I didn’t mean to disappear, like that, but I came down with an extreme case of Chickenwithitsheadcutoffitis. It’s not fatal—thankfully—but does cause me to talk to inanimate objects. Example: This morning as I brewed up a nice, big pot of turkey brine (mmmm, briny!) on one side of me while throwing cranberries into my food processor on the other side, I asked the brine how it was doing. To be more precise, I said: “How are you doing, brine?” My father is slightly hard of hearing, but from his vantage point at the kitchen table he wanted to know who Brian was and why I was talking to him.
With anyone else I suppose that would’ve been awkward. But with Dad it was more like, “I’m chatting with the brine. OBVIOUSLY.” And he nodded and went back to what he was doing.
Then again, I’m pretty sure the menfolk have already been sent to the store or on various other errands four or five times in the last day and a half, so he was probably just relieved I wasn’t going, “DAMMIT! I forgot the [fill in the blank with some ingredient here]!” I never realized that men require other men to go to the grocery store, but I guess Publix and husbands turns out to sort of be like women and bar bathrooms.
(Granted, not the most appetizing analogy as I embark on Thanksgiving dinner preparations. Whoops. Sorry about that.) (Also, listen: I have NEVER gone into a bar bathroom with a girlfriend and emerged with a couple of pineapples. So there’s that.)
Anyway, as I was saying (or maybe just thinking, or maybe I discussed it with the turkey brine…?), why spend this week visiting with my folks and cooking a big meal when instead I could spend this week visiting with my folks, cooking a big meal, and baking cookies and going to IEP meetings and taking delivery on that new bed (hey, it showed up early) which turned out to be damaged. FUN!
I’m pleased to report that apparently I make the world’s greatest cookies, because the recent IEP meeting was, to my mind, a success. Now, it’s only the front end of the battle; they could still fail to deliver what they promised, in other words, but what they promised was more than we expected. So that was huge. On the other hand, we still want some things they seem reluctant to provide, but we’ll see.
[About the broken public school system: There’s federal regulations, and then there’s state regulations, and then there’s county regulations. Federal is supposed to trump all, but that’s, unfortunately, not always how it works. So the particular dysfunction we’re wrangling here results in things like being told that probably Monkey won’t qualify for Occupational Therapy according to their guidelines, but on the other hand, they’d be happy to have the school buy him a laptop and typing software and allow him to forgo most handwriting requirements because they’re so problematic for him. So, no, we don’t agree there’s an underlying problem, you see, but we’d be more than happy to give you everything you need to work AROUND that thing we’re not acknowledging is a problem!]
That took up some time and some brain space. Plus there was a thing at school… some sort of parade, I think. I don’t know. I show up and wave at my kid as directed.
Plus Chickadee’s science experiment has somehow emigrated to my bathroom, which is a whole ‘nother story, but she promises me that it’s only temporary, and that it’s only producing a LITTLE bacteria.
Licorice has been wandering through the fray making sad eyes at anyone willing to listen to her sad plight, namely that no one ever feeds her or loves her, and if only you, kind sir, could spare a few bites of chicken and some ear rubbing, or perhaps even offer up a snuggle and a nap, she would be ever so grateful, truly.
Then we found out the bed that was supposed to come next week was coming early, which YAY because it means the bed is here and I no longer have to worry about my guests potentially wrecking their backs on the old bed. On the other hand, the boxspring was all ripped and the delivery guys were all, “Oh. Man. We didn’t know.” And then I had to call the store and tell them that bed surgery was not on my pre-Thanksgiving To Do List, so that was an interesting detour. (End result: $100 credit, and my hero of a husband wielded his staple gun with precision. What a guy.)
While we’ve been trying to deal with all of these things AND get the cooking underway (if I don’t take care of enough of the cooking today, tomorrow I’ll be snappy and unpleasant instead of actually thankful), the children took my stepmom over to their piano lessons and borrowed a bunch of music from the piano teacher so that they could do duets and trios. That’s turned the upstairs into one continuous jam session, if indeed you can call two people on the piano and one of the flute slowly playing FrÃ¨re Jacques at half-speed “jamming.”
Even if you are inclined NOT to call it that, I feel compelled to point out that we were told a concert is upcoming, and then after some stomping around up there I caught a glimpse of my son in jeans, a giant t-shirt down to his knees, a backwards baseball cap, and some “bling” necklaces. So apparently this concert will be a lot more hip(hop) than I anticipated.
After the concert: Pie-baking. And then (I’m told) perhaps another concert. It’s a pretty full day, is my point.
It is VERY LOUD in my house this week. There’s too much to do and not enough time to do it in. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Here’s hoping that you and yours are enjoying each other this week, too.