night at Toyama this theory. She laughed, confident of her tip.

She wasn't wrong to do so.

Look at this:

It's a tiny, unassuming little place with indifferent heating. It's located in--hmm. What to call it? It's not precisely a strip mall; it's in a block of small shops and restaurants in the parking lot of a strip mall. It's a block mall! Right next to a dry cleaners and a place that sells work clothes. You know, for people who really, really work for a living. Carhartt-y stuff.
Like this.

Anyway. This restaurant has---wait for it---

All You Can Eat Sushi. I know!!! I've made 'em sorry a couple of times. I generally am so geared up for sushi, I say no, thank you to the miso soup. Even though I love miso soup. I just feel it takes up too much valuable sushi space.

Sadly, I rarely resist the gyoza. Potstickers. Yummy wrapped in carbs and fried in fat. What could be better??

Well, fewer Weight Watchers points. But come on! Look at them, in their golden fried glory.

Toyama not only has great gyoza and miso, they also have all the beginner sushi, like the California roll. Krab [the "k" indicating it's the fake stuff] and avocado, rolled in rice. Not scary at all, if you're scared of raw fish.

And, if the California roll just seems to be lacking something essential, like french fries, there's always the crunchy California roll. Because some days, if it isn't battered and deep fried, it doesn't have any value. This is also emotionally reassuring to those who fear the raw.

Which I do not.

Hey, did you know that the Dragon Roll has eel on it? Eel! Go figure.

Doesn't look like eel, does it? It just looks delicious. Mmmm. Almost as delicious as this:

Now, I am scared of spiders, but the spider roll? No problem. Maybe because it's just soft-shell crab. [The "c" indicating it's the real stuff.]

Actually, I don't have a real problem with spiders, either, as long as they stay out of my house. If they come into my house, I assume they're suicidal and I must help them achieve their goals.

But no more talk of spiders! Let's think happy thoughts! Sunlight! Flowers! Rainbows!

Ooo, rainbow rolls....

A thing of beauty is a joy forever. That Keats guy was no dummy. I wonder if he liked sushi. Did he appreciate the artistry?

Or the beauty of its simplicity?

Or did he just want more?

Much, much more?

Siiiiiiigh.

All I can eat sushi. That's a little bit of heaven on earth.

Brr!

2011-11-14T08:20:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, Roommate and I went home for lunch. Actually, I was supposed to be done for the day, but coworker Tonya had a family emergency and I offered to work the full shift, so that meant I had to go back to work after lunch. Which I hate.

This is why I usually do not go home for lunch. I hate going back. Going in is hard enough, going back is almost unbearable. You understand.

Anyway. We walked through the door and I said, in a very uncharacteristic manner, "It's a bit cool in here, isn't it?" Roommate is usually the one complaining of being chilly, and usually, when it's 71 degrees inside. Seriously? Cold? Put on a sweater!

Roommate is fairly anti-sleeve. I have no idea why.

I checked the thermostat and the heat that the furnace should have been maintaining was a balmy 64. This is perfectly reasonable when we are at work and the dogs are snuggled in their kennels. With blankies and pillows.

Not that they're spoiled. Oh, no.

The room temperature reading, however, was a nippy 59. This...is a little cold, even for me. So off I went to the basement to check on the furnace. The furnace, oil-guzzling old beast that it is, was silent and ice cold. Now I'm no heating-and-cooling expert, but I took that as a bad sign.

I know. I have a mind like a steel trap somedays, don't I?

I called the oil service company, or as I like to call them, the blood sucking bastards from hell, and shared with the nice lady [for a BSBFH] my theories on the current heating situation. Either we're out of oil---BSBFH felt this was unlikely, given computer records of spending gobs of money on this supply---or the furnace decided it needed a little holiday.

It has pulled this crap before.

This was Thursday and the very nice BSBFH informed me the soonest a technician could be over would be....Monday. Sadly, both Roommate and I work all day Mondays. How about Wednesday? I asked. No, unfortunately, some poor fool was getting a new oil furnace installed that day.

Seriously? With oil at $4.46 a gallon and average usage 3-5 gallons per day???? Okay. Sure.

We finally settled on Thursday. One full week after initial breakdown. Seriously looking forward to this.

Here's what I've learned in the last four days.

1. A snuggly dog in the bed is worth its weight in gold.
2. Pouring boiling water over one's hand instead of into the hot water bottle is not nearly as effective at warming one, despite the feeling of flames erupting on one's skin.
3. I am not anywhere near as cold-tolerant as I imagined. I thought I'd learned this lesson while dating the Canadian and spending a week in January in north central Alberta, but...there you go.
4. Hot tea really will only take you so far.
5. I would actually take an eco-friendly furnace over any piece of jewelry, up to and including an engagement ring. Although I imagine it would be harder to hide in a rose or dessert. And it would probably rule out a proposal at a restaurant unless one wished to have herniated waitstaff.
6. Infomercials on portable heating units that "save thousands and heat the whole house" can be intensely interesting.

Say it with me:

Brr.

11/11/11

2011-11-11T10:20:00.000-08:00

Thank you.

Wisdom. Whether I like it or not.

2011-11-10T08:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Smooth and Groovy Steve was helping me clean up the Break Closet, post Soup Day extravaganza. I didn't even have to make threats or burst into tears. Yay, S&G Steve!

In the process of scraping the last molecules of soup into my Tupperware, I was reminded of this old Yankee saying on the sampler above. I know a lot of people would have just pitched the last of the soup, but really...why? It wasn't a ton of soup left, but it was enough to make buddy Erik, coworker Tonya and X-ray babe Lisa very, very happy this morning.

I love this saying. Yes, I was raised by the cheapest woman on the planet; I'm not sure I could have avoided loving this saying. But how interesting that what was once a virtue [frugality] became a vice [miserliness] and is once again a virtue. People just call it being "green."

By nature, I am self-indulgent. I am. I'm not frugal or economical or thrifty. But as I read this sampler again, I find myself wanting to be better.

Heaven forbid. It might be time to grow.

Nahhhh.

That's not so souper. [Souper Addendum]

2011-11-09T14:25:00.000-08:00

As I was adding the second vat of chicken soup to the Crock Pot in the Break Closet, a new-ish person came in to the already crowded space. She glanced around and said, "Who made this?"

I paused mid-soup transfer. "Seriously?"

Come on. She isn't that new.

"Oh, you did?"

I attempted a smile and said yes. Encouragement to have some of the food was offered and I turned away to clean the bowl I was using to restock the soup. From behind me, I hear this:

"You must have a lot of free time after work."

I froze, mouth open in utter disbelief. Another coworker, standing parallel to me at the sink looked at me like a deer in the headlights. Then the new-ish person said dismissively:

"Oh, but Crock Pot soups are easy."
.
.
.
.
.
.

I replied.

"Yes. They are."

I think I deserve a prize now, please.

That's Souper.

2011-11-09T10:53:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Cafe JobFromHell! As you can see, our Break Closet features the finest of dining experiences. So glad you could join us today!

Today's soup is Chicken Nokedli. Nokedli. It's like spaetzel, but for Hungarians. Because they're Hungarians. Listen, hang out with a few of 'em. You'll figure it out.

Not even 11:00 AM and half of the first vat is gone. I'm torn between delight and horror at the savagery. Wonderful coworker Vicki is on the tasting committee; she and Smooth and Groovy Steve have confirmed that the soup is up to the rigorous standards of all our coworkers.

They have also confirmed the lack of poison in each soup. Vicki was so concerned about the well-being of our colleagues, in fact, that she's tested the soup four or five times already. Such caring! Such dedication! Such selflessness!!

Hang on. The emotion provoked by her giving nature has made me a little misty.

Okay. Better now.

The vegan/gluten free option today is Zippy Tomato Lentil.

Yes. Zippy. It won't take the top of your head off, but it'll let you know it stopped by for a visit. Not hot. Just zippy.

Oh, lord. I've just been informed that most of the Chicken-Nokedli is gone. Must break out back-up vat.

Please leave your name with the host and you'll be seated as soon as possible. Thank you for visiting today!

Comments, comments, everywhere...YAY!

2011-11-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

Though I love comments made on my posts with a passion usually reserved for flaky, buttery pastry...mmmmm......I hate the fact that Blogger won't let me comment on my own blog. To be told I'm not authorized to post in reply is exasperating at best. So this is how I shall reply.

In regards to offering recipes, my Fabulous Neighbor Robin expressed concern that it might affect the "magic" of my cooking. When I finished stammering and blushing, I assured her that this would not be the case. And then Gluten Free Jen chimed in:

Your soup description with the fist fights, and johnny come
latelys....really wanted me to make that soup. It'd be a party in my mouth!
By Nesleina on Recipe Demands on 11/3/11

Okay. Sorry. But this just seemed naughty. She called me a twelve-year-old when I said that to her. Pfft.

Then Deb, wonder water therapist, came to my rescue again, as I lost the fight with yet another electronic gadget, the new Kindle:

You can get WiFi free at any AT&T hot spot. I think that ANY Starbucks would be OK, any library, I am betting that you can even get it at work. Any friends with a Laptop at home? They probably have WiFi. Hospitals usually do too, so again, you may be able to take it to work to get WiFi. If all else fails, the next time I see you, bring it to me. I will bring it home to register it and will download as many of the free books as you want me to at Amazon. ALL of the out of print stuff is free, and they have a free lending library if you are on Amazon Prime (free for a month should you so choose.. There's LOTS to do.
By Deb
La Monica on New Toy! SHINY New Toy!! on 11/6/11

Oh, sweet and wonderful Deb. I love your problem-solving attitude. I say this sincerely; I want to be more like you when I grow up. Maybe I'll have to get a whippet. Or four. But I love the way you think. You little goddess.

[Btw, Connie helped me figure it out. Thank God someone was on Lisa Marie watch.]

In regards to the caption contest, I loved all the comments posted. But this one:

...Hey, wanna see the cat run scared? On the count of three, drop 'em!
One... two... J
By Anonymous on Caption Contest! on 11/4/11

This took the prize. Yes, there IS a prize! It's the baked good of your choice, made by me! Okay, it won't be as good as anything made by The Caked Crusader, but all in all, it shouldn't suck. Now, if only I knew who you were. Hmm. J. I bet I can noodle it out.

I felt a little bad about my faux emails to the ECWC people. A little. But, cheese and crackers, there were a boatload of emails every freaking day!! And since the Droid entered my life, now I know when emails arrive. Kristen understood this.

...I [un]subscribed the day they put me on it. I've no patience for me,
toos and other crap. heheh.. Did you hit send?
By Kristen on Strike up the editor. on 11/5/11

Nooooooooooo. I asked very politely and they helped. It was lovely and kind of them. And now I feel a little schmuck-y.

And finally, in response to this:

I could always tell when a certain housemate had a major paper due-- the kitchen became gleamingly spotless, the living room carpet immaculately vacuumed, all webs eradicated from corners... I now notice that a certain someone has actually *increased* her blogging rate. Yes, having something big to do with a daunting deadline can make one more productive; just often not in the the area it's supposed to.
By Anonymous on Dr. Wicked Was Here. at 8:57 AM

I say, not so, Mr. Poopyhead! Not so. You see, I can't work on my WIP while on the clock, but I want to keep the I-am-a-writer mindset. I can blog, however, in between making small children cry and horrifying countless adults, so that's what I've attempted to do, for these thirty days. [NB: My production has actually increased on my WIP, as well.]

On top of that, I'm a grown-up, it's my party and I'll blog if I want to. In the immortal words [or word] of Charlie Brown, "Nyah!"

Love you. Mean it.

Dr. Wicked Was Here.

2011-11-07T06:49:00.000-08:00

Let me start by saying, dear one, that my first week of NaNoWriMo has not been a raging success. It hasn't. I'd love to say otherwise, but I'd be lying. And we know how well that works out for us.

It's gone so poorly, in fact, that I frittered away an entire weekend that could have been write-a-rific. Oh, I typed in the odd word, but once I got home from work, I was useless in the writing department.

The back yard is poo-free, however, and the garbage and recycling is neatly at the curb. This is neither here nor there and especially now, it's completely irrelevant. 1,667 words per day! I'm supposed to be writing a minimum of 1,667 words per day!! I'm not hitting my goals!!! GAH!!!!

And rather obviously, I'm overdosing on exclamation points.

So. Today I decided to look into something new. Why yes, I will tell you all about it. Get your tea and settle in. Coffee, then. Oh, for the love of Mike! Soda? Juice? Milk? Vodka? I don't care, darling. Just get it and sit down.

Although at my job, consumption of alcoholic beverages while on the clock is "against the rules." I know. But what are you going to do? Once Administration gets involved, we're all screwed. And not in the fun way.

But as per usual, I digress.

Anyway. While at the ECWC just recently, I attended a useful and informative workshop offered by Susanna Fraser called "How to Write Like a Full-Time Author...When You Can't Quit Your Day Job." Or something close to that. Oh, this title--or its reasonable facsimile--screamed out to me. Screamed. In screeching and strident tones. I had to attend, just to shut it up.

Many useful things were discussed in this class, not the least of which was the introduction of Write Or Die. The lovely and talented Susanna told the group, many of whom already knew about it, the clever britches, all about this website. I was initially intrigued. Here's how it works.

One selects her consequence mode. There are four options:

gentle

normal

kamikaze

electric shock.

[NB: My computer does not have the necessary additional equipment to make "electric shock" an option. Therefore, I have not tested the ES mode. I am okay with this.]

Then one selects her preferred grace period:

forgiving

strict

evil.

After these selections are made, a length of time is chosen and the writer enters into W.O.D. land.

A blank window appears and the writer...well, obviously, starts typing away. If she pauses, however, mulling over what she should write next, the grace period starts. The "forgiving" grace period is all of fifteen seconds. Fifteen. Strict last seven seconds. Evil lasts less than two seconds. When in gentle mode, the background changes to a soft, rosy hue that swiftly darkens to eye-searing red. Less than ten seconds after that shade has been achieved, a sweet-natured pop-up appears, noting the writer's lack of participation and encouraging her to write on.

Normal mode uses the same background but instead of Little Susie Sunshine of the pop-up world, an unpleasant sound is emitted. I cannot describe this sound as it doesn't appear on my work computer. I may try it at home. I may not. I shall get back to you on this.

Then there's kamikaze. Here's the kicker. After the grace period elapses and the background resembles a cheese-less cheese pizza, the program starts deleting the work the writer has already typed.

You read that correctly. When Susanna Fraser spoke of this option in her workshop, the horror of such a possibility was so great, I cried out.

It wasn't funny. Other attendees ought not have laughed. I'm still a bit hurt.

Obviously emotionally battered by this, I took some solace in my dear friend Debbie's comforting pat on the shoulder as I wrestled with the enormity of kamikaze mode. I took several medicinal servings of chocolate and a nice cup of hot, sweet tea and I recovered. The thought of the words that are wrenched out of me that, okay, still resemble the piles of dog leaving I clean out of the back yard, being deleted because I pause for freaking reflection, is dreadful. It is only now, a week later, that I am able to speak of it, though still not without shuddering.

It seems like a horrible idea, as horrible an idea as the Hindenburg, Waterloo or eating an entire head of fried cabbage. Or sure, it seems like a great idea to some people at first, but it doesn't take long to clue in that this is a monumentally bad idea. No matter how much one might love fried cabbage. With just a little salt and a lot of pepper...fried to a lovely, golden, caramelized hue.... So beautiful. So delicious.

So deadly the next day.

Truly, how could electric shock possibly be worse?

A shameless theft.

2011-11-06T13:00:00.001-08:00

All right, darling. Another double blog day. But I can't help this one, either. It's stolen shamelessly from a marvelous blog called The Uncrushable Jersey Dress. A wondrous place, this blog, that celebrates all things Betty Neels. You remember Betty? Well, of course you do! And suddenly, you need a snack, don't you? I thought so.

The person/people who organize this blog apparently have also been sucked into the NaNoWriMo madness. And before you shout at me, dear one, allow me to defend my paltry blogging. I am not allowed to use my netbook while at work, and find myself singularly unproductive while trying to work on my WIP from the depths of the lab. [The other rats squeak so loudly. Really, very annoying.] This is a nod to the Empress of Modern Romance, Jane Austen.

Jane knew that updating her Facebook status to 'Stuck' wouldn't help her word
count...

Heeheehee! Oh, Jane. [sniff] You slay me.

New Toy! SHINY New Toy!!

2011-11-06T11:27:00.000-08:00

Look!!!!
It's an early Christmas present from a dear and darling friend!!!! I'm so excited! I'm so happy!

I so wish I could figure it out.

Yes, I know. I've committed "so" abuse. Forgive me. I have sinned.

Evidently, my beloved invisible friend who is now undoubtedly sniggering at me behind my back, one must have a wifi [Wifi? Wi-Fi? Whatevah.] connection to register one's Kindle. Until the Kindle is registered, it's a delightful and handy dictionary. Yes! The New Oxford American Dictionary is included in the purchase price. Of course, when I saw the screen for the first time, I thought it was the OED [Oxford English Dictionary] and promptly fainted with joy. Upon revival, I realized that this was not the case and, while disappointed, am less concerned about concussions.

My own, that is. Other people's concussions still worry me. But we'll discuss hockey another time.

Anyway. Roommate and I will share this pretty, shiny new toy, especially since I'm not allowed to do too much reading until my page goal is reached for NaNoWriMo. This maybe additionally challenging with the shiny new toy in the house.

But it's pretty and new. I think I shall go and stare lovingly at it.

What?

Strike up the editor.

2011-11-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Emerald City Writers Conference Chairperson,

While the endless and unrelenting emails sent via the "ECWC loop" have been
loads of fun to receive, and receive by the truckload, I do not recall asking to
be including in this crap.

Hmm. A little formal and a trifle accusing. Let's try that again.

Hey, ECWC Netminder--

Super conference, really. Now, if you can be bothered, howsabout we throw the off switch on the email bullsh--

Oh, that's not nice. That's not the way to make friends and influence people. Perhaps if I appealed to fellow writers?

Dear, sweet Webmistress,

As a recent attendee of the ECWC, I was inspired to sign up for NaNoWriMo. I did! Yes, so exciting. However, the constant alerts that yet another irrelevant email arrived has been sent is DRIVING ME FREAKING BATSHI--

Now, see. Look at that. This is when writing needs to be controlled. Calm. A teensy bit rational.

Listen.

I have tried to "unsubscribe." I have tried to reduce the volume of email crap by choosing digest. I have tried to ignore this avalanche of nonsense. But every time I open my email and see four hundred craptastic messages to delete, never mind read, I am reminded that Yahoo Groups is absolutely FU--

Ooo. Almost dropped a doozy there, didn't I? Okay, one more try.

Please. I beg of you, take me off this bloody list. The conference is over. Over. Let it go. Let me go!!! Yes, it was lovely. Yes, everyone was just super. Yes, we're all
godd--excessively grateful. Now stop. PLEASE STOP!!!!!

Ah. Perfect. Now, where is the send button....

[click]

Caption Contest!

2011-11-03T14:16:00.001-07:00

Darling invisible friend, please do not faint. I know how two blogs in one day unsettles you. But this picture was emailed to me after I posted for the day. What else could I do?!

Okay, I love this shot. Since I've already got captions flying through my brain, I thought I might open it up to everyone. Post your caption as a comment, please! [If Blogger is cranky, do it as an anonymous post, but put your name in the body of the comment.] And it's a contest! I have no idea what you'll win, but your name shall be whispered in revered tones.

Fine. I'll work on an actual prize. In the meantime, look!

"Look, man, it's very simple. We go to the river. We get some sand in the pan.
We swirl it around, get the gold, and it's bully sticks all around. This isn't
rocket science. Now open the freaking door."

Go! Go! Go!

Help, when I ask for it.

2011-11-03T08:23:00.000-07:00

Some people are just lovely. No, really. My dear friend Erik sent this to me, knowing how tenuous my grip is most days: Isn't he fabulous? In the madness that has been the first two days of NaNoWriMo, this has made me giggle repeatedly. Of course, that could just be a sign of my disintegrating mental status, but we're going to see the glass as half full, aren't we, darling?

Debbie, my dear friend and HRHTM's water therapist, has been her usual font of delight and help to me and my wee beastie. She introduced me to this recently:

And in her loving and helpful way, brought one to me to get me through the conference this past weekend. [I know, I know. We'll talk about it soon. Soon. I promise.] Now, while I don't react to this potable the way I can react to McDonald's sweet tea, which is served in the handy keg size, I'm pretty sure I act like a squirrel on speed when I drink this.

Hmm? The sweet tea reaction? Oh, nothing, really. A little excitable, a little louder than usual, talking a bit more like an auctioneer than I normally do. And my blood pressure spiked to 170/120. But other than that, nothing much.

One of the loveliest things Debbie's done for me recently is introduce me to a group of her friends online. Nice, nice people. Nice people who happen to be brilliant and knowledgeable about many things including...

Dogs. How gorgeous are these German Shepherd dogs???? I know!!!

In my current WIP, my hero has a GSD and I really, really wanted to described them accurately and fairly. Plus, the hero and his dog are work partners.

And if one is going to write about these brave people and their awesome dogs...

...one ought to be accurate. Not that anyone asked, but it's really not asking much.

Day Three of NaNoWriMo. 1,667 words to write today. Some of them spelled correctly.

HELP!

Recipe Demands

2011-11-02T09:48:00.000-07:00

It was Soup Day again yesterday! I made nothing!!

Okay, that's not entirely true. I made shortbread, the easiest thing in the world to make. It doesn't even count as making anything because it's just that easy. At least when one shows up with a bag of chips, she's "made" a trip to the store.

I also contributed turkey fake-chiladas, that were left over from the Halloween potluck on Monday, which brings me to the point of this little discussion.

Evidently, I do not share recipes sufficiently. Who knew?

After being roundly scolded for not posting the recipe for last week's white bean soup---it's SOUP! I threw stuff in a stock pot! There's no actual recipe!!! That's crazy talk!---I have decided to post the recipe for the fake-chiladas.

Fine. We'll talk soup, too, though I warn you now, these will only be vague gesturings towards instruction. I'll try harder next week. X-ray Vicki has decreed that next week's Soup Day will be Wednesday. No, she did. Really. Look.

So sayeth the Lord.

I think Vicki issued this decree because Smooth and Groovy Steve [also from X-ray] was incensed that Soup Day hadn't been scheduled on the one day of the week he works in this building.

NB: By incensed, I mean that the smooth-and-groovy, I'm-taking-illicit-substances-in-very-small-dosages smile that usually lives on his face had been momentarily replaced by an expression vague distress. He is, after all, still Smooth and Groovy Steve.

So. The white bean soup. Here we go.

First, I rinsed a package of dried white beans, then threw them, with great force and callousness, into a Crock Pot, drowning them with a bunch of water. The beans had 12+ hours, overnight, to think about what they'd done. After agreeing their behavior was unacceptable, they were drained and set aside.

In the meantime, leeks, celery, onions and shallots were chopped soundly and sauteed in olive oil. Really, some vegetables...! Because everyone was a little quiet, red chili peppers were chopped and tossed in. There was a small fistfight. Then vegetable stock and the beans were added. Everyone spent a little time getting to know one another, then quinoa, arborio rice and carrots joined the party. Johnny-come-latelys. Pfft. After all of this, I ignored the lot of them and magically, it became soup.

I should totally write a cookbook.

Moving on: Chicken [or turkey] Fake-chiladas. You may ask, "Lisa Marie, why are they fake-chiladas?" You may ask, "Lisa Marie, does the inclusion of turkey make any real difference in this dish?" You may ask, "Lisa Marie, isn't it time to get your meds adjusted?"

To the last question, I laugh mockingly in tandem with my other imaginary friend. We scoff at you and your meds!!

To the middle question, I assure you, both chicken and turkey work very well.

To the first question, I can attest that any recipe that starts with Campbell's Cream of Anything is not authentic Mexican cuisine. It just isn't. These are only real enchiladas if you grew up in Minnesota. And if you did grow up in Minnesota, please do not add lutefisk.

Chicken Fake-chiladas

2 cans cream of chicken soup [condensed]
1 cup sour cream
1 bunch of green onions, chopped
1 can mild green chiles, diced
6 chicken breasts, cooked and chopped
8 ounces cheese [cheddar, colby, pepperjack, whatevah], shredded
12 big flour tortillas or 24 taco-sized ones

1. Mix together soup, sour cream, chiles and green onions, then reserve 1 cup of this slurry. Ignore the pouting and complaining about "being left out."
2. Stir in the chicken [or turkey, 6 cups or so] and HALF of the shredded cheese. You won't have to listen to the same whining from the shredded cheese. Shredded cheese knows it sits on top and is really rather smug about it.
3. Slather tortillas with chicken mixture and roll up. If you're especially cool and impressive, you can fold up the sides and make burrito-type pockets. Be sure to do a lot of hair-tossing if this is your method.
4. Swish reserved soup goop over the top, pausing to accept its abject apologies. Sprinkle remaining cheese over that. Block out its incessant bragging.
5. Bake 350 degrees for 45 minutes, or microwave on high for 5-10 minutes, depending on the brutality of your microwave.
6. Fall upon fake-chiladas and inhale like the ravening beast you are.

Voila.

NaNoWriMo

2011-11-01T12:25:00.000-07:00

National Novel Writing Month. It started today. I signed up for it. Rather obviously, dear one, it's a challenge to write a novel in a month. Hence the name. I know! How clever is that?

It's not really a whole novel. It's 50,000 words. Okay, it could be a short novel. But it's an interesting challenge. It works out to be 1,667 words per day, a little under seven pages if one uses Courier 12 font.

Unless one is a dialogue whore in her writing. Ahem.

C'est moi.

Anyway, it's a fair chunk per day. It's not easy. It's especially not easy on days that I work 12+ hours, and arrive at the workplace 1.5 hours before my shift starts because I care about the planet and I carpool. And they give you a bit of money if you carpool. Not tons. But a bit.

Curse my greed and/or conscience!!!

In theory, I could write almost 1,667 words before starting my workday. If I were a faster writer. And a morning person. I gave it a shot today. 432 words.

Yeah.

So all I have to do is quadruple that. No problem!

I don't tell you this to whine--okay, not just to whine. Whining, after all, is as much an art form as bitching and complaining. And by-the-bye, I've never understood it when people say in response to a query of their well-being, "Oh, I can't complain!" Really? You can't? Mm. You're just not trying hard enough, then. I can always complain. But then, that is one of my gifts.

Wait, this wasn't my point. What was my point...oh, yes. The reason I'm telling you about this challenge. Well.

Well.

This month might not be the bloggorific experience we all might wish to have, darling invisible friend. I shall do my level best to blog, and fer chrissakes, to blog about something besides this delightful challenge.

But please forgive me if this isn't the case. It is, after all, my latest obsession.

How long could it possibly last?

Who was on LM watch????

2011-10-31T18:50:00.000-07:00

Darling invisible friend, I have returned! Did you miss me? Did you cry?

Can you fake it? Sheesh. All right, then.

But I'm back! A bit tired, thanks for asking, but back. I have once again attended the Emerald City Writers Conference.

No, sadly, actual emeralds were not given out. But I did get to see some dear friends and buy waaaaay too many books at the book fair. I believe my credit card's exact words were, "Are you ___ing kidding me????"

Sadly, I was not.

The problem was, Roommate was not with me and no one else was on Lisa Marie watch. If I am left unattended...

...things happen.

But oh! A little bird in Pennsylvania told me she was disheartened by some of her usual favorites in the world of romance writing. She asked, via comment on my Betty Neels post, for suggestions of a great read. I present unto you, Birdwoman...

Julia Quinn.

I love Julia Quinn. She doesn't know me from Adam--or Eve, rather. I would assume she could differentiate me from Adam. She's very clever, you know. And I don't know her personally. But I love her books. It's happy reading. It's some of the sweetness of Betty Neels with just a drop of Cherry Adair-type spice to give it some heat. It's hot chocolate with a pinch of cayenne pepper. Or whiskey!

Mmm. Whiskey.

Anyway. I was able to talk to JQ at the bookfair offered by the conference and I fear she thought I was gushing a bit, but I told her the truth. I did worry when an eight-book series she wrote ended, that I wouldn't enjoy her newer stories as much. Wow, was I happy to be wrong. Normally, I don't enjoy being wrong. There's sulking involved. Copious volumes of chocolate are often consumed. I can admit to you, darling one, that I am, sadly, not above a snarky comment. But in this case, I wasn't snarky. I may even have burbled a bit.

Oh, like you've never burbled. Pfft.

I did have a nice time. And I had some very interesting things happen, too, but we will discuss them later. Yes, we will. Yes, we will. Because I have a Julia Quinn book to read.

Happy sigh. It's happy reading.

Soup Reply

2011-10-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

A comment was made on Soup Day, as follows:

Remind me why I left podiatry again....because this alone solely would have
kept me there!! I miiiiiiiiss soooooup daaaay!!! (that's me complaining and
smacking my head against the wall)

-Jamie

Oh, Jamie. Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Darling one, you can ALWAYS have soup! People come from other buildings, other work satellites, on Soup Day. Why should you be excluded???

NB: I did try to reply to the lovely and talented Jamie via the comment section of my blog, but evidently, according to Blogger.com, I am not authorized to comment. On my own blog.

Yeah.

Blogger is NOT invited to Soup Day. Pfft. That'll teach it.

Today's Word of Advice

2011-10-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

This is Alaska Fish Fertilizer. It's made from fish. Long dead, deeply rotted fish. This makes me think of my friend Carole.

No, no! Not like that! I'll explain.

Carole has Shetland sheepdogs, AKA shelties. This is a sheltie:

Carole has four of them, in fact. Her darling husband Roger refers to the grouping as a "spasm of shelties." Evidently, it's a herd of cattle, a pod of whales, a pride of lions....and a spasm of shelties. Who knew?

Anyway.

Carole was walking her spasm by a river near her home when her furry children spotted a salmon that had washed ashore and partially rotted on the riverbank. The four of them surrounded the dead fish and had after a good sniff, and before Carole, now running, could stop them, they fell as one upon the fishy corpse and commenced rolling in the stink.

Look at the picture of the sheltie again. Now, imagine, if you will, that small mountain of fur saturated with rotting fish stench and goop.

Yes, goop is the technical term. Add it to your notebook.

I thought of Carole today as I was dealing with my own wee beastie. In the process of trying to get her to do her business outside, I knocked over and shattered a four-year-old bottle of Alaska Fish Fertilizer. Did you know that a shattered bottle of fish fertilizer actually spatters as it shatters? It does. Oh, it does.

Word of advice? If you have the opportunity to shatter and spatter a bottle of fish fertilizer...

...Just say NO.

Soup Day Returneth.

2011-10-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

It's a cool-ish day, dear one. Not yet 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and the weather people tell me that it should only top out at 51. Yes, they told me. No, they didn't call, but the guy was looking right at me as he gave his report. To whom else would he have been speaking??? I was alone in the room.

Anyway, it turned out to be the perfect day for Soup Day. Vicki and Shelley brought bread and Adriane brought cookies. Yum!

And I made this:

It's white bean soup. I added arborio rice and quinoa, because beans alone do not provide complete proteins for humans. One must add a grain. And arborio rice makes it taste almost creamy. Mmmm!

Adriane was mocking me earlier, which is surprising. I have the power to deny her soup, after all.

NO SOUP FOR YOU!!!!!!

She was teasing me because I told her that I usually do a "safety" soup as well as a main soup. I shall explain.

Yes, I shall. Why is this always a surprise to you?

Say I make a variation on French Onion soup and it's a Tuesday. Nina the X-ray tech, who arrives at 2PM and works until close, won't be able to have any. She doesn't eat red meats. So...say I make a chicken noodle soup. Lisa, the PA from Ear, Nose & Throat, won't be able to have any of it because she's gluten intolerant. Actually, so is Leanne from the Walk-In Clinic. So they wouldn't be able to have any soup. Dari is lactose intolerant, so clam chowder would kill her, and Coley, Nathan and Tyler are all vegetarians. Harlan is vegetarian who also doesn't eat eggs and Rezia is Muslim and doesn't consume any pork products or alcohol. No beer or wine in her soup.

And I make an awesome beer and cheddar soup. Just saying.

So. I make whatever soup I want to make as a rule, then I make a safety soup. It's usually in the smaller Crock Pot. But today, I didn't have to do this because my main soup is vegan, gluten-free and low fat. We pulled out a small container for Vicki before I added the rest of the vegetable stock, as Vicki [and her husband] are watching their sodium intake very closely.

Oh, stop that. It's good. If I hadn't told you it was vegan, low fat and gluten free, you wouldn't even notice. What are you, five???

My point is, no mockery was necessary. After all, what's the point of making soup for everyone if everyone can't enjoy it?

Plenty of soup. Are you headed over?

Warning: Ickiness Ahead

2011-10-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

If you have a delicate stomach, darling one, please, please read no further. Under other circumstances, I might be able to discuss last night's debacle in a more tasteful manner, but right now, I'm too darn tired to employ any such socially acceptable communication. You understand.

Get comfy. Tired doesn't mean silent for me. I think you already knew this, too.

I had gotten to bed late-ish. Bad idea on a Sunday night, with the 12+ hour shift looming over me the next day, but...I don't claim to be that clever, do I? I was getting ready to email the recipe for Nurse Wendy's birthday cake [it's a bundt] when Roommate tapped on my bedroom door.

"Did Bailey get in to anything?"

I had been in the kitchen earlier, preparing for the first Soup Day of the season, so this was a reasonable question. I told Roommate I felt he hadn't and was informed that Bailey had been "sick" in the bed.

Yeah. That kind of sick.

I climbed out of bed and hurried into Roommate's room to find that Bailey had, indeed, been repeatedly ill, most frequently while still under the covers. Some on top of the covers. Still more on the bedroom carpet.

Did I mention that Roommate had just stripped and remade her bed that very evening? Yeah.

Bailey was so distressed, in fact, that he ran into the living room and vomited there. Several times. Since his evening would surely be incomplete with only vomit as his visitor, diarrhea was then invited to the party. We found him huddled under the dining room table, dribbling bile and foam.

He's fine. As we were washing the sheets, the mattress cover, the comforter cover, the down comforter, several blankets and countless towels, he crept over to the couch and had snuggle time with me, and the next morning, was completely himself again.

Roommate spent some deep and meaningful time with the steam cleaner and once again, peace and harmony reigns over the household.

Gah.

Dogs. Still easier than kids. Right?

Nurse Wendy's Birthday Cake

2011-10-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

This is the cake I made for Wendy for her birthday.

It's a bundt.

This is the top of the cake I made for Wendy for her birthday.

It's still a bundt.

This is the inside of the cake I made for Wendy for her birthday.

It's still a bundt, but here you can see the sheer magnitude of cream cheese frosting slathered over the top of it. Why did I slather four pounds of frosting on a one-pound cake, you may ask? I shall tell you.

This is the pan I used to make the cake for Wendy for her birthday.

It's a Williams-Sonoma Heritage Bundt pan. It makes very, very pretty cakes. If, however, one does not use a half a pound of butter or three-quarters of a can of nonstick spray, the pan will hold on to the cake with the desperate grip of a teenager on to the ankle of her favorite pop star. It isn't pretty.

Guess what happened.

Yup.

So, the cake parts had to be reassembled after being prised from the bundt pan's clutches, and unless I wanted to present Wendy with Frankencake, something had to be done. So it was. Something was done. Something involving butter and powdered sugar and vanilla and a vat of cream cheese.

If the cake imperfections cannot be seen, do they really exist? A little cake philosophy for you.

So the cake was slathered. And the imperfections were covered. And the cake and slathering substance were good. And a light shone down and peace reigned. For five minutes.

Until the fat and cholesterol hardened everyone's arteries and paramedics had to be called.

Hey, if you're making an omelette, or a bundt cake, for that matter, you gotta break some eggs.

The Toes Have It.

2011-10-22T23:15:00.000-07:00

I was going to write you a quick note yesterday, darling invisible friend, to let you know how the first session with the personal trainer went. I was going to do this, but it all turned out like this:

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

So I decided against it.

Anyway, despite the massive "discomfort" of being two days past a workout, Roommate and I had the distinct pleasure of spending time with the lovely and delightful Laura. Laura is married to one of my favorite people, coworker John. We love John, but after having spent time with Laura, he may have to move down on the Favorites List.

She's just that good. We plan on keeping her.

No, we haven't consulted her. Why do you ask?

So we stole Laura away today and forced her to have a ladies' day with us and yes, of course, pedicures were involved. It was lovely and afterward, we just felt so darn pretty, we went lingerie shopping.

No, I won't go on about that part.

Then it was off to lunch and talking talking talking. I even let Roommate and Laura get a word in. I did, so.

All in all, it was such a nice day. Good friends, good food. Three televised games of hockey after we got home. A fire in the fireplace. A clove-cinnamon bundt cake cooling in the kitchen. Dogs sleeping soundly. It almost makes up for the fact that my abdominal muscles keep screaming at me every time I move.

Ow.

And that's when the fight started.

2011-10-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

My Fabulous Neighbor came to dinner last night and was, as usual, lovely. We adore her, Roommate and I. Not quite to the following-her-around, making-a-shrine-with-surreptitiously-snapped-photographs level, but adore her, none the less. When we are so fortunate to spend time with her, however, my thoughts inevitably turn to plastic surgery.

What? No! No, no, no. She's lovely, I told you that. No, she happens to work for a plastic surgeon, that's all. I can't tell you how reassuring that is to me, on a strictly selfish level.

No comments from the peanut gallery, please.

The thing is, assuming that my endeavors to lose more than half of my body weight are successful, I'm going to have to get a little tailoring on the birthday suit. I don't know how much tailoring, obviously; I haven't reached that goal weight and I have no idea how my skin will react. As we all know, I'm not in my first bloom of youth.

Seriously, peanut gallery. I'm about to make peanut butter.

Anyway. I feel fairly confident that no matter what "work" is to be done, the breast lift will have to be on the list. Even if I were to stay at this weight, I'm tired of the Girls looking so depressed all the time. We've talked about it.

Me: Perk up, already!

The Girls: Why? [This said in mournful, Eeyore-like tones.]

Me: People are talking to you! Look 'em in the eye, for Pete's sake!!

Left: It's Right's fault. She has that...divot.

Right: That wasn't my fault!

Me: That's right, Right. It's wasn't your fault. It was a mass. And you look...fine.

Right: [more depressed than ever] No, I don't.

Me: No one's complained about it. [Meaningful look as Left snorts in derision.]

Right: That's because no one stays around long enough to notice.

Me: Hey! That's---

Left: That's true. And it doesn't matter how many people offer to buy us drinks---

Right: ---You don't let us drink anymore.

Me: Well, you two are irresponsible drinkers.

The Girls: We are not.

Me: You are, too. Remember what happened last time?

[A brief, uncomfortable silence.]

Right: That was Left's fault.

Left: Excuse me?

Right: Excuse you, all right, with the tassel?

Left: Um, I wasn't the one on the table.

And that's when the fight started.

I tell you, some days in the Peanut Gallery are hell.

Oh, Betty.

2011-10-19T09:08:00.000-07:00

I've been on a Betty kick, dearest invisible friend. And for once, it's not the Crocker I mean.

Betty Neels. Oh, beloved and lovely Betty Neels. She is the epitome of sweet-romance authorhood, the apex of writers of the pristine love story. I adore her work.

Sadly, I will never get to meet Mrs. Neels, as she passed in 2001, but she lives on in more than 134 novels and novellas. 134. That's right. Oh, sure, Nora Roberts has her beat. And Nora Roberts is still alive and writing. But Nora Roberts is an alien life form and no rational comparisons can be made between her and any other writer. On the planet. Ever.

But still!! 134 stories in print! Not bad for a woman who started writing after she retired from nursing. Her first book was published when she was sixty years old, and man oh man, does that give me hope.

How sweet is she????

She was in her local library, evidently, when another patron was bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. And Betty, God bless her, was obviously a fixer. She started writing and continued for the next thirty years.

Nursing cap off...

Writer's hat on!

Her heroes are almost all Dutch doctors, an amalgam of the doctors with whom she worked during WWII. She married a Dutchman, too, so she knew of their hotness. [Hey, she wrote the stories!] Occasionally, the hero would be an English doctor. Once, he was an architect, but it was uncomfortable for everyone.

Anyway. Her heroines are nice English girls, some pretty, most very plain with one outstanding feature. Lovely eyes, killer smile, blah blah blah. But for the most part, not the hot tamales one might expect. I love that.

Every now and then, there's another woman. She is invariably lovely and beautifully dressed, but a hideous person. The reader may feel quite comfortable in hating her. I love that, too!!

Beety Neels' books are classic and formulaic mid-to-late century romance novels. They're sweet and adorable and brain cand---no, they're not even that. They're brain cotton candy. Fluffy. Easy. And best of all...

Filled with loving descriptions of glorious food.

No matter what, when I read a Betty Neels book, I must have snacks. Oh, darling, the eating in these books! Teas and breakfasts and cream buns with coffee! Divine dinners at restaurants the heroine could never afford! Late suppers thrown together by the hero's inevitably devoted and culinarily gifted housekeeper!

Sandwiches. Scones. Clotted cream and "lashings" of jams and jellies. Silver teapots and tissue-thin teacups and saucers.

Madeira cake and more tea, always more tea in the afternoon. Beautiful china plates filled with delicacies and nibbles, bites and just-one-more.

Bread and butter and toast with preserves and buttered, toasted teacakes. And butter. With butter. And then some butter. Excuse me, may I have some butter with that?

Weight Watchers????? What's that?

Trepidation.

2011-10-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Darling invisible friend, life, as I know it, is over.

Of course I'm being melodramatic. What are you, new? Have you met me? I thought we had this aspect of me firmly established.

And yes, I am going to whine. Get the cheese.

Not that kind. The good kind. No, I'll wait. No rush.

[foot tapping]

All right, let me see...yes, much better choice. Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. End of the world.

Roommate has located a personal trainer for us. I know. All I can say is:

ARG!!!!!!!

We met with her last night. She's a delightful creature, really, despite her blonde prettiness and relentless fitness. I am trying not to hold this against her. She is, and I shudder as I type this, enthusiastic about working with us.

Gah.

While she is appropriately priced, even seeing her once a week will outstrip the costs of my dog's water therapy. And while this is a perfectly reasonable amount of money to spend on this type of service, the thought of spending the equivalent of a monthly car payment on exercise and other tortures is pretty horrifying to me. I would far rather spend that money elsewhere, on other things. Like a car.

And she's going to make us do things that involve core strength, of all horrors. We're going to be required to do cardio things at home. She "likes running."

Why is it no one will shoot me??????

It's not even 2012 and the world is ending. Bet the Mayans never saw this coming.

Giggling here

2011-10-14T21:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, I realize this is a non-blog today, but darling one, you have to see this. This kills me.

BP Wings

Heeheehee!!!!

And I didn't even cheat this time.

2011-10-13T10:31:00.000-07:00

Darling invisible friend, I haven't bored--ahem, regaled you with tales of drama and woe lately, have I? Oh, you're right, let me be specific. I haven't regaled you with tales of drama and woe in regards to Weight Watchers lately, have I?

And by lately, I mean within the last five minutes.

Obviously, your abuse level is sadly diminished. We shall rectify this immediately.

Yes, we do "have to." Silly rabbit.

So last week, I had an...unsuccessful weigh-in. Oh, it was successful in that I stepped on the scale and my weight was accurately measured, but my numbers went up. Not down. Up.

Btw, they're aren't supposed to do that. In case you wondered.

Anyway, I gained--gained! Gah!!--3.6 pounds last week. 1.5 kilograms for the metrically-minded.

I found this distressing.

Much like the time I met with an endocrinologist. Delightful man. I adore him. I sat in his exam room and showed him the diet diary and exercise logs I'd been keeping, and told him, "To work this hard, and to have gained weight is [pause in which I struggled for self-control and verbal filters] distressing."

My doctor, who was born and raised in western Oklahoma, stared at me incredulously for a moment then uttered these words:

"Yer not distressed, yer pissed off."

Love that man.

Anyway. I had gained 3.6 pounds/1.5 kg, and for this, I blamed Roommate. Okay, it wasn't all her fault. But it was partly her fault. Why? Because she is TURBO HORMONE WOMAN.

I shall explain. You see, it doesn't matter how anyone else is cyclically situated. Enough time with Roommate, and all cycles will be synced to hers. I was fine, until Roommate started her hormonal surge and then, WHAMMO! Cramps, bloating and salt cravings--oh my! Yes, I ate an ocean's worth of salt that week. Yes, I was retaining water like Hoover Dam. But was it because of my timing? No. No. All hers.

I think Roommate should dress up as THW for Halloween. Do you think there'd be a cape requirement for this costume?

Anyway.

I made not-so-great food choices, ate an insufficient volume of produce and voila, 3.6 pounds. I wasn't freaked out or ridiculously upset; I figured I'd earned part of it. And on the upside, Roommate was much less upset by her own 2.4 pound gain, as it was significantly less than my gain. Competitive little snot that she is.

I say that with love, btw.

This week was going to be different. I knew it. Roommate knew it. She was a trifle downcast--no, not downcast. That's too much for Roommate and her famous even keel. She wasn't filled with hopeful anticipation. After all, for a net loss to occur, she would have to lose more than 2.4 pounds. Her hope was to have lost the 2.4 pounds she'd gained, though, she said in an Eeyore-like fashion, this would mean she had just stayed the same for two weeks in a row. I suggested that she might have lost all of 3 pounds, making her average weight loss for the past two weeks a whopping 0.3 pounds per week!

And I got a Look.

You can imagine my delight when Roommate actually did lose 3 pounds. Heh. No, I didn't say I told you so. I wanted to. But I didn't. Well, I said something, but it wasn't exactly that.

Yes, this does, too, count.

Now, in regards to my weigh-in, I was a trifle more reserved. I knew that losing a nice round [no pun intended] number like 4 pounds would give me a two-week average of 0.2 pounds per week. I also knew that I had only lost that much weight once before. Realistically, my recovery from this gain would likely take more than one weigh-in.

By-the-bye, I don't think 4 is a particularly round number. It's really rather pointy. Look at it.

But I digress.

I congratulated Roommate and stepped on the scale. And...

5 pound loss.

I have no idea how it happened. But I will take it.

Virtue versus vice.

2011-10-12T08:30:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed, dear one, that virtue or vice is in the eye of the beholder? If one waits around for things, she might be described as patient, that lovely, impossible virtue, or...she might be described as sedentary. Lazy. Unmotivated.

If one is expressive in feeling and point of view, one might be described as open, frank, no-nonsense, forthright. Others will say, however, that one is opinionated, loud, rude and pushy.

Tomato. Tomahto. Let's call the whole thing off.

So...not to name any names, but let's just say someone called...hm...oh, let's go with "LM," shall we? Yes, perfect. Let's say "LM" is teetering on the brink of termination. The ugly, Arnold-Schwarzenegger-on-a-motorcycle type of termination, too. Now, LM [as we have agreed to call her] is very aware of the tenuousness of her position and has taken steps to reduce the chances of homelessness and starvation should this occur. She has applied for other positions within her current company. She has applied for open positions outside of her company. She has a solid Plan B.

In this case, Plan B would mean emptying out the 401k she's been building for the last seven years and, after a brief period of sobbing as the taxes and fees are deleted, she would live on this and focus exclusively on writing and marketing her work.

Plan B doesn't sound half-bad, does it? In fact, given that LM wishes to make her living as a published author, this sounds a bit like a dream come true. Okay, a dream come true with a finite boundary. The 401k isn't that large. Maybe a year, year and a half's worth of writing time.

Boy, doesn't that sound great! So great, in fact, one might wonder why LM hasn't already implemented Plan B. And this is where the question of virtue and vice comes into play.

If LM quits her current hell-job, empties her 401k and sets to writing, she may be demonstrating courage. It takes tremendous courage to pursue a dream without a safety net. On the other hand, without a backup plan to the backup plan, she might be merely foolhardy.

I think the difference in courage and foolishness is, sadly, dependent on the outcome. Edmund Hillary was wildly courageous in his venture to climb Mt. Everest. [Good job, Ed! Way to go, buddy!!] If he had failed to reach the summit or died in the attempt, how many people would have called him courageous? How many people would have called him a freakin' moron?

"Did you hear? The Hillary kid bit it trying to climb that big-ass
mountain."
"Ah, jeeze. His poor parents. What the hell was he thinking?"
"I don't know that he was thinking. What an idiot."

Hillary, himself, might have thought the very same thing as he was falling into a crevasse, had he done so. "WTF was I thinking????? God. I hate when my mother's right." Maybe. Maybe Mrs. Hillary was a lovely woman.

But this is hardly the point.

Let's just say LM takes a deep breath, tenders her resignation, dives into the deep end of unemployment and complete lack of health care benefits. She writes. She submits proposals to editors and agents. She writes some more. Is she brave? Valiant, even? Undaunted by life's vagaries? Or did she just blow seven years of retirement savings a mere twenty/twenty-five years before her age of retirement? Has she destroyed any chance of buying her home? Has she completely lost her mind?

Henri Matisse once said that creativity required courage. True enough, but as I ponder that, I am reminded something brilliant my friend M has said to me:

Creativity is a prerequisite to survive your own courage.

Which, then, is the best choice? Creativity-bred courage? Or caution?

Very lazy.

2011-10-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

Hello, dearest invisible friend. I want you to know that I know I'm being a lazy blogger. I do. I'm simply not able to think too deeply right now. If I do, I will recognize that aspects of my life [coughJOBcough] add up to an absolute suckfest, and I will either burst into tears, spiral down into a depression or walk my sizable ass out of here, giving everyone the finger on the way out.

Not everyone deserves that. A few people, oh, sure. All that and more. But not everyone.

Anyway. I'm in a travel mood. Okay, I'm in a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here mood and no one has offered me any of the jobs for which I have applied. Not dwelling. Just saying.

But back to travel. Look!

Isn't that gorgeous? Here in the Pacific Northwest, we don't get quite as much fall color, so the idea of being surrounded by all this gorgeousness is very tempting. I don't think I'd have to go back to Maine, but wouldn't a little leaf-peeping drive be nice today?

My Fabulous Neighbor and I were chatting about the travel bug just recently. Of course, we were chatting about cats, too, so maybe this doesn't interest you as much, as you have not had the distinct pleasure and privilege of meeting Fabulous Neighbor. You only wish you had a neighbor this fabulous. And funny! No, really. We were talking about my friend Karina's cat and his hoarding tendencies.

I am serious. Well, when you pick up a couch to move it out of an apartment and you find all the plastic bits from milk jugs and juice containers, barrettes, small plastic toys and every other small thing you haven't been able to find in the last six months, and your cat has a look of "Oh CRAP! Hey! Hey! That's my stuff! That's my stuff!" then you know your cat is a hoarder. FN was ready to call TLC right then. She even started practicing the voice-overs.

Tonight, on TLC....Cat Hoarders! [Not the kind you
think!] Fluffy has buried for years!
"Okay, Fluffy, I'm just putting the stuffing in this box..."
"No! I need that! Hey, leave that scratching post alone!!
I told you, I still use that!!!!!"

FN is still working with a production team on the details. But this isn't where I was going with this.

FN and I have talked about places to go and see, and my list of travel spots. As I'm mentioned, Roommate and I will go to Italy when we reach our goal weight. But in the meantime, there are other, equally or nearly as fabulous place to visit. Like Newfoundland.

Newfoundland. Home of Great Big Sea. And a few other people. Very nice people, I'm sure; I just don't know them by name. Look.....

This is Cabot Tower. Evidently, the FIRST Trans-Atlantic wireless message was sent from this spot! How cool is that? And isn't it pretty?

Almost as pretty as this.

Ahhhh. I could get used to a view like this. You know, when it isn't raining. Or snowing. Or hurricaning.

Yes, I realize that this is not a real word. Go with it.

And look at this!

When icebergs from Greenland and Iceland calve [bits break off of the giant icebergs] the baby icebergs like to travel south to Newfoundland. I think they like the music. Yes, that's it. I'm sure most icebergs are HUGE Great Big Sea fans.

Siiiiigh.

Give ten minutes to pack and grab my passport.

No Coherent Thought Today

2011-10-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

Darling one, today is the day. Hockey season has arrived. The Canadiens play the Maple Leafs at four o'clock my time, the Flyers play the Bruins at the same time, and--AND the Canucks play the Penguins at seven. Yes, I am drumming my feet in excitement.

So, since I have no capacity for coherent thought today, I shall offer you this. Because it made me giggle.

Oh, Betty. How brilliant you are.

A gift from Stephanie

2011-10-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

My delightful ex-coworker Stephanie sent me this:

Oh, come on! It's a little funny. Heh.

Hey, isn't that a Red Flag?

2011-10-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

I looked in at the Mister-Right-Now dating site today, just to see if anyone had emailed me. While I was there, a chat window popped up. I was feeling brave, or perhaps just cavalier, so I accepted the chat.

Jim, or Canada40, seems a pleasant fellow. He is, surprisingly, from Canada. I know! Whodathunkit. Anyway, after initial greetings were exchanged, he asked if I would be willing to go to Vancouver to meet.

Blink.

While I've traveled farther to meet men, it did seem a little quick off the mark, and I suggested we see how things went before we worried about my traveling to Vancouver. Not that I mind such a short drive. Not that I haven't driven to Vancouver for Coffee Crisp and Hungarian sausage. But still.

When I asked him the same question, he responded with the information that he did not come to the US.

No passport.

Okay.

As I redirected the conversation to one of my favorite topics, hockey, Jim seemed willing to discuss this delightful pastime. He asked which teams I followed and seemed to approve of my favorites.

NB: One cannot assume that all Canadians are interested in hockey. That would be a stereotype. Okay, it's accurate some of the time. A lot of the time. Most of the time. But not all of the time.

In a very short amount of time, Jim posed a new question to me, one I can only assume was based on my love of watching hockey. He asked---wait for it---

--He asked if I am "feminine."

Blink.

Blink.

I replied, "Feminine? As opposed to...butch? Hm. I guess so."

Jim's response was to inquire if I liked women. I managed to reign in my initial response.

This guy is waving more high-alert flags than Red Square in the height of the Cold War. The Kremlin didn't have this much red-flag action. If I ran, I would be running away now.

God bless Border Patrol.

A Short Walk

2011-10-02T20:41:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, Roommate sent me an email at work, informing me that she'd signed us up for a breast cancer walk. It would be the first Sunday in October, she wrote, but it was only a 5K. I was bathed in relief. I can walk five kilometers.

What? I can so! Look, just because I whine and moan doesn't mean I can't walk. I...just like to avoid it. And for once, I wasn't concerned about myself.

I'm sure we all remember that Roommate's grueling 3-Day Walk was a mere two weeks previous. Her shins are still a trifle put out by her behavior. I read aloud M.'s advice to her [oh, she was so touched by the kind words! I keep forgetting to relay her thanks to all who wished her well--thank you!!!!] Naturally, being who she is, she did the walk anyway.

We are now officially out of tape. Note to self.

Oh! And we saw a woman wearing this on a hoodie:

Still giggling.

Anyway. When we arrived at the courthouse plaza, the starting point of our little walk, we were delighted to see all the dogs who had signed up to participate. Conveniently, they brought their humans along. Roommate and I realized then that we could have brought our beasties, too.

Of course, it was probably a good thing we didn't bring the furry children. They tend to get a little excited when meeting new people. Well, Bailey and Tuppence Marie get "excited." Maddie....rouses from her coma.

Hey, she's old. Don't judge.

I could just imagine what it might have been like, had we brought the dogs. Probably something like this:

Tuppence Marie: Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Here's my belly! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!

[This would sound a bit like "Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh!!!!" and have the vocal effect of a cross between a timpani and a machine gun.]

Beagle Bailey: Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi! Hi, who are you? You smell GREAT! Hi!"

[The boy dog varies between actual screaming with excitement and making a noise that sounds like, "Bow-WOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Imagine a clarinet in the hands of a sadist.]

And then there's Maddie Mae, who says: [blink blink] Hello.

Miss Maddie doesn't talk a lot. No, really. It interferes with her napping. When she does, it sounds a bit like a tuba. Or a cello. "Woo. F." She says this when she wants to go out. Or come in. Or get a cookie. Or her dinner. You know, the Important Stuff.

So there we were, dogless in another sea of pink, walking for the cure. And while I appreciate the opportunity to exercise [cough] I really think it's time to kill this disease.

After all, cancer, to use the vernacular, sucks.

And they're calorie-free!

2011-09-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

A lovely person was working in an adjoining department, filling in for one of the regular receptionists. She's very nice and good at her job and if she didn't look so dratted lovely a mere fifteen minutes after giving birth, I would like her a lot.

No, seriously. Her baby is practically fresh-squeezed and mama is already back into size -2 jeans. Gah. These people are lucky I let them live.

Anyway, after catching a glimpse of her, I had to have a quick word with her. She was chatting with another lovely person, Kristin of reception fame herself, and I approached. Ever courteous, these ladies allowed me to interrupt and I said to this young lady these respectful and caring words:

The only reason I haven't knocked you down and stolen those shoes is they
wouldn't fit me.

She understood.

What is it about shoes?
I have resisted their siren song for for far too long. So this is my plan.

For every ten pounds I lose, I get to buy a new pair of shoes. Okay, not these. That would be ridiculous. And I'd have to sell a kidney, fer chrissakes. But I get something pretty.

I can hear them, calling my name. Oh, yes. The sweet siren song of stiletto shoes.

Who really needs two kidneys?

Effects of the Inner Caveman

2011-09-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

It always happens with young men. I get a young, healthy man in my drawing booth and stick a needle in his [usually gorgeous] vein and voila, he goes kerthunk on the floor.

Kerthunk. Technical term. Write it down.

I hate this. They're usually fairly heavy and difficult to pick up, since they're all limp and dead weight-y. And the paperwork is a pain in the tookus. Really, it's very inconvenient.

Yesterday, a delightful young man sat in my booth and made it through the whole blood draw. It wasn't until he had his choice of granola bar in his little paw that he said, "I'm feeling kind of weird." Sure enough, his skin tone had taken on the shade of dead fish belly and I suggested, in a calm and loving tone, that he rest his head on the counter and try a little breathing.

It's astonishing how many people stop breathing during a blood draw. Word to the wise? Breathing = good. Go ahead, write that down too.

After alerting some staff from the walk-in clinic, a couple of nurses arrived with a wheelchair and the ability to play straight man. This is something I always appreciate, as, at that moment, I have a seriously captive audience. I introduced the nice, albeit pale, young man to the nurses and informed them sadly that I didn't think he was going to marry me now. I'd have to cancel the hall. I'd already booked the band.

Muffled chuckle. It's hard to laugh when your head is resting on your arms.

Young man was relocated to a wheelchair and rolled down to the walk-in clinic and I bid him a fond farewell, hoping he was amused rather than embarrassed. It's not their fault when they pass out, you know. It's because of their Inner Caveman.

Inner Caveman has a very strong survival instinct and encourages young men to survive when under attack. Attack. Like when someone's about to draw blood from him. Them. You know what I mean. Anyway, it usually goes something like this:

IC: What's she doing?

YM: She going to draw a little blood.

IC: This is not a good idea. That thing is a weapon. We are under attack. Stop her. Punch her in the face.

YM: Are you kidding? My parents would kill me if I hit a woman.

IC: Pffft! Fine. Then run away. Run away now. Scream like a schoolgirl if you must, but run now! Now!!

YM: I'm not going to do that. Don't be ridiculous.

IC: You won't punch this needle-wielding hag?

YM: No.

IC: And you refuse to run away?

YM: That's right.

IC: Then...[ominous pause] I am out of here.

And....kerthunk.

My most recent kerthunkee was wheeled down to the walk-in clinic and observed closely while he recovered. Evidently, he assured the nurse taking care of him that he was fine and was okay to drive himself home. As a precaution, she walked him out of the building, taking the long way, to ensure the veracity of his statements. Conveniently, they passed by the lab and let the young man say goodbye to me.

"We're still getting married," he called as he left.

Thank God I still have the dress.

One Week!

2011-09-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

Dearest invisible friend, are you as beside yourself as I am? Are you ready? Are you braced? Are you squeaking and drumming your fee on your chair?

No? Okay, just me, then. Because......

Hockey season starts in ONE WEEK!!!

Preseason has been okay, don't get me wrong. And wow, they've been handing out the head-shot suspensions left, right and center. But [sigh] it's still preseason.

On October 6th, the Philadelphia Flyers will take on the Boston Bruins, the Montreal Canadiens with face off with the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Pittsburgh Penguins with throw down with my pals, the Vancouver Canucks. Not that the Canucks realize they're my pals. But they are.

I really want the Canucks to win.

So. Thursday night. My house. The couch. You coming over?

Not my owie.

2011-09-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

Hello, dearest. Did you have a nice weekend? I do hope so. Hm? Oh, thank you, my weekend was fine. A little too full of actual work, but they refuse to pay me if I don't work.

Rude.

Anyway, my weekend was fine, but Roommate didn't have as much fun. Sigh.

Do you remember my talking about Roommate's pain tolerance? Personally, I don't get it; why would anyone want to tolerate pain? It makes no sense. If there is pain, it should be stopped immediately. And no, pain is not "weakness leaving the body," no matter what my darling ultra-fit friends say. No, it's not. No, it's not!

Look, we can quarrel about this later. The point is, Roommate is not a complainer when it comes to discomfort. It took a nearly ruptured gall bladder to get her into the walk-in clinic, so this is not necessarily the best thing. Okay, okay, I take the complaining too far in the other direction, but this is how I help the universal balance.

That smirk is not attractive, btw.

So, as we all know, Roommate walked sixty freakin' miles last weekend. Oh, excuse me, she "only" walked about fifty-five miles. Sorry. How foolish of me to exaggerate. She walked an obscene number of miles and shocker, her body was...shall we say, displeased with her? Yes. Yes, we shall.

Shin splints.

Now, surely there are more painful injuries in the world, but this one is not a barrel of laughs, dear one. Roommate has been mightily uncomfortable, so much so, she's even--wait for it---

---said something.

I know!

Yesterday, we went to the drug store and picked up supplies for this:

I have no idea if this will actually help. I vaguely remember this herringbone pattern of tape from high school, but maybe this was only useful when evading the dinosaurs.

Poor Roommate.

Added to the wishlist:

2011-09-21T08:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not a car person. I'm not. My buddy Erik, wonderful creature that he is, is a car person and likes to share car information. I like this about him. I don't understand 90% of the things he tells me and I retain almost nothing of the explanations five seconds after he's walked out the door, but he's lovely about it. He uses small words and speaks slowly.

All in all, the best kind of car guy to know. Just saying.

That being said, I don't have the appreciation for cars that many people do. Oh, I know when they're pretty, but that's as far as it goes. A high-performance vehicle is wasted on me. A Ferrari is the vehicular equivalent of a Bose stereo system to me. Very nice, but you may as well give me a mini stereo from the thrift store for all the difference I notice.

This is why driving the Cast-Iron Tank, AKA Volvo, doesn't bother me too much. Well, when I put the gas mileage out of my head. When I think about the gas mileage, I sob a little and think lustfully of this:

It's such a sensible little car, this Prius. Look at it. Designed to reduced wind resistance, not for speed, but for efficiency. I love that. And even though a gigantic Duracell lives behind the back seat, you can still put a reasonable amount of groceries in the back. Or a suitcase. Unlike this:

This upgraded roller skate...excuse me, smart car does not seem terribly smart or efficient to me. The gas mileage seems okay, but if one must drive the smart car, 93 mpg seems a reasonable expectation.

The Scion version is slightly better; it has a back seat.

Only small children and/or international fashion models can fit into the back seat, but hey! It's there, at least. One local car reviewer has an interesting test for vehicle stowage; he counts how many of the mondo Costco packs of toilet paper fit into a car. The Scion iq holds seven. Seven.

Almost worth never being able to offer anyone a ride home. Just saying.

I don't understand the two-seater vehicle. Even this gorgeous beast of a car:

I'm drawn to the Tesla, don't get me wrong, because it's a very, very, very pretty car AND because it's 100% electric. This may not actually make my brain explode with lust and longing, but there's definitely been some small popping sounds from my skull whenever I see this.

And this:

So pretty. So very, very pretty.

Okay, yeah. If I won the lottery, I'd buy one. No, I'm not holding my breath. I'm just saying.

Of course, if I won a LOT of money from the lottery people, I'd also buy one of these:

A Karmann Ghia. It's so cute! Not sensible. Not practical. It's the vehicular equivalent of puppies and tiny clothes for babies, and it, too, reduces me to high, squealing noises and incoherent babble--yes, more than usual. I just love these cars. I have no clue how much it would cost to maintain. I'm certain the gas mileage is absurd. And crash safety rating? Mmm...probably none. But I don't care. It's so darn cute!

I'm just saying.

Day Three

2011-09-18T22:47:00.000-07:00

Roommate is home again. Jiggity jig!

She's already asleep and hopefully will remain under the sweet influence of Advil PM the whole darn night, as she got very little sleep last evening. It seems the people in charge of the park that hosted the 3-Day walkers' camp forgot to switch off the automatic sprinkling system. At 0330 today, tiny pink tents were filled with water and shrieking. Yes, two-thirds of the way through a sixty mile stroll, that's what I want to happen. I want to be ripped from exhausted, pain-filled slumber into an ice-cold shower. While still in my sleeping bag.

Fortunately, Roommate's tent was not one of those awash; she was merely sleeping next to the sounds of water and screaming. Strangely, she couldn't sleep through it. Go figure.

She did, however, make it through the walk for the third time. I made it to downtown Seattle in plenty of time to park the car, find her luggage, drag it back to the car and grab a seat in the stadium until the closing ceremony. And not too surprisingly, I was a sodden mess during said ceremony.

Much like the tents.

It kills me, that ceremony. They have the volunteer staff [in gray shirts] make an aisle leading into the field, and those people cheer as the participants do the victory walk in, all in white shirts. Then, after everyone is on the field and the music is blaring and people are waving at their friends and families in the stands, things quiet down. And a small group wearing pink shirts walk onto the field.

These are the survivors of breast cancer.

As they file in, the walkers salute them and their courage by each removing one of their own shoes and holding it high as the survivors fill the center of the field. A smaller group of survivors climb the steps to a round stage in the middle of the crowd and raise dark pink flags into holders around that stage, flags that read things like "Hope," "Commitment," "Optimism," "Healing," "Strength," "Belief" and "Love." After they raise the flag in the center, calling for the cure and the end of breast cancer, they join hands to form a circle, then raise their hands in victory. They have, after all, survived until today. One of the survivors had a little trouble making it up the steps today and as the other survivors realized it, they clustered around her to help her up the stairs and lift her flag into its spot. She made it, though. Up those stairs and into her circle.

I hesitate to say that I'm "proud of" anyone else's achievements. It always makes me feel like I'm taking credit for work I didn't do. I will say this, though. I'm proud to know Roommate. I'm proud that such a strong and committed woman calls me friend. I'm proud to live among people who will walk sixty miles in three days to raise 5.3 million dollars [that's $5,300,000.00, in case you needed to see it] to find a cure and to care for those battling this beastly disease until a cure is found.

Because everybody deserves a lifetime.