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Weekendishly

I always find myself looking forward to the weekend with a fervor that borders on religious, particularly by Thursday or Friday. It’s going to be SO NICE, I think, and I will SLEEP LATE and RELAX and RECHARGE. And then Monday rolls around and I am just as exhausted and cranky as usual. It seems unfair.

[Side note: I did finally make an appointment to see my doctor, on account of recent life stressors do seem to be taking a slight toll on my health, possibly. Weird, right? I mean, who knew that constant months of high stress might make you less than perfectly healthy or something? So I called my doctor in August to mention that hey, um, my hair is falling out, among other things. (Good thing I have a LOT of hair, even in its currently shorn state.) They gave me an appointment in October. I'm hoping to not be completely bald or, you know, DEAD by then.]

Anyway. The weekend. We spent most of Saturday with Chickie, which was lovely, and involved a lot of eating, seems like. (Hey, that Buy One Blizzard Get One For $.99 special at Dairy Queen is not going to EAT ITSELF, man.) (I know; when we take her out of the hospital for the day I always want to feed her something healthy, but then ice cream is the language of love, right? So healthy lunch, ice cream later. It’s a compromise. Sort of.) (more…)

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Super important weekend things

I spent half the weekend curled up in a little ball under my desk. Oh, haha! Not really! God, there’s crumbs and dog toys and stuff under there. I do my best fetal position checking-out-of-life withdrawal either in bed or on the Man Couch. (Man Couch has recliner seats. Obviously.)

At one point while I was doing my very best impersonation of a couch cushion, Otto sat down with me and we watched Best In Show, which I’ve somehow never seen before, but actually made me laugh quite a bit. I’m glad I can share this sort of breaking news with you. (Make sure to see this movie from twelve years ago, y’hear? Also, I hear that gas recently went up in cost a little, like it’s more than a buck a gallon now. Let me check into that and get back to you.)

So there is no One Grand Event that took place this weekend, unless you ask Monkey and Licorice*, so I shall cobble together a post for you out of small, inconsequential things like watching old movies and such. It just seemed fair to warn you so that the excitement doesn’t completely overwhelm anyone.

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Older, if not wiser

This weekend Licorice and I had our birthdays. That’s how I knew she was meant to be my dog, you know—the rescue had assigned her a birthdate, I guess, and it’s the day after mine. She is now maybe-six (really, they’re just guessing on her age) and I am now forty-none-of-your-damn-business-but-trust-me-I-feel-old. Or 41, if you insist.

Otto and I ran away for the weekend and left the dog at the kennel. Because we’re both so much older and more mature, now, this morning Licorice proceeded to prance around our bed a full hour before the alarm was set to go off, and later this morning—after I’d prepared breakfast and packed lunches—I set about making some mango salsa to go with the fish tacos I’ll be making for dinner, and on the VERY LAST ITEM I needed to cut up, yes indeed, I used all 41 years of my brainpower to cut towards myself and of course the knife slipped and I sliced open my finger.

So the answer to “What’s for dinner, Mom?” will be “Fish tacos with mangled fingertip salsa.” I wonder if Monkey will have seconds? (more…)

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Loose ends, tied up with tomato vines

It was not actually my intention to wander away for most of a week, leaving you considering whether or not I had managed to get through that treatment planning meeting without vomiting. Whoops. Sorry! I suck.

In my defense, now that the Great Zucchini Invasion of 2012 is winding down, it’s gone all Attack of the Yummy Tomatoes ’round these parts. And although we all know I’ve been a little weird about my garden pretty much forever, the whole ZOMG-there-is-so-much-I-cannot-control-right-now-and-it-makes-my-tender-pink-middle-feel-uncomfy thing means that I am committed to my stupid garden in a way that borders on pathological. Because things GROW and DAMMIT, we are going to EAT THEM. I will not waste a single item! I will process tomatoes until the kitchen looks like a crime scene! If everything needs to get put on hold while I make tomato sauce, SO BE IT. Make the sauce, save the world. Or something.

I know. (It’s really, really good sauce, though!)

Anyway. Allow me to elucidate on various and sundry: (more…)

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It’s a melon

It’s depressing me to have that last post be on top of the page, here. Instead let’s all admire the latest arrival at Casa Mir:

I’ve been trying to grow melons in my garden for years, and this year—the year my garden surely should be dead of neglect—is of course the year that they took. We’ve had a lot of rain, you see. (Also: irony.) I have trellised the sugar baby vines and dutifully constructed pantyhose slings for my budding fruits, and although my reading told me all about how fruits should reach at least eight pounds and sound hollow and blah blah blah, this morning this melon had made an executive decision and broken free of both its vine and sling.

At six and a half pounds even, it may be a little premature. But it sounds hollow, so who knows. My boys arrive home tonight after being away for a week; I’ll save it for them. We’ll cut it open tomorrow and see if it’s any good. And if it’s not, well, I’ll try not to take it personally. (If it is, I won’t take that personally, either.) It’s just a melon.

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Hurry, Monkey!

When we last left off, poor Licorice was trying to adjust to being used as a chew toy by Zoey. Truly, the dogs had very nearly reached an amicable understanding—and here by “amicable” we mean that Zoey learned to knock it off whenever Licorice snarled at her—so of course we packed everything up and moved on to the in-laws. Zoey is now a distant memory, so far as Licorice is concerned. (She’s in for a rude awakening next week when we head back to my parents’ house. Ha!)

The good news is that here at Nearly Nickless’ house there is no exuberant puppy trying to eat Licorice’s head. The bad news is that my nephews are MIGHTILY DISPLEASED that we showed up without our kids.

Specifically, they would like Monkey here RIGHT NOW PLEASE. (Sorry, Chickie.) We are not sure whether to look forward to this or be very afraid. (more…)

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I totally want a second dog now

So the first day we were here, Zoey peed ALL THE TIME. Talk to her nicely? Pee. Speak to her sternly? Pee. Ignore her? PEE! And along with the incessant piddling, we had her leaping atop Licorice at every possible opportunity, and Licorice spending a lot of time making adorable little cranky-snarly sounds to try to tell Zoey to back off.

The second day, I guess my dad found a little cork and Zoey stopped peeing everywhere. She only spent half the day pouncing all over Licorice, and much time was spent with both dogs lazing in front of the stove, roasting their tender underbellies. Eventually there was some running around and bouncing of balls and the dogs were VERY NEARLY playing together, and then Licorice apparently tried to kill Zoey’s Most Favoritist Toy—a very flat raccoon—and ZOEY snarled at LICORICE. Most surprising. And hilarious.

This morning, Zoey was put outside while Licorice ate her breakfast. And then Licorice went and laid down by the door to wait for Zoey to come back in. I suspect we’ve reached a truce. So I made Otto get out the camera. (more…)

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My many first-world problems

Sometimes I sit down to write something and I feel like such a colossal douche I consider just skipping the blog entry and ridiculing myself internally, instead. But then I realize that’s no fun at all, and I share it all with you.

YOU ARE WELCOME.

Here at Casa Mir I am fraught with THE BUSY, because time is running out, school vacation and The Big Trek North are almost upon us, and there are a million things I have not done, cannot do, must accomplish, blah blah blahbbity blahhhhhh and all of it is unimportant, I mean mostly, and yet it’s eating up my head space. I’m forever exhorting my children to USE ALL THAT BRAIN POWER FOR GOOD RATHER THAN EVIL, and perhaps I should take my own advice. Except in my case I should probably use that brain power for the betterment of humanity instead of for middle-class minutiae. And I will. As soon as I take care of this other stuff. (more…)

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Twang-a twang TWANG twang

I had noble intentions of putting together a deeply meaningful—but also hilarious, natch—post for your enjoyment, yesterday, but my day was derailed by a multitude of more pressing matters.

True, probably the least of my worries was the subcontractor who is out on the deck painting (did I mention that we replaced our siding while redoing the deck? because we did, because why not spend every last penny all at once!) and BLARING country music all freakin’ day long.

Part of me feels like: Hey, this is my house, and not only that, this is my OFFICE, and I am trying to work, and therefore I am well within my rights to ask him to please turn his music down (or off).

But the other part of me feels like: Dude is probably being paid minimum wage by the contractor, let him listen to some music while he spends hours and hours moving a paint brush back and forth, and P.S. don’t be a dick. (more…)

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This is preferable

What I really, really want to do right now is go on a long and indignant rant about a particular teacher at the middle school. BUT I AM A GROWN UP. So I merely complained about it on Facebook, instead, and here I am going to talk about oatmeal. As adults do.

See how MATURE and RESTRAINED I am? Don’t be envious, it took me YEARS to become this refined.

Instead I am going to tell you about how this week Hippie School had a Medieval Festival, and we parents were treated to various delights including a swordplay tournament, dance demonstrations, and various other medieval things. And of course, we were tasked with providing various medieval foods. I agreed to bring “porridge,” which meant I brought a huge crock pot filled with steel-cut oats. Which no one ate. It turns out that—while porridge is medieval—so is roast chicken and apple pie, so, um, yeah. (more…)

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