This Actually Happened

You know how, when you come back from vacation, you say to yourself, "Self: Now vacation is over. You have got to get your crazing eating under control. You probably put on a few pounds, but don't panic. You just need to get right back into your regular just-a-notch-under-crazy eating habits and things will be better." You feel kind of bloated and guilty, but you decide not to dwell on that negativity and just start over, right? Well, imagine leaving your vacation with this kind of guilt and then this actually happens ....

Scene: We're leaving Florida, boarding the jet for home. As I enter the plane, the steward reads my sweatshirt and says to me, "Ahh, you've been to Siesta Key." 

By the way, I rarely ever wear words. I just don't. But I left my fashion comfort zone and bought a hot pink hoodie that clearly says, "Siesta Key."

So the steward remarks about my shirt and asks a typical question like, "Did you have a good time?" or some kind of small talk chatter. I smile, say yes, and keep moving. 

Jorge is right behind me wearing a visor which says, "Siesta Key." 

The steward then remarks to Jorge, "So you went to Siesta Key. She went to Fiesta Key, and you went to Siesta Key. Well, well!" I realize that the steward has mis-read my shirt. He is not joking; he thinks we went to two separate places. After all, he has no idea we're a couple. 

So he made a mistake, but who holds up a line going into the death tube in the sky to make that kind of trivial correction? (Also by the way, regarding my fear of flying, the pilot was playing Words With Friends as we entered, not exactly a pilot-y activity, if you ask me. He should have been reading up on physics or something. And did I mention we saw the Denzel movie "Flight" while we were in FL? Eek.)

As I said, though, I was about to let the error pass, when I hear the steward say, "So she ate and you slept, huh?" Jorge laughs nervously and says, "Yeah." And the steward chuckles and says, "Well, that's what it looks like: she ate and you slept!" 

?????????????? Excuse me? (They don't make enough incredulous question marks for me to type here.)

So I look over my shoulder and protest, "HEY." 

And you should have seen those two bucks in the glare of my white hot stare. I think the steward realized what he had done, and Jorge just hurried me on down the aisle to avoid being thrown off the plane if I should  stop everything and file a formal complaint about the steward calling me fat.

Once we sit down, I say, "What was THAT??" Mocking the steward I go on, '"You look like you slept, but she looks like she ate for the duration of the vacation." "I mean, what was THAT?"

And then like a good toady, Jorge says to me, "You know who he sounds like?" 

"No, I don't."

"Like that donkey in Shrek!" 

Jorge is a comical genius and diplomat. I let the steward live and keep his job knowing that when I lumber around talking with all that food hanging out of my mouth like sloppy water grass out of a hippo's mouth, at least I don't sound like a cartoon donkey. 

So we land and decide to eat at Cracker Barrel. Just as I finish my meal, our server stops at our table and remarks: "Wow. You're done already?! Gee, you didn't have to hurry through it like that. Wow. No need to chow down. Take your time and enjoy your food!" etc., etc.

???????????????????????  Are you SERIOUS??

I can't even tell you what else he said because I was in the Land of Disbelief - that a server would say that to a  customer--a female--ME!

And he didn't even sound like a donkey. 

So here I am, back in the land of the Non-Beach-Dwelling Corn-Fed People, two days before Thanksgiving.

I think I'll have TWO pieces of pie Thursday, in honor of my two biggest cheerleaders. Or maybe think of them ever so fondly when I see turkeys roasting in ovens. 

And so here is another post filed under, "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up." But I don't. This actually happened ...

I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up

I've been walking (well, twice now) with a group of Facebook/high school friends along the dark green but charming "White River" that runs through our town. Last night on the walk, out of nowhere, a female bicyclist wrecked into me from behind.

I know you think I make this stuff up.

No one in the group heard her or her bicycle. I was just walking along, when all of a sudden, there was a person saying, "I'm going to hit you!" and then BOOM, she made good on her promise.

Remarkably, it did not hurt me or knock me down, but it did both to her. Her knee was bleeding, and she was definitely dazed. Ironically, almost as soon as she stood up, she looked at one of my walking mates and said, "You're a '[his last name]', aren't you?" She remembered him from years ago. Very surreal.

After both of us apologized profusely (I was certain I somehow caused this) she gathered herself back up, and we walked on.

So within a week, my table caught on fire at the wedding reception, and someone bicycled me from behind.

Moral of this story: If you are traveling/socializing with me, please respect my aura of "Oh no," and stay about 3 feet away from me. That should keep you safe.

That is all for today.

Still Laming it Up as a Mom and Other Weekend Activities Involving Dog Poo

Yes, Saturday was another chance to for me capture a memory of my daughter running in her very first season of cross country. (You'll remember last week's post The Lamest Mom There wherein I displayed my photography ineptitude.)

In order to get a good picture this time, we took a "sure thing," our eldest, Katie, to snap a picture, thinking "Surely her 23 year-old reflexes will be better than our 46 year-old reflexes which rival those of Koalas hopped up on Benadryl." Inexplicably, Katie missed the shot. She blamed the camera right now.

Next, Jorge said, "PLEEEEASE let me have that camera!" So we allowed him to give it a go, but he fared no better. He, too, blamed the camera.

Then I grabbed the camera, ran up the course, stood and waited until a certain runner passed who I knew was just ahead of Kristin and poised my camera in the "on" state ready to shoot.

I saw Kristin approaching, held the camera to my eye, then moved my head just to the left for a nanosecond, looked back into the camera, only to discover IT HAD SHUT OFF AGAIN AUTOMATICALLY, JUST LIKE LAST WEEK.

[Note: this event definitely qualifies for the blog subject label I created called, "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up" because what are the chances that the camera would shut down again in that same instant as last week?]

Does the Devil live in my camera??

I am reliving the nightmare right now as I type this. I felt just like Yosemite Sam. It's a good thing I didn't have guns or there would be crime scene tape around chunks of camera.


So here is the requisite crowd shot where you never see your own kid, except maybe her pony tail.



Further tangible evidence of my lack of skills:




The amoeba in this pic is actually my child.


And as promised, here are a couple of samples of t-shirt smack talk:


This one says, "It's time to run fast and chew bubble gum, and we're all out of gum." I have no idea what that means.





So she beat her own time again, setting a personal record. Yay, Kid! Good job!

One last note on the meet this week: One team was in a huddle before a race, and this was their chant, verbatim:

Leader: What makes the grass grow?
Huddle: Blood!
Leader: Who do we hate?
Huddle: Mothers!
Leader: What does the devil do?
Huddle: Kill, kill, kill!
All: Goooo Red Devils!

Yikes. Who knew cross country was so hard core. And weird.

Other weekend happenings:

In the middle of the night, I awoke as usual to use the restroom, but as I stepped to the sink to wash my hands, I had that weird, shocking sensation that I had stepped on either a small baked yam or ... dog poo on a throw rug.

Again:



"ACK! Argh! OH Yuck! Ugh! Blech!" at 3:00 am.

I shook it off and hoisted my leg up to get my foot into the sink, where I washed it thoroughly.

However, as it was in the middle of the night and in the dark, I lost my balance while my foot was in the sink which caused me to flail my arms in windmills and yell, "Oh. OHHH. OHHHHHHHH!" as I caught myself on the counter behind me just in time to break the fall.

At this point, Jorge, trying to sound concerned from the bed tossed me a token, "All right?"

I got back into bed grumbling, "Stupid, stupid dog." Then as we lay there trying to get back to sleep, I couldn't shake the sensation that since I had washed my foot in cold water it felt "different" from the other foot. One was cold; one was warm.

I literally could not fall asleep because my feet felt different from each other.

Sunday morning we went to church (my turn to hand out bulletins) then celebrated Katie's 23rd birthday at Chili's, and no, we didn't have cake because she wanted apple pie, so Jorge's father baked her one and cut her name into it, except he spelled her name wrong, but oh well ...














Tomorrow: the rest of the weekend and the questions for Wednesday's meme ahead of time.

Hope your weekend didn't include stepping in poo or smack-talk t-shirts. How was your weekend?

You Know What Happens When I Get Interested in the Kitchen ...

You know what happens when I get interested in the kitchen.

Look out.

For instance, yesterday I was trying to make a pork loin roast and rice. I spilled rice all over the counter top and floor. After that I was looking for the meat thermometer and spilled wooden skewers all over the floor. And the day before that, I broke a mirror in the kitchen, just passing through. So basically the kitchen has been a mine field for Zoe.

Kitchens are bad.

But I did happen to find this site yesterday that I think was created for people like me and 12 year olds who are beginning to cook.

Just kidding.
No I'm not.

Kathy Maister's startcooking.com was an official honoree in the 2008 Webby Awards for step-by-step tutorial sites, and although not each recipe has an accompanying video, some do, which is a nice plus. Just for fun, I watched the "How to Fry an Egg" video. Not because I needed help, mind you, but just because, well, you know.

OK, I admit it. I was starting out with my skillet too hot. And I was cooking them too long according to this 1 minute video:



Here's a video for Tex-Mex Cheeseburgers, which I will be making soon:



I love the "stop-action" way the videos are shot with tiny little sound effects, like ketchup going, "Phhhhphth."

So this site isn't exhaustive in it's number and scope of recipes, but you should just check it out anyway. It's a lovely site that I'm only slightly envious of.

I need to find my niche, people, and do some cool videos.

You know, where people "see what you're saying." :)

Alert! Another Kitchen "Misadventure" and Update on my Dad

Admit it. Sometimes you think I make things up, especially about cooking disasters. Hence, I created the label you see at the top of this post which records actual data when I mess up incredibly weirdly and report it to you. It's like my own private Ripley's collection.

But I am considering a new label: "Epic Culinary Failures." And today I created what would be a first entry into that new label.

As a treat for my father who was just released from the hospital last night, I decided to bake a fruit cocktail bread. I must tell you that my dad is one in ten million people on this earth and maybe a few on another planet who like fruitcake. That's a badly written sentence, but you know what I mean. Actually, that was a poorly written sentence. Oh well.

So I put it all together and baked it. And baked it. And baked it. I could never be quite sure it was done. So I baked it more. And more. Finally, when the outside looked like fossilized amber, I took it out, slid the knife around the edges, tipped it onto a plate, and watched the juices flow.

FLOW? Bread isn't supposed to flow.

So I scooped up the caramelized parts and some of the inadvertent compote parts and plopped them back into the loaf pan and stuck it back in.

And here's what came out:

So Jorge, hair rising on the back of his neck in anticipation of my explosion, swiftly offered a deflection: "Hey! You made a cobbler!"

No, I concocted a puddle of molten flour and corn syrup with some bald grapes thrown in for fun.

Seconds, anyone?

I didn't think so.


I also made a batch of gluten-free brownies for my mom which I think turned out OK except I'm not sure why it folded over on itself.

And now the rest of the story regarding Dad, which actually has a twist worthy of a TV drama.

Saturday night: ER with chest pains, tests. I went home at 1:00 AM.
Sunday: Observation and interpretation of tests. All looked good. Lots of time at the hospital where my brother pestered me.
Monday: Observation and two more tests. Brother continued pestering. Test results showed small "blip" on lower portion of heart. Ordered to stay another night to be seen by a cardiologist Tuesday morning.

Segue: My mother told me on the phone that he had to be seen by a specialist, and she couldn't remember what kind (she's 83) so she said, "It sounds like Ollie-ologist." So I said, "Oncologist?" And she said, "Yes," and I said, hesitantly, "That is a cancer doctor." I fully expected the pieces to fall into place for her and that she would break down, but she just said, "Yes."

So I get to the hospital and through the conversation of two nurses figure out that the specialist is a cardiologist, not oncologist. (Duh. But I just didn't think differently after Mom confirmed oncologist because there was a spot on his heart. Cancer seemed plausible to me.) Later Mom told me she thought she said it sounded like "oncologist" but that that wasn't it. However, she did not complete the thought with me. That explains why she was so emotionless at the threat of cancer, from my perspective.

Then--get this--last night about 9, a doc came in and told Dad that his record had been switched at the hospital with someone else's and that he was free to go home-just like that!

Can you believe it? Oh, it was good news, all right, but I felt so sorry for the person at home who would get the call with bad news!

Anyway, thanks for asking and caring. I haven't talked to him yet today, so I'm going to call him now. I wonder if he's feeling up to a fruit cocktail volcanic compote created by a chef called "Lid?"

Need Advice On Laundry Room Decor, No Quilts or Chickens, Please

This morning I spent a bit of time (like, 15 years or so) scraping a wallpaper border off of my laundry room walls which I applied about 8 years ago when we first built our addition.

I remember that I had this whole 'nother house built (we doubled the square footage) and ready to move into but had nothing for walls or furniture. So I think I bought this border for about $5 and stuck it up in about 10 minutes. It's supposed to be some kind of quilt design, which is fine if you like quilts, but I didn't necessarily like quilts; I liked $5. Hindsight: a bare wall would've been fine for a while.



Yes, those are decoupaged chickens on my ironing board door because I owned backyard chickens at the time. Here I am owning a chicken because I know you think I make this stuff up:



I also know that you were just about to suggest a quilt and chicken motif, but sorry, been there, done that. Anyway, here's what I'm working with now. It's kind of ... neutral.



Therefore, I am ready for vivid color. Here are a few pictures I "borrowed" today to offer to you to help me choose a color scheme. Tell me what you think:

1. You know I have a fondness for Frenchie Damask stuff.


2. I like this, but not the doors.


3. Wowsers.


4. I like this, but I wouldn't have that same floor or those pics of someone else's sons on my wall, of course.


5. This is reminiscent of black and white stripe, of which I am fond.


6. And I am really liking this color.



So what do you think? Remember the room is very small for vivid color, but I'm still going for it.

Now, please take the redecorating questionnaire:

1. Is it OK that the color scheme does not match any of the rest of my house (autumnal colors and black) if no one ever sees this room but Zoe and me?
2. From the content of my blog (not necessarily the current color scheme) what color would you say best describes me? Why? Keep in mind that "chicken" is not a color.
3. Do you like Rupert Everett better before surgery and all wrinkly, or after?

You Know You're In For a Tough Day When ...

You realize you have just lathered your hair with conditioner instead of shampoo.

You need 2 shampoos to get the conditioner out.

You get to the conditioner step, but no, you use SHAMPOO again, for the third time on what used to be your hair and is now straw.

You get to work and scratch your car on a cement post in the parking lot.

You step out of the car into the rain without an umbrella to check the damage to the car and step smack into a deep puddle of water, soaking the bottom of your jeans.

You sit at your desk with a foot heater blasting your wet jeans all morning.

You realize that the razor burn you feel on your calves after the jeans are dry is not razor burn at all but foot heater burn in JUNE instead.

You realize all of this has happened before 10:00 am.

That's when you know you're in for a tough day.

5 Faves of Spring? Some Things I've Wanted to Share With You for a While But Couldn't Decide How to Lump Them Together Until Now

5 Faves of Spring Thanks to Susanne at Living to Tell the Story

Potholes.
Welcome to my town's version of The Le Brea Tar Pits.
Yes, I actually got out of my car and took this picture just for you because it belongs in the "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up" category. This is a sure sign of spring in our town, which inexplicably boasts some of the worst roads in a state with some of the worst roads in the country. This thing is about 6" deep, so you can imagine what happens when you hit one like this; you almost lose your teeth. Or your car, if it's a Honda.


















The further demise of our drive-in theater. According to this AARP publication, Indiana ranks 3rd in the nation behind New York and PA, respectively, in numbers of drive-in theaters. I myself have never been to one, although this one has been here long enough that Abe Lincoln once took in a couple of matinees before he moved to Illinois. Just kidding. Mamie Eisenhower actually car hopped here. Kidding! Hard to say what the last move shown here was. Looks like "The Exorcist Los Lobos for Sktr. Tr." Apparently, one of those artsy films.

I know that you think the sign on the screen above says "Ski-Hi" as in "Sport of Snow-Hello" but it is actually pronounced, "Sky-High." We Hoosiers have traditionally been ahead of the pack when it come to things like destroying the spelling of words when naming things so that you can never look them up for info because you didn't think to spell the name that funky sort of illiterate way. In short, Al Gore did not invent texting lingo. We did. Or "We done it."

Jorge doing manly things outside with a head lamp.
Recently Big Mama posted about finding her husband, "P," with a head lamp on. I couldn't believe it because Jorge really enjoys this thing, too. This is a pic of him starting our first fire of the year, but it was so dark he needed to see to start it, so he brought out the trusty miner's head lamp. Of course, everywhere he looks, he lights up his life. And the neighbors' lives. It's a little embarrassing. Sometimes in the mornings, he puts this thing on if he wants to gather his clothes for the day but not turn on the overhead light and wake me up. So he thinks wearing this search light will not disturb me. Imagine waking up thinking, "OH my gosh! I'm having Lasik!"


The Spring Choral Concert. I'll be posting more on this later. My kid is on the far left. You know, the one that clearly shines even though she's in the shadows.

Cardinals.
OK, this is pretty sweet. This is Charlie Cardinal, Ball State University's mascot. I live in a college town. The cardinal is our state bird. Just looking at this green grass against his scarlet plumage makes me want to tweet. Oh that reminds me; I joined Twitter this week, but I don't know why. I think I need more details to attend to in my life; yeah, that's it!


What are your 5 faves of spring?

Latest Entry for "I Know You Think I Make this Stuff Up" Label

Yes, I have an actual post label called, "I Know You Think I Make this Stuff Up" which serves as the repository for strange stories like the one about how a ham came out of the oven looking more like a pig than when it went in, thanks to my unintentional culinary capabilities.

It's a label full of nothing, like a jumbo bin filled with foil yogurt lids, dryer lint and "The Firm" videotapes. You gotta put that stuff somewhere.

Anyway, here is the latest installment:

My Last Wowmart Visit
by Lidna Crow

This, by the way, is all true. Even though I know you think I make this stuff up.

I had a return to make at Wowmart before doing my weekly shopping. Making a return at Wowmart is not simple. It is trouble from "the bad place" that you bring on yourself. You don't just saunter into Wowmart with a return like you're just going to ... return it! Heavens! If you think that, what planet are you from? Target?

I walked in, was accosted by the friendly greeter, opened my bag and had 46 green stickers placed on my one item and was then given the green light to proceed. If security gets any tighter at the front door, they'll have to strip search people.

There was, of course, a line at the customer service desk, a line of 25 people and one associate with 5" acrylic nails and a ring on every finger. The associate was not very nice, but she's not supposed to be. It's against company rules.

In fact, Wowmart's customer service motto is, "We make customer service purgatory on earth, so you don't have to worry about that when you cross over! Yellow Smiley Face!!"

About three people in front of me, there was a woman with foil in her hair like in this picture. I can only assume that she went to the Wowmart beauty salon and decided that while her color was lifting, she'd run over and return her too-small Lucky Charms t-shirt. I'd like to know where I can get some of that "no inhibition" stuff she's been smoking because that would make life a lot more carefree.

After my return, I grabbed a cart and about 5 feet down the aisle realized I had one of those schizophrenic carts which tries to go three ways at once, all the while squeaking an announcement to everyone that you deserve and belong with the crazy cart because after all, you chose it. It's always at this point you have to decide if the craziness is bad enough to send you back to get a normal one. In this case, it was.

I always make a list before leaving my house so that I don't get confused or forget anything once I'm there, so you can imagine my dismay when I opened my list and read the first item: "blue."

"What?!" I asked myself, "What is 'blue?' Why did I write 'blue?'"

Passing people in pajamas and slippers, I made my way to the back of the store, my lips forming the word, "Blue ... blue." I probably looked like a fish.

"Why did I write 'blue'? Is it toilet cleaner? No. Is it bleu cheese? No. Blueberry yogurt? No."

I got stuck in a traffic jam in the cereal aisle, but I didn't mind so much because that actually bought me more time to de-bug my menopausal brain.

"Blue? What in the world is that about? Blueberry cereal? Blue paint samples? Blue label something? Blue Bunny Ice Cream?"

"Um, OK. I choose ice cream."

Once I had collected everything on my list but "blue," I got in line where the young male associate asked me to put the "closed" sign on his lane, which I did. He apologized profusely to the people just ahead of me and to me for having to close his lane so that he could go to the bathroom. If he said it once, I know he said it 10 times: "I just can't help it, you know? You've gotta go when you've gotta go. I feel bad, but hey, I have to go to the bathroom. Sorry about that. It's just something you've got to do when you've gotta go."

I expected to see his face turn yellow and his legs twist together like pretzels before he could put my items through.

Once through the line, I was happy to be going home. Until I saw the near blizzard coming down outside because I knew what that meant: Pushing that cart through a couple of inches of snow would be like pushing it through sand. It's almost easier to get a hold of the basket end and pull it to your car.

But I made it home, finally, and enjoyed a nice big bowl of Blue Bunny as I sat by the space heater recovering from the trauma of yet another frigid Saturday at Wowmart, trauma which, by the way, I did not make up.

Does this stuff happen to you?

Updates

*Edit: Had a little scare yesterday morning. Mom called at 4:00 AM and my dad was taken by ambulance to the ER. Long story short, it was not a heart attack, apparently not a host of other things. They kept him overnight. I was out there 12 hours yesterday, and then my brothers came back out to relieve me. You just never know what your day will hold. But 4:00 AM calls are the worst, for sure.*

First of all, I filled out an online form yesterday, and you know how they want to know what age bracket you're in? Well, guess what. Because of my birthday Saturday, I am now graduated to a whole new age bracket: 46-55 bracket. Daggone it. If they're gonna lump me in with AARP, I'd better be getting some discounts ASAP.



OK, secondly, is there a time limit on how long I can have that button in my sidebar? Because I'm thinking people might still be making their way through the videos. [Real reason: it is the best thing I've ever done in my life, and I can't seem let go of the moment.] I am amazed at how well this carnival went, thanks to you. If you haven't looked at the list lately, you must, because people are still jumping on the bandwagon, and one blogger, Cheryl, well, she outdid us all, content-wise. No one can top her content. No. one.

And the winner of my Ken Lee mug is Chatty Kelly from Wonder Woman Wonders. The winners of the mousepads by the same name are Sara from Make Music From Your Heart to the Lord and Chel from Leaving a Legacy. I wish I could've sent a gift to everyone who participated, because you all sure gave me a wonderful gift on September 30. Sniff. Love ya.

Let's do another one! What do you think about shooting for the week after Christmas? That way, most would still have decorations up, if they chose to talk about those, but the busy-ness of the season would be over. We could share the highlights of our holiday, or skazillions of other things. Of course, we'll be exhausted, but like shopping until you drop, this will be EXHILARATING! Let me know what you think, and let me know any cute ideas for names of the carnival you happen to think of. It takes a village to do a video carnival!



This is going well, too. I think I'm sticking to Mondays. Some of you have asked for the code to the button. OK. Try this:

<a href="http://2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com/2008/10/falling-into-flavor.html"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2W4QHY9iclxcPGf08u3bLYpd9XfHehATgZtgdTkqEfo5m2M55QALSKFnZ1jhUKcDUQGJOzKqJR9F671pEe2r7Dm_XbfMGQcl_tVdM0cIhOKIcUGZb5xhRtICteB-g-G7ursoRNg/s200/Fall+into+Flavor5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253097159800265394" /></a><br />
Have you made any of the recipes yet?

Yesterday I made the corn chowder which I posted. Everything was going well until the end, when you turn it down to melt the cheese for the last 10 mins. I had the burner on 3 or 4 on my electric stovetop. I came in here to check email, got up, went back to the stove, and it was foaming! It had just begun to stick, so I jerked it from the heat and tried not to scrape the bottom to avoid loosening any "debris" that might be stuck there, which would then "loosen" the burnt taste throughout the soup instead of just on the bottom.

It's amazing the tips I could give for what to when you've ruined a dish. Ah-ha! There's my best-seller, right there! Anyway, I pretty much ruined the chowder.

So Jorge came in, and I told him what I had just done, and he just stood there, looking at the pot blankly, because he knows that in a situation like this it's better not to make direct eye contact with me or say anything about the food.

I reached up for a bowl to begin dipping, and water splashed out of the bowl which someone had put up wet, and my whole frontal area got soaked, so much so that I had to change tops.

After apologizing profusely for putting bowls of water in our cabinets, he tasted the soup, and I kid you not, said, "It's not bad. It doesn't taste burned. It tastes smoked, like when there's been a house fire and everything smells kind of smoky after that."

He should've stuck with the blank look and and muteness. And I should probably stick with vlogs instead of recipes. Sigh. I know you think I make this stuff up.

Wordful Wednesday, Because I Can't Be Wordless About These Two Things. Or Anything, Really.

*EDIT: Hair snipping is not as dramatic as stopping his vasectomy the first time, which I did.

Thing 1: "Labor Day Ham."








Look into that pan, people. If you are new here, I refer you to this post or encourage you to search "ham" on this blog. Then you will understand my desperate saga called, "Ham Wars."

And yes, that is a candy thermometer. Don't ask. I'm like Charlie Brown, and the ham is the nemesis football, which is kind of ironic, since footballs are often called "pigskins."

I just want to know what is so freaky-deaky hard about throwing a 10 lb ham into a pan, adding a little water and baking at 325* for 18 minutes per pound?

Should it come out looking like I put it in a kiln? "Good grief!"

Thing 2: Progress Report on my Kitchen

Back on July 30, I posted about being bullied by home-decor TV shows into tearing down my "ghastly" floral border in my kitchen and starting a whole new re-do. I asked for advice on which paper I should use on my accent wall and posted samples for readers to see. As a result, I received, I'm pretty sure, the highest number of comments I've ever received on a regular post in three years of blogging.

You all really care about me. Or about wallpaper. In fact, apparently, you Ken Lee wallpaper.

You will be happy to know that one full month and a couple of days later, I have that wallpaper up! Woot! And I have some color on my walls. And can I just tell you that for my traditional, neutral self, I went WILD.As soon as I get things up on the wall and cabinets re-painted, I'll post.

Thing 2, part B: I am also happy to report that in spite of wallpapering together, and by the grace of God, Jorge and I are still married! Woot!

They say if your marriage can withstand wallpapering or building a new home together, you're good for a lifetime. I think it says a lot that wallpapering is the only single task listed up there with building a building together. I think that speaks to the intensity of the task and the probability of something going terribly wrong.

And it did. Sort of.

I could've sworn I got that first sheet up on the level line.

And I did. Sort of.

You can imagine the low rumble of frustration Jorge felt when he came in to help and our pattern was climbing up the wall.

But we got that all straightened out.

And then at one point, at the end of the long day when we were so beat and our patience was wearing so very thin, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing something with the wallpaper, and Jorge was standing nearby and talking to me about some minuscule thing, and I don't know what possessed him, but he reached out like it was nothing, as if he were brushing a feather off my hair, and SNIPPED MY HAIR WITH SCISSORS.

SNIPPED. MY. HAIR.

MY. HAIR!

Can you say, "Unleash the beast!"?

Well, time has passed since then, and he is still walking around, all coherent and everything, so I did no permanent damage.

And the wallpaper is up. I can't wait to show you!

Has your spouse ever done a spur-of-the-moment, totally INSANE thing?

Catching Up and Another Entry in the Sidebar Category: I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up

Shocking, Eye-Opening News: Did you know that if you shove someone on an airplane, you could osteensibly cause them to lose their faith AND develop hemorrhoids? I'm Switzerland neutral in this ordeal, but I do find it humorous that hemorrhoids are at the seat of this suit. What really happened on that flight? We'll probably never really know. It's Victoria's Secret.

"I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up"

Did I mention that I'm having hot flashes now? This is not only pertinent to this story but also foreshadows a lengthy post soon to come on the intricacies involved in said hot flashing.

But for now, let me just understate my experience by saying that I'm a walking bubbling volcano. Wednesday morning, I was running late for work, and as I got out of the shower, I felt Vesuvius rising in my torso before I could even get dried off and dressed. I grabbed my handy-dandy 12" fan from my nightstand and held it on myself like you do a hair dryer on your hair.

This slowed me down even more, so I threw on all of my clothes and headed toward the door, only to cast a backward glance at myself in a full-length mirror and see--the dreaded panty line. Impossibly short on time, I grabbed a pair of specialized line-less panties out of my drawer and dashed out.

I drove like a speed demon to work. Not really, but 5 mph over the limit feels wild to me. (Like when I sometimes do not clean the lint filter before drying a load of laundry ... on purpose. I know; I'm the Evel Knievel of laundry.)

I parked, grabbed up all of my things that I schlep into work each morning, walked into the building, greeted people and made straight for the restroom to switch my underwear, which is when I realized I had merely bunched up the 2nd pair in my fist as opposed to sticking it in my bag, so it was all exposed for the world to see. If my co-workers saw it, they didn't say anything. If they saw it, I'm sure they thought, "I must pretend not to notice that Ditzy is carrying wadded up underwear in her hand. Must pretend. Must be appear to be oblivious."

When I got inside the stall, I made the switch, but still reeling from embarrassment and being the creature of mindless habit that I am, instead of sticking the first pair in my bag, I simply tossed them into the toilet like toilet paper, as if I thought, "Be gone, panties that show your lines!"

I considered flushing them, but saw the whole custodian scenario flash before my eyes, so I fished them out and trashed them. And that is the latest edition of "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up."

Final chapter of this post:RE-CAP on Oneighty Talk

Many of you (one) asked me to re-cap my talk Wednesday night at Oneighty.

Drumroll: It went OK.

There were roughly 60 kids there, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Whether or not the kids enjoyed it, I do not know.

My daughter was NOT thrilled that I used all of the pics from this post to start my talk, but I did, and she lived, although she covered her face. At least I didn't tell the wadded up panties story.

But here's how I know she secretly loves me: Before the talk, she came up to me and said, "Let me see your teeth." So I bared them, and they passed inspection. Suddenly I was emotionally overcome by her protective measures on my behalf. Until I realized she was simply trying to avoid even more embarrassment. Oh well.

When it was over, she actually said I did a good job. And that was before I bought her the Sprite on the way home. Little did she know that if she had said "great job," she would've been one Taco Bell Mango Strawberry Fruitista Freeze richer.

I'm Starting A New Sidebar Category: "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up"

I have begun several posts by saying, "I know you think I make this stuff up ..." because usually the story that follows sounds too stupid to be true. Not so. My life is replete with blog fodder. I have no need to spin bizarre embarrassing tales just for your entertainment. In fact, I actually have to choose which stupidities I will reveal and which ones I won't.

Today's tale is one that definitely falls under the "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up" category.

This afternoon, I decided to take a quick nap before heading out for an evening of visiting graduation open houses and going to our cell group. Before I sleep, even for a nap, I must take out my disposable contact lenses. Since I don't usually keep my lenses overnight, I do not have the traditional little holder with the L and R wells for storage. Therefore, whenever I plan to put my disposables back in, I temporarily put them in a Dixie Cup of saline.

When I woke, I realized it was time to go to the graduation open houses, so I brushed my teeth and started to put in my lenses but realized they were gone. Because I swallowed my contacts. Which were in the Dixie Cup that I used to rinse my mouth.

Thus I have entered yet another installment into the new sidebar category, "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up."

That is all.

I Know You Think I Make this Stuff Up, Part 2

Piece of advice: If you ever need a recipe quick-like, write a post about your son bringing two friends home from college and and plead for help in feeding them a respectable meal. Your bloggy friends will not let you down; I know whereof I speak. Thank you all for not wanting to see me fall victim to myself once again. Although this was not a contest, I shall announce which one I chose after I see if I ruin it or not. I did select one from the comments, but it's important that you know that I love you all equally. You're all my favorites. Paula loves you, too.

When I found out Jordan was bringing his friends home, I was at work. He called to see if it would be OK to bring them. Apparently, they are running out of meals on their meal plans which their parents bought in the fall. Imagine that--college boys eating up their food points early. Anyway, he sounded so happy, and I am thanking God that he has come to love school. Well, at least love being there with friends.

So the thing I hate to do, cook, has suddenly become a labor of love. That's the thing about mothering, it's all one big labor of love, from the time you notice you've gone to the bathroom 20 times in one day when you're first pregnant to the day you unpack them at college. Did I mention I know whereof speak here, as well?

So at work, I began to think, "What will I make?" But I also began to think, "We have, like three plates and three glasses left. There are hard water spots on the silverware. Nothing is clean. The lawn needs to be mowed. I'll have to go to the grocery. Wowsers. This is sounding more and more fun."

So after work, I picked up some dishes on sale at Kohls. Then I went to get Kristin at school. When we got home, I loaded the new dishes into the washer, and put the old glasses into a sink filled with a soap scum remover cleaner (hard water). After I de-scummed them, I gingerly put a few glasses into the dishwasher and promptly broke one. Nice move. ("That does it. I'm buying some glasses.")

Did I mention I also picked up a micro-suede cover for our 20 year-old La-Z-Boy? I've had a Sure-fit cover on it for several years now, and it looked terrible. Obviously, I couldn't have Jordan's friends sitting on that health hazard. The new cover is brown. I don't know if you have had any experience with slip covers, but I have, and it's never pretty, literally or figuratively. I tugged and pulled and stuffed and grunted and actually worked up a sweat trying to make it fit. Kristin was supposed to be doing her homework, but occasionally, I'd look up from my wrestling match and see her looking at me with the same expression as if she were watching "A Very Special What Not to Wear: Fashioning Outfits Out of Pork Products and Legos."

I took Kristin to dance class, and then I went and picked up some placemats because I'd been needing them anyway, and now is as good a time as any to snatch them up, right? I certainly wouldn't buy pretty placemats simply for college boys' sakes!

I brought Kristin home and left for groceries, but before I could leave, I had to clean out the fridge. As you can see, Jorge's father is STILL baking several thousand loaves a week. I told my girlfriends that if my father-in-law had been an apostle, Jesus could've fed 500,000,000, no problem at all. Anyway, Zoe was underfoot, so I gave her a little piece of chicken to gnosh on while I continued to clear it out, and all of a sudden, I heard her going, "Haaaack. Haaaaack. I'm dyyyyying." I realized I had given her buffalo chicken, which is a tad bit "tangier" than kibbles and bits.

That is when I noticed blood on my kitchen floor.

No, it wasn't Zoe's blood. It was mine because I cut my hand somehow clearing out the shelves.

So I stopped my refrigerator chore and went for a Band-aid, but all I could find were huge ones. In fact, the size I found is only good for an injury incurred should someone jump 8 feet up into a whirling ceiling fan and slice her neck. Then she would need what I found in my medicine cabinet. I just stood there, not knowing what to do.

That is when, in lieu of a Band-aid, I applied five or six slightly burned pizza rolls to my tastebuds because that seemed sensible. After all, snacking gave me time to think about what to do next.

So I wrapped my finger toilet paper and went to Walmart, because somehow, that seemed appropriate.

I got the goods, came home and began to make the Ken Lee cake. But, as if I weren't under enough stress, Jorge was insisting that I listen to the Tivo'd Neil Diamond singing his song about faith. Jorge was very impressed by this apparent testimony to Christianity and even more adamant that I stop right then and there and appreciate Neil, but I was no mood for Neil. (See previous post on bias against Neil. Sorry.) And yet, Neil was blaring away while I was trying to bake Ken Lee for Jordan and said college friends.

Did I mention I'm PMSing?

So that's how I took two steps forward and fifteen back into bloodied, expensive, soap scum-removing, dog-endangering, furniture re-upholstering, Neil Diamond torturing, bane of my existence cooking moments. All for my boy.

Do you think he'll notice the dandelions?