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Happy Thanksgiving! Eat this!!

I spent half of yesterday prepping/cooking and then got up at 6:00 to start throwing everything into crock pots. What? You don’t do that? It’s awesome, because then instead of musical ovens your guests come and say, “What can we do to help?” and you just wave an arm at your counter full of crock pots and say, “Nothing. It’s all done.” And then they back away slowly. Yay!

This year I’m thankful for lots of things, like that I didn’t break any other bones while cooking stuff, and that my family and friends are awesome, and my readers (that’s you) are lovely and supportive, and that this year is almost over. (CAN I GET AN AMEN?)

Of course I am missing having Chickie here—she won’t be home to visit until next month—but in the spirit of my new the-glass-is-half-full-dammit outlook, I compensated for her absence by putting meat in every single damn dish. (Sorry, honey. I’ll make whatever you want when you’re home for Christmas, sans “chicken juice,” I promise.)

Otto is blasting “Alice’s Restaurant” while hard at work on the turkey and I’m about to go make some rolls, but I have some crappy iPhone pictures to share with you because I’m taking a break and I’m a giver like that. (more…)

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The mayo mystery

Yesterday Monkey and I went to the supermarket to start buying all of the things I’ll require for our upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, which meant that my cart was full of unfamiliar items (to him, though to be honest I am trying some new recipes and some of it was unfamiliar to me as well) amongst the regular milk and spinach and whatnot. [Note that I said it was the START of shopping for Thanksgiving; Otto will no doubt be sent out to the store at least twice more as I start prepping and discovering what all I’ve overlooked.]

Anyway. We shopped, we came home, Otto was arriving home from the office at the same time, and we all commenced unloading the groceries. We were almost done when I came across a large bottle of mayonnaise in the bottom of one of my bags. Except… I didn’t buy mayonnaise.

Otto and I discussed this matter in depth, even quizzing a deeply affronted Monkey (“I don’t even LIKE mayonnaise!”) as to whether he’d tossed it in the cart. He had not. I had not. I’d never seen it before. We concluded it must’ve been a “oh nevermind” item from someone ahead of me in line that ended up in my bag. But then Otto combed through my 3-foot-long receipt and discovered that I had, indeed, paid for it. (Full price! IT WASN’T EVEN ON SALE!!)

Where did it come from? How did I end up buying it? Can I return it? (“Excuse me, I appear to have inadvertently purchased this mayonnaise.”) Is it a SIGN that I should put deviled eggs back on the menu? I am SO confused.

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Are all physical therapists sadists?

We’re three+ weeks out from the beginning of Zombiehandapalooza, and I can now definitively say that I am absolutely tired of this nonsense. Sure, sure, if it was a simple break, I’d still be a cast (probably poking pencils down in there to try to scratch it, because that’s the sort of difficult patient I tend to be), but my understanding of this whole bionic being-screwed-back-together thing was that I would be FINE in record time. And while it’s true that I can type again (hallelujah!), it’s also true that 1) my left hand still has a chronic case of The Stupid and 2) it huuuuuuuuurts.

That said, today I am prepared to add “and physical therapy will hasten your recovery” to the list of Dirty Lies Surgeons Tell You.

Listen, my physical therapist is a lovely woman. I’m sure she’s a good citizen and kind to kittens and all of that. But she’s trying to kill me and that just seems wrong, especially because it’s just my HAND, it’s not like I’m recovering from a spinal injury or anything. In fact, the entire ROOM I am now spending several hours in each week is the Hand And Arm Clinic, dedicated specifically to torturing those of us with compromised digits, probably because our hands are too weak to slap her. (more…)

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Various non-hurricane things

I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That’d be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It’s not as flashy.

[Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, “life-threatening hurricane” hadn’t even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was wondering for the 1,000th time if I should ask my ex if he’s properly laid in supplies or if I should continue to assume he’s a capable adult and not, you know, be a worrywart jerkface even though I’m nervous. And then Tarrant commented that, “Oh geez, after the year you’ve had, you’d think you would have factored that in,” and that made me laugh so hard that I forgot to be worried for a couple of minutes. Thanks, Tarrant!]

Anyway, our weekend was SUPER exciting, I’ll have you know. (more…)

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I’ll be under my desk with a snack

I’m sure you never would’ve guessed this (ha ha), but the departure of my daughter coincided with the triumphant return of the Apron Of Coping—our code-phrase ’round here which loosely translates to “Mir is cooking and baking in a futile effort to avoid feeling those pesky and unpleasant feelings.” Some people are emotional eaters, some people are emotional chefs. I consider myself an excellent multi-tasker because I am BOTH. I bake goodies for the gluten-eaters in the house and then I make other sorts of comfort foods for me.

Today I’m making soup. That’s a little messy to eat while curled up under my desk, but I’ll do the best I can with it. Desperate times, desperate measures, etc.

Anyway. It of course reminds me that many of my memories are inextricably tied up with various delicious treats, so I’m over at Feel More Better reminiscing about goodies and memories. I tried really hard not to drip any ice cream on that post, too.

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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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