Leftovers

I want Judge Judy to adopt me and let me live in her awesome 14-acre Connecticut chalet and cook in her gourmet kitchen and play piano in her white formal living room.  (Kim texted me last Sunday morning and said CBS's Sunday Morning was featuring the Judge and I rushed to the television - I love Sunday Morning, but I also love silence on Sunday mornings, so the television was not already on and tuned in.)  I've been a loyal Judge Judy watcher for years, and now I want to be her adopted granddaughter.  I'll bet she give great birthday gifts.

My boss keeps giving me shit about the political stuff I'm sharing or reposting or stating on Facebook.  I told him I'll try to make sure I block him from those posts going forward.

I'm trying to sync my phone to the laptop for the first time since we got it back from the computer doctor.  I'm afraid.  I hate it when things don't work the way they're supposed to - viruses, hiccups, lost data - and then I get scared that it'll do it again and I don't want to bother with it.  But we live in a digital age, and I've gotta deal with it, right?

Pictures that I meant to post in 2011 but didn't get to because the computer got sick:

Do you remember the big green building up the way from work?

It's all gone now.  

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One building, three filters.

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Hi pretty puppy!

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A week or so before Christmas, Jimi and Steve and I had lunch and then spent part of the afternoon wandering through the Highlands, browsing in the eclectic little shops.

I've always romanticized the idea of this aimless strolling,

up and down Bardstown Road,

without a care in the world.

I haven't carved much time out to participate in this ritual,

but I always enjoy it thoroughly when I do.

 There's a store called Why Louisville.

It was my first time there, and I loved it.

I found myself wishing there were more out-of-towners on my shopping list - 

this store is perfect if you want to give someone a small taste of this awesome town.   

And then there was this:

Me too, buddy.  Me too.

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When I was a child, the arrival of the Christmas season was heralded by the arrival onto Granny's dining room table of a wooden bowl full of in-the-shell mixed nuts.  For the next six weeks or so, Papaw would crack and pick through that bowl non-stop - the cracking would be the periods and commas dividing up his verbal thoughts as we played Skip Bo or Riddle Me Riddle Me Ree.  This year, I bought a set of crackers and pickers and a bag of in-the-shell mixed nuts - I felt like a grown-up, continuing on family traditions.  (I'm pretty sure I bought a set of these when I was married, but what happened to those is anyone's guess.)

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We'd intended to go out of town for New Year's weekend, but of course, we were sick, so that didn't happen.  We spent most of New Year's Eve watching the Twilight Zone marathon on SciFi, but Angie sent a text asking what we were doing, so we scooped her up and headed to Cafe Mimosa for sushi.  

At one point, I looked past Angie and saw the two couples at the tables behind her.  Of course I'd noticed them come in, but I hadn't gotten the full effect of them sitting right next to each other.  

"Don't look now, but Mad Men just met Jersey Shore, right here in Louisville."  

 

And then Angie went on a tirade about people who dress stupid to get attention and then get mad when people stare and how if they don't want people to look at them they shouldn't dress stupid.  (I've gotta figure out how to post that shit.)

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During our sickness, we sought the much-loved comfort of Vietnam Kitchen.

Their magical healing spicy noodle soup is exactly what Jimi needed.

(And they have an asparagus crap soup that is out of this world!)

(Really, everything there is awesome. I just can't eat most of it because I'm picky.)

Anyhow, so we went in search of soup, and we also found this:

It's a pomegranate tree.  Complete with pomegranates.  

The owner says someone gave it to them years ago as a gift and they didn't know what it was

until it started growing fruit.

I want a pomegranate tree.  

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And now, scenes from The Drum Plant:

 I sorta want to have some of these printed.

And hang them on my office walls.

I may just do that.

The End.

Sundays are my favorite.

Sometimes I think about some of the things I've written about Mormon women and realize I've got it mostly wrong - they're much more than the box I put them into when I first started learning more than what the missionaries teach.  If I've offended you, I'm sorry.  I don't mean to be an asshole, but sometimes I am.

I made some amazing vegetable soup last night.  Remember the brisket Jimi made for work and then wasn't going to share?  He brought some home.  It was delicious, and then it became soup, along with the last can of green beans and the last can of corn and some old potatoes that were starting to turn soft and a jar of tomato juice someone gave us back in the summer.  There were other things too, of course, but you don't want all the details, do you?  I was particularly proud of this batch, because I though I needed to make a trip to the grocery to make it happen, then just pulled together what we had and made it work instead.  Very frugal and smart of me, if I do say so myself.  Jimi made pretzel bread rolls and they are delicious, but they were finished too late to marry up with the soup - they'll meet tonight!  I guess we're on a baking kick, because I also made a pumpkin german chocolate cake, but we've only shared one piece of that.

This morning I got up and started on laundry, only to find we were out of detergent.  So I made some more, at 7:30 a.m..  Like a boss.  I've said it before, but I'll say it again - that shit feels like making money.  Putting together a batch of laundry detergent that is as good or better than something I'd pay nearly $20 for at the store - it feels awesome.  I wish I could be more go-get-'em when it comes to other aspects of my life.

For example:  Bossman's birthday was yesterday.  I decided a week or so ago that part of my gift to him was going to be some awesome fudge.  I made the fudge today, because I'm all on the ball and shit.  So I start making the fudge, add the evaporated milk and butter and sugar to the pot, bring to a boil, then reduce heat and wait for it to get to soft boil.  It nearly boiled over.  It was in a 3-quart saucepan, as required per the recipe.  Something didn't look right.  I thought.  I pondered.  I calculated in my head.  And I realized, FUCK, I have WAY too much evaporated milk in there.  I checked the label on the can - sure as shit, my recipe called for (2) 5-oz cans and I'd added (2) 12-oz cans.  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.  I considered dumping it all out the back door, but then calculated some more and figured there was already too much invested to give up.  I hollered for Jimi and set him to task buttering more foil in another 9X13 while I found another two and a half sticks of butter and 5+ cups of sugar.  By chance, my habit of over-buying paid off this time - I had exactly enough chocolate on-hand to make this thing work.

I'm really glad I caught my mistake when I did - if not, and chocolate and such had been added, disaster would've ensued.  As it stands, the fudge has firmed up beautifully, and the worst sin may be that I failed to add enough nuts.  I'll take it.

Other noteworthy items:  I purchased 2 lbs. of whole, in-the-shell nuts, along with a cracker and some picks.  Do you know what I'm talking about?  Part of Christmas memories from my childhood will always include my Papaw, sitting at the dining room table, shelling nuts and shoving them in his mouth as quickly as they could be freed from their hulls.  He taught me how to do it.  I think Bob and I tried to recreate this tradition once-upon-a-time, but what may have happened to that set of crackers and picks is anyone's guess - I'm glad to have a new set for my new life, to remind me of another time when I was as happy as I am now.

Granny and Papaw were part of the definition of Christmas when I was learning the meaning of the season.  Every Christmas Eve was spent at their home, opening presents, feasting gluttonously, singing joyfully.  It seemed that the heart of the entire world must have grown three sizes each year simply from the good tidings radiating from their home.  I miss them so much.  Christmas lost part of its magic when we lost them.

But it's still mostly happy and joyful.  The circle of life, and all that.  Stacy was over last night - she's got five weeks till her due date.  Five weeks!  We'll blink and that brand new little girl will be here.  I can't wait to meet her.  I was able to feel a knee or a foot or something last night as it pressed out the side of Stacy's belly; there's a whole another person inside of her - it's mind-blowing.  Stacy was wearing a much-too-big for her ICP t-shirt left over from her college days and a pair of baggy gray sweats.  She looked super comfortable, and not even a little pregnant, unless you know she's normally the size of a twig.

We've rearranged more furniture and I've finally repotted the aloe plant and the bromeliad - there's a good chance neither will survive the transfer, but we'll see.  Fingers crossed.

I asked my cousins via Facebook if our grandmother, Mamaw (my Daddy's Momma), had a good singing voice - if anyone remembered.  No one remembers her singing.  I asked Daddy, too - he doesn't remember either.  For some reason, that strikes me as tragically sad.  Was she sad?  Is that why she didn't sing?  Or was she shy, or did she just not carry a tune?  Her life was hard and fraught with loss, but beyond that, I don't know much.  I know she made great fried chicken, according to Daddy, and amazing banana pudding.  What did she love, though?  What made her happy?  My most vivid memory of her involves her tears of frustration as she tried to communicate with me; I was 9 or so, Brother was a new baby, and she had already suffered a stroke or two and her verbal skills were very much affected.  I remember at her funeral, Daddy hugged me and told me that my Mamaw had loved me very much - I remember wishing she'd not been such a stranger to me, though it was obviously through no fault of her own.

Christmas cheer, eh?

Sorry.

The weekends go by so quickly - it's already 6 o'clock on Sunday night, which means I'll be awake and starting my workday in 12 hours or so.  Fuck.

It's fine, though.  Monday through Thursday this week, they can have me.  After that, I'm gone - off for 11 days.  11 DAYS!!!  OMG, I cannot wait!  I don't know how I'll spend the time, but it'll not be answering phone calls in the middle of the night or putting out fires before my first cup of coffee.  I fully intend to at least finish reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and these two new-to-me classic anti-Mormon autobiographies (Deborah Laake and Sonia Johnson) drunk-me bought me for Christmas last week.

Happy Week-Before-Christmas!  May the Force be with you this week as you navigate the malls and shops. (And remember, Buy Local!)

Thursday, Thursday, gotta get down on Thursday.

Rebecca Black had it all wrong - my understanding is that THURSDAY, not Friday, is THE day to party.  In our first year, Jimi and I referred to Thursday as High Friday - we'd fill our house with friends and laughter and junk food and watch TV or play games and drink booze and pass the peace pipe and all was right with the world.  We don't do that anymore - four years later he's got the 'betes and nights of diving face-first into cartons of ice cream had to be cut way back.

See?  I start typing and then I hit a brick wall and everything that comes into my head sounds stupid and ridiculous and I don't want to write any of it.  So I write nothing instead, which I know probably isn't the right answer, so fine, here, i'll just write it all and if it sucks it sucks.

(Usually, you'd hope an outburst like that would lead up to some awesome drama, like maybe I found out Jimi's having an affair or my boy dog used to be a girl dog, but sorry to disappoint, that was just a random outburst directed completely at myself and there's no good dirt to follow the build-up - I'm such a disappointment.)

I'm taking Stacy shopping this weekend to buy her a BellaBand - she's something like 14 weeks now (15?), and none of her pants fit anymore.  Hopefully this will get her through the next few weeks and give her a chance to collect a new wardrobe with room for her growing belly.

When we were little (4 and 5?  5 and 6? 3 and 4?), Papaw hunted squirrel and rabbit and deer on the Property.  I hated that he hunted - oh, it just seemed so cruel and horrible and awful.  Had he not seen Bambi?!  Did he not see how adorable and sweet and cuddly those little animals were?!  There wasn't even that much meat on them, and McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't have any squirrel/rabbit/deer nuggets to offer, so obviously it wasn't even REAL food.  The hunting and killing of such innocence was wholly wrong, and I wasted no opportunity to inform my loving, impressionable, younger cousin of my deep thoughts on the subject.  I indoctrinated her with the utter injustice of the entire situation - I secured a promise from her that she would never again eat the flesh of those innocent little creatures.

But one morning, she found herself at Granny and Papaw's breakfast table, and in front of her was set a plate piled high with piping hot fried rabbit - her personal favorite before my "Save the Woodland Creatures" campaign.  She looked longingly at the plate of meat, then at me.  "Stace, go on and have some," says Granny, getting up to lift a piece onto her plate.  "I can't," Stacy says, loyally, "Natalie says those are God's creatures and we shouldn't kill God's creatures."  Granny launched into the reasons why my logic was right and wrong, and then told Stacy if she didn't want to eat any rabbit, she didn't have to.  Stacy again stared at the plate of hot battered rabbit - legs that had once hopped along the prairie.  Finally, her restraint broke - she reached for a leg, "They may be God's creatures, but they sure do taste good."

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I've been at work for an hour (I started that part up there at home), and already I've apologized twice today for being a bitch.  Maybe today isn't going to be my day.  Maybe I need to chill the fuck out. 

Okay.  Starting over - do-over! 

It's Thursday.  It'll be a good day - I mean, it has to be, right?  It's practically Friday.