public notice

if you make a date to get cybe r drunk with someone and they don't show up, it's jsut geeting drunk

The Secret of a Good Relationship

is knowing just how to manipulate each other.

You need to know exactly what buttons to push, how to tip their hand, and what they will never refuse.

Because we are totally boring, the highlight of the holiday weekend was deciding if we were going to go have burgers and fries at the local drive-in tonight or get up tomorrow and hit up a local joint for a classic southern breakfast.  WOOO HOOO

While weighing the pros and cons of going out for dinner tonight vs. getting up for breakfast . . . (The dinner at home option was bean and cheese burritos, a favorite of the Phenom's.  I make my own refried beans and they are damn tasty.)  the Phenom threw in a totally new suggestion . . . that tomorrow we head up the high way to a BBQ joint we like for lunch.  I immediately agreed that this was the best possible option, and there was dancing about.

And, then the Phenom said "this way you can have some good BBQ and we can sleep a little later." That's how I knew I'd been manipulated . . . in the best way . . . but manipulated.  He knew the offer I wouldn't turn down and he gets to sleep later in the morning.

I can always make grits or pancakes on Sunday morning.

Gadgets

I've been able to return to sleeping, for the most part.  And, every day isn't consumed with horror over the last days of the Old Woman's life.  But, the ache is still there.  Today, when a store clerk asked if I had "big plans for mother's day?" I just said no, curtly, but what I was thinking was "she's dead, what would you suggest I do?"  But, I didn't say that.

Some times the grief sneaks up on me in the most inopportune times . . . like during yoga class or during TV shows or when I have something fun and cool and groovy I know she'd love.

Like tonight.  Tonight a friend brought me a surprise giftie. A whole set of them.

Interestingly, and unknown to my friend, I actually thought long and hard about buying some of these when I was vacationing earlier this spring.  I looked at them several times, before deciding I had enough gadgets.

And, now I have a whole set.

At the time I didn't buy them, I couldn't figure out how they could possibly work.  There didn't seem to be that much to them.  I think if the store had a demonstration version, I would have bought them.

BECAUSE THEY ARE AMAZING!!!  Really!  All you do is lightly press it on top of any container.  I tried it out on a pottery bowl.  AND IT WORKS!  But, then it lifts off with the lightest touch.

The Old Woman would have loved them.  She would have put them on and off every bowl in her kitchen.  She would have regarded them as something of a miracle.

She hated plasticware because she struggled to get the lids on and off.  The last few years, she would just leave the lids off containers stashed in the fridge because it was so hard to get them on and off.  (I bought her some with screw on lids, but those also created problems after a few washings.)  These babies would have solved her problems.   And, she'll never know about this super cool thing.  And, every time I use them now, I'll be reminded that she would have loved them . . . if she'd lived just a little longer.

Refreshing

Well, after a hot spring and delightful early summer, the heat and humidity have finally arrived.  Last year's kiddie pool wasn't water tight this year, so we had to invest in a new one.  But, I think I've finally convinced Phenom that one of those above ground deals might be worth having a smallish patch of dead grass.  Perhaps next year.

My kidneys decided to do mean, terrible, horrible things to me this year . . . resulting in some rather nasty medical procedures and a variety of medications to beat them back into submission.  I now find myself in a constant state of monitoring them and catering to their unreasonable whims.  I have a prescribed minimum daily liquid intake now.  And, I try to avoid soda.  Water gets boring, ya know?

So, my student worker suggested something last week.  Frankly, she's a genius.

Chop up a small cucumber, pick several sprigs of mint from the garden, and toss it into a two quart container (with a good lid) with several ice cubes.  Shake vigorously.  Bruise the crap out of the cuke and mint.  Then, fill with water and stash in the fridge for several hours.  The resulting cucumber/mint water is light and refreshing and tastes better than plan water without any of the icky chemicals of flavor packets.  GENIUS!

Perhaps I'll try mint and lemon next.

85-point turn

Asshats abound.  But, I prevailed and resisted the urge to leave them a little note informing them of their asshattery.

The Old Man is a terrible driver.  I'm sure he was very skilled at one time, but a combination of old age, bad knees, terrible hearing, and over confidence that the paved bit of road is merely a suggestion, few people in the family will ride in a car he drives these days. 

When I was ready to learn how to drive, the Old Woman gave me my first driving lesson and then convinced the Old Man that perhaps it would be better if they left the rest of the lessons to professionals, lest I pick up any of their bad habits.  (Genius suggestion, by the way.)

When the Old Man was younger, his job often required him to drive up rugged, unpaved roads . . . or even places where there was no road.  One of the most terrifying experiences I had with the Old Man came when he decided I needed to see where, exactly, the television towers/fire look out tower that we could see off our deck were actually located.  We drove for a couple of hours up the mountain.  Up a road that had originally been cut out of the side of the mountain 20 years before but never paved, or revisited by maintenance workers since.  It was winding, narrow, and there was a 200,000,000 foot drop off the side of the planet on my side of the truck.  Once we got to the top of the mountain, and could look ahead through the windshield, and see the towers, it was time to go home.  Only, there was no place to turn around. 

The Old Man, cheerfully, explained that all you needed was 6 inches in front and 6 inches in back, and you could turn your car around.  And, then he did it.  I'm pretty sure I screamed the whole time.

Yesterday, while I was at a meeting and parked in a legitimate parking space (the last one on the line, right next to the curb) some asshat decided that rather than use a legitimate space themselves, they would just park next to the curb directly behind my car.

I used the Old Man's 85-point turn, along with much more profanity than he ever used, to get out of my space and drive away . . . never touching their car, even a tiny little bit.  YOU ARE WELCOME, ASSHAT.

1500 Posts

I have been watching the ticker creep up to 1500 for the past few months now.  I started thinking, back then, that I should do some deep thinking and links to favorite posts . . . the blog version of the episode montage.

But, I didn't really want to read over the 1500 posts to find my favorites.  I know which entry is the most read; the one where I give instructions for making gumbo.  But, as I thought about the creation and history of this blog, I realized that the best posts tended to be written about travels, foods, or when I was fuming.  Lately, I've not been cooking anything out of the ordinary, I haven't traveled enough to make posts about meals a steady feature, and I've hit a nice, even patch in life.

Then, my afternoon at work ended in such a silly and typically bizarre way, I decided I'd write about it instead of subjecting the 3 people who read this blog to any (more) navel gazing.

We were leaving after a long week.  Piles of reports are now sitting on my desk waiting to be mailed off.  Preparations for the meetings next week are well underway.  And, we'd had a full day of listening to the student intern babble.  (We call the intern "Baby")

Baby is enthusiastic.  Baby is more than willing to be used and abused in the name of her internship.  Lately, she has even been offering to buy our lunches.  So, on the way out of the office, Baby decided she should take our trash out, just in case there was food in it and just in case the regular cleaning person some how missed it.  We headed out, locked the building, joked about our drinking goals for the weekend, and she disappeared around the building with her book bag, purse, and our trash.  A few minutes passed and she didn't come back.  So I went to see if perhaps she were handing out her last dollars to homeless people, when I found her trying to figure out how to open the dumpster lids.  I asked her what what wrong, and she explained that her keys were in the hand with the trash bag, and she had tossed her keys in the dumpster too.

And, interestingly, my college education prepared me for exactly this situation.  Only, as a non-student, I have much better tools at my disposal.  I ran back to our office and grabbed the ladder and our extended reach/grabber tool.  As I returned to the dumpsters, I found baby perched on the side of the dumpster, ready to jump in.  I called to her to stop.  And then set up the ladder, climbed up, and easily reached in with the grabber.  (So much easier than the time I hoisted myself in and out of the dumpster to retrieve my roommate's keys.)  As I returned the ladder and grabber tool, my co-workers marveled that I knew exactly what to do in the situation.  I said it was why I was the boss, but really, one of my talents is being able to assess a situation pretty quickly and act.  I also pointed out to Baby that she hadn't thought through how she was going to get out of the dumpster, and you should never jump into a situation if you don't have a plan for getting out.

The Suck Up Meal

This book has been a topic of conversation around the office this week. I've always been fascinated by propaganda campaigns. I find it especially interesting that propaganda was used to convince women to ditch their children in nurseries and go to work during WWII, and then nearly the same propaganda was used to convince women that they should leave the work place and embrace motherhood again after the war. Just a few years later, women were targted for advertising campaigns that acknowledged women's place in the home but also that they might consider homemaking drudgery too.

Of course, one of the important functions of "modern" womanhood was being the perfect hostess when called upon to host the husband's boss for dinner.

Tomorrow, I'm doing a more modern version of such domesticity. I'm hosting my own boss for a luncheon. Not so much my boss, as the regional vp. And, I've invited folks from other offices in the region to join us (and to show them up with my mad skills).

We're having asian inspired food tomorrow. I'm making a Ginger Lemonade sweetened with local honey. I'm making a spicy broccoli salad. And, I'm making a version of this salad. Of course, I can't get soba noodles here, so I'll use pasta. And, I'm not going to make threads of egg crepe . . . I'll just have a few hard boiled eggs. I'm also making it fancy with boiled shrimp, and steamed asparagus. I also have a yellow bell pepper, cucumber, radishes, and cherry tomatoes. It should be pretty, and light, and tasty.

ESK will be making a pineapple upsidedown cake for the grand finale.

How could anyone compete with us?

How to Be Awesome

I recently have had the pleasure of several phone conversations with my favorite 9 year old. She and her family have moved to a new community, and I suspect the phone calls are all part of getting her settled in. She is, as always, a delight to have any sort of conversation with . . . near or far.

Apparently, I seem to be lacking in the "awesome" department lately. I, personally, blame angry birds. The fact that she totally dominates me at angry birds is due to a lack of awesomeness on my part, not age.

So, to assist me in my angry birds, she has offered some handy tips on how to be awesome.

First, she tells me, you must believe that you are awesome. Really believe it. Live the awesome. Breathe the awesome.

Second, is having other people tell you that you are awesome. She recommended that I demand that Phenom tell me that I'm awesome on a regular basis.

Third, if people will not tell you that you are awesome, you should cook them into a stew with carrots and potatoes. Afterwards, you should write up the stew recipe and sell it. She points out that this is a real money making possibility because you can have many types of stew "Bongo Stew" "Phenom Stew" "daddy stew" etc.

Now, you have it . . . go forth, and be awesome. Or eat hearty.

For A Good Cause

Every cause has it's special ribbon color. In fact, most ribbons have more than one cause to represent. This month is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and teal is the color of the rape prevention ribbon. In honor of SAAM, a bunch of us who volunteer with our local rape crisis center got a teal ribbon dyed into our hair today. What a way to represent, eh?

Bargain Hunter

A basic principle of economics is that a thing is only worth what a person is willing to pay for it.

The other day, while waiting for our food in a restaurant, I quizzed my favorite 9 year old, "How much is a penny worth? How much is a nickel worth?" and so on . . . until I said to the smarty-pants "How much is a doubloon worth?" She knew I'd asked a trick question, but she wasn't going to be out done. She looked to her father, and he said "it's worth what you're willing to pay for it." And BINGO! the kid got her first lesson in relative value.

One of my great joys comes from bargaining. It horrifies the Phenom when I'm doing it, but once I achieve a deal, it becomes a story to be retold.

This morning, I headed off to a very important civic function in a suit and toting my knock-off prada bag. I bought this bag from a street vendor in Georgetown. I don't even remember how much he originally asked for, but I told him I'd give him $20. My price was significantly less than what he asked. But, I stuck to my guns, and eventually he gave in. Phenom truly expected the vendor to rant and rave, and was incredulous when I forked over a crisp $20 for the bag.

Apparently, seeing me with the bag this morning prompted Phenom to regale his co-workers with the story. They were impressed. I think the Phenom is still a tad embarrassed.

He still blames me for a jewelry/craft shop in NOLA going out of business after I convinced the shop keeper that he could knock $20 off the cost of a pendant because I didn't want the chain . . . then the guy threw in a better, longer chain anyway.

Yummies with a side of smart ass

I'm a big fan of the homemade gift. Especially food. I have 18 "liquor loaves" ripening in my sitting room at the moment. I have 10 dozen bourbon balls in my fridge.

This week, I will be helping a friend celebrate his 60th birthday. (I'm a bit awed that I'm old enough to have friends in their 60s.) He is a huge fan of THE BROWNIES.

I've made a batch for him this evening. And, tomorrow night I will attempt to cut them into 1 inch squares and individually box each one so that he can have 60 individual brownies for his gift. I'm generous, but I'll make you pay in some way. Heh.

Watching MacGyver Pays Off

Last night, Phenom and I had a fun little date night. It was one of those dates that requires a bit of pre-planning and travel. (Highlight, my new, enormous souvenir beer mug!)

On the way home, lights and bells started going off in Phenom's car. It's one of those cars that has all sorts of bells and whistles. So many, you have to look up every single little light, chime to know if it's one that says "Gee, we like you" or one that is warning of impending doom.

These were the doom sort. All four tires had experienced a "significant loss in pressure." And, it was well after midnight.

We drove slowly to a service station and located the air pump. But, it was so dark we couldn't see the tire gauge. Until the little MacGyver in my head jumped to the front of the line. I used the light of my cell phone to illuminate the gauge. Tires were tended to . . . and finally, about 3am, we rolled into our driveway.

Now, I'm going to go fold a bit of newspaper into a machete and take care of the unruly weeds in the back yard.