Cooking, writing, writing, cooking
Today is prep day. In order to prevent myself from having a nervous breakdown tomorrow, today I have to not only get enough work done that I can more or less stay offline for the day (as running off to check my email when we have a houseful of guests might seem rude) (though perhaps I could slip my iPhone into my apron pocket…), but I also have to cook a whole mess of stuff (yes, that’s the technical term) so that tomorrow I can concentrate on the turkey and our company.
And the wine. Of course.
So this morning I got up and threw some cranberries into a strainer in the sink, and did some work, and made some cranberry sauce, and did some more work, and made some more cranberry sauce, and… well, that’s sort of how the day is going to go. read more…
Elsewhere, because I’m not here
So, as much as I would love to stay here and treat you to my standard prattling on about nothing, I cannot, today. For today is the day that I get to go repeat one of the more awesome experiences of my recent life. Whatever could it be? Am I going to recreate Otto’s and my wedding? Win the lottery? Get a really awesome deal on shoes?
Alas, no. Today I have to go have another MRI. And you might recall how much I enjoyed the first one. Naturally—because I NEVER LEARN—I made plans for after this one, too. Because nothing says “let’s get together and hang out like adults” like a giant crease on the forehead and some bedhead. Er, MRIhead.
If you need some entertainment, here’s a few other options: You can read about my new clear skin secret and then go enter to win your own. Of you can think about greening Thanksgiving a little, or check out a couple of recipes I’ll be using this year and why I love making bread.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go dangle my boobs through some holes.
Always an adventure
I decided to have some quality time with the kidlets this weekend. DAMMIT. It seems absurd to me that we would need to schedule such a thing, but sometimes if I don’t make a mental and calendar commitment to it (complete with a mild expletive), it doesn’t happen. So it was slated to go down this weekend, like it or not.
We started it off in classic sloth style with a pajama day on Saturday. We all slept late and never got dressed. Well, I take that back—I eventually showered and got dressed around dinnertime, because I wanted to walk out and get the mail, and after having spent the entire day holed up in the house I figured my overly-concerned neighbor might call DFACS if she saw me trudge out there in my jammies. But we laid around and watched TV and read books and played Wii and just hung out together. It was lovely. read more…
Requiem for a babysitter
So, I keep wanting to tell you more about the gala—like that it was hosted by alums Deborah Norville and Deborah Roberts, who kept being referred to collectively by people like the president of the university as “the Deborahs,” which made me want to collectively punch someone in the face, although I was apparently in the minority in finding it demeaning rather than cute—but I am too mired in consternation.
The time has come to admit that I am still grieving the loss of our old babysitter.
Our regular babysitter in New England was a neighbor, which was a happy coincidence when we first started using her back when the kids were tiny, and an absolute necessity once I was a single mom and unable to leave the kids to drive her home at night. She sat for us for for about six years, and was delightful in every possible way. Most notably, “raising her up” alongside the kids meant that she knew them well and handled them with finesse. read more…
This is best part, anyway
Oh, I will have stories to tell about the Big Gala—including serendipitous seating next to a delightful woman I wished to tuck into my pocket and take home with me, except that I didn’t have any pockets so I had to leave her there—but they will have to wait, for the moment.
And because all you really care about is what I wore and how I did my hair, that’s fine with you. Right? Right. Who cares about the PEOPLE and the stuff they SAID or the fact that the molten chocolate raspberry something-or-other dessert was actually so rich I was unable to finish it (a first in my history with chocolate)? You want to see the SHOES! read more…
Love is in synch
So. Tonight. Tonight is the big gala. It’s a black-tie event, you know. Fancy schmancy.
So naturally Otto and some of his other professor colleagues (please note: all males) got together and decided that they could get away with just wearing suits to this thing. Even though the non-faculty, donor-type guests will all be in tuxes. Even though I will be wearing a torture device underneath my full-length gown.
Yeah. Fine.
I took a couple of deep breaths and said that that was FINE if they’d all agreed they could get away with it, but that AT THE VERY LEAST he needed to buy some new shoes and a new tie. Please. For the LOVE OF GOD. (In fact, we sort of had an argument about it, and I was all snotty and exasperated, and he was mad at me, and then later we had a conversation about how I’m not sleeping and that sort of makes me a big jerk. So.) read more…
The gift that keeps on giving
Dear Menopause,
I admire your persistence. I really do. You’re tenacious, and—generally speaking—I like that in a person. Or syndrome. Whatever. But the way you valiantly infiltrate one part of my life after another despite my attempts to tame you with artificial hormone regulation… well, it’s something to behold. I have to give you that.
The slow but steady weight gain as you methodically readjust my metabolism is insidious, true, but not unexpected. I don’t like it. All of this additional shopping for pants is annoying. But were you satisfied to stop there? Oh, no. Not you! You had grander plans for me than just THAT!
And so the broken-internal-thermostat issue has also been intensifying over time. Which is especially lovely when one barely has any pants that fit, let me tell you. read more…
Mother to mother
I discovered very early on in my mothering career that FOR ME (not saying this is the rule for everyone, of course), I’m incapable of maintaining a friendship with a fellow mom whose parenting style is completely different than mine. Not because I think she’s bad or wrong, but simply because get-togethers involving all of the children will cause my head to explode. If Little Billy is, for example, sitting on top of Chickadee and kicking all of her teeth out one by one (plink! plink! plink!) and Billy’s mom is laughing and saying, “Boys just play really differently than girls, huh?” well, THAT’S A PROBLEM. You know?
My tolerance over the years has grown; I’ll confess that in the early days everyone in my “inner circle” was extremely similar in this regard. My death-grip on The Truth And The Way has relaxed as I’ve mellowed over the years (stop laughing; yes, this is the mellow version of me… scary, I know), and now, sure, I have friends who parent differently, but still, there’s some basic sense of unity there, for sure.
For example—and I know this comes as a HUGE SHOCK—I believe in talking. read more…
Weekend meanie
This weekend Otto and I were trying to spend some quality time with the children—by which I mean that we adults were holed up in the office, each working away on our separate computers, while the kids figured out new and exciting ways to throw bowling balls at each other on the Wii—when our internet connection… started. . . slooooooooooowiiiing. . . down. Wayyyy down. Like, “Dammit, Otto, stop uploading monster photos!” “Uh, I’m not uploading ANYTHING!” kind of slow-down.
So of course we called to report the problem and they had us do some transfer rate tests that proved that our DSL was now chugging along at approximately half the speed of dial-up. Awesome. They gave us an appointment for a technician to come out today.
Which meant I actually had to take a shower and get dressed, this morning. My life is HARD. Also: Today the connection is fine. Of course. read more…
I am fancy
So, Otto and I are going to a gala next week.
A GALA. I have never been to a gala. I’m pretty sure my hair isn’t shiny enough for such a thing, but now that I have this awesome haircut, we’re going to attempt it.
Actually, it’s a fundraiser. And while we, personally, are not obligated to raise any money (I mean, beyond the essential organs Otto had to sell to buy the tickets), Otto is sort of obligated to be there because of his job. I think. I don’t really know; he informed me that we’re going and I should wear something pretty.
Now, this may come as a COMPLETE SHOCK, but I don’t get out much. (You can take me anywhere twice—the second time to apologize.) And generally, that’s perfectly fine with me. But I was unexpectedly excited about the news we’d be getting dolled up for the evening. read more…