Bite me!

So, hi. It's me again. This time with a learny thing that you may or may not want to stick around for, depending on your current level of domesticity.

Grant, you can leave now. This will not appeal to you, I'm pretty sure.

Yes, I have a recipe again today. It's like I'm freaking Betty Cracker or something, right? Six or more recipes a year makes me practically a food blogger!

Anyhow, this is a dish I kind of made up with the help of a dozen different ideas gleaned from the internet that seemed 1) too hard. 2) too time-intensive, 3) too recipe-rich, or 4) too not-what-I-want-to-bite-right-now.

Clearly, dinner is a time fraught with choice-making at the Tiny House. FRAUGHT, I say, and with the FRAUGHT comes the desperations, from which this recipe was born.

Forthwith - - -

Chicken/Spinach bake, Tiny House style

This recipe serves 4 people generously. And, according to the calorie-converter site I just used, has the following properties:


Kind of fuzzy and awful, I know, but the bottom line is that a serving (generous, remember?), has lots of good stuff mixed in with probably too much fat (cut the half and half if you want to ameliorate the impact) and salt (I overestimated the Parm cheese to be on the safe side), but also has the following awesome things:

only 442 calories (not freaking bad at all!)
44 g protein (whoa!)
15% of the RDA of fiber (can I get a woot woot?)
High in niacin, selenium, vitamin A, and vitamin C (icing on the cake, babes!).

The good > the bad, IMHO, so here we go.
You will need:

2 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into small finger-size pieces (that's right. 2. No more! It's plenty!)
1 medium onion, diced
1 medium tomato, diced
1 16-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed
2 TBSP olive oil
2 TBSP half and half
1/2 c skim milk
1/2 cup bread crumbs
1/2 c grated Parmesan cheese
herbs to taste

• Brown the chicken pieces in 1 TBSP of olive oil, season with pepper while browning, set on paper towel to drain
• Saute the onion in the remaining oil until golden, add spinach.
• Add half and half and milk, top with herbs of choice and tomatoes, heat through. Add 1 TBSP grated Parm and herbs as desired (Basil? Oregano? I'm calling your names, darlings). Let bubble for 10 minutes to thicken slightly.
• Mix bread crumbs, remaining Parm, and remaining 1 TBSP olive oil in a medium bowl into moist crumbs, adding other herbs as desired (fresh oregano, dried basil, and dried parsley worked today).
• Place spinach mixture in baking dish (11X17 works great), top with chicken, then spoon bread crumb mix on top, coating evenly.
• Bake, uncovered, in 375F oven for 20 minutes or until coating is nicely browned.
• Let set for 10 minutes, serve with rice (adds calories) or alone (my choice).

NOTE: From start to finish this took about 40 minutes, which is like fast food at our house. ALSO NOTE: We sometimes cook dinner for 2 or more hours a night, which makes us weird, but it's our time to just revolve around each other and 'be' without having to plan an activity, so hush with the 40 minutes. When the kitchen window is serving up gushes of honey-colored sunbeams, and the birds are chirping as merrily as the day Mary Poppins jumped through a chalk painting, and the kids aren't arguing, why then 40 minutes of THAT is a bit of heaven on this earth, amiright?



Honestly, this could serve 6 modestly-eating people, but it took 4 of us (recall - 2 teenage boys among us) to almost finish off the dish, so I'm going with 4 servings in an attempt to be calorie-honest. Be aware, there is a significant amount of fat and sodium in this dish, but it's not all THAT bad, right?

If you try it, let me know. The Things said to save the recipe, so I'm encouraged that others might also like it.

With that, Tiff out. In the immortal words of Mama Celeste - ABBONDANZA!

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Image courtesy of this Zazzle site. I think I want me one.

Trifecta

(ED note: thanks to LL, I stand corrected on the Kentucky Derby thing...it was Saturday. D'OH!)

Reason to have a party #1 - the Kentucky Derby is today! Break out the big hats and the bourbon, we gonna get wild for 2 minutes and then eat things that are bad for us.

There is a family in our neighborhood (well, OK, on the edge of our Mill Village neighborhood - they live in the house that used to be the mill supervisor's, so it's a touch more grand than the mill houses, but like 4 times.) who throws a Kentucky Derby party every year. Convenient, really, as the event is always on a Sunday in May, so the weather is generally nice and pretty much everybody has the day off. They do it up big, with hats and porch festivities and lots and lots of people, and it looks really fun, but nobody has ever invited us so I can't vouch for the quality of the offerings or company.

Reason #2 to have a party - it's Mother's Day, and my Mom deserves a party. Seriously, the woman taught me to drive, and with my terrible depth perception that could NOT have been an easy task. Also, she's my Mom, which makes her awesome, because if I'm awesome then I had to get it from someplace, and let's face it, I'm probably twice as awesome as most people so at least one full dose must have come from her (unless, of course, she's 4X awesome and my Dad didn't contribute any awesome at all, but I don't think that was the case as my Dad was pretty dang awesome too). So, at least one full dose of awesome from om, which is pretty awesome.

I love my Mom, and though we have our differences, I always will love my Mom. Because, as just mentioned, my Mom is awesome. Probably more awesome than your Mom, so I'm sorry about that, but that's how it goes sometimes. My Mom was on the field hockey team, for goodness sake, can your Mom say that?

Case closed.

Reason #3 to have a party, and the real reason why I'm about to make homemade chocolate cake: It's Biff's birthday.

May I just share a little secret with you about that man? I think his parents were both 2X awesome, and it's a dominant trait, because he is the most awesome guy ever ever on the face of this or any other planet, and lo I would argue with you until I'm blue in the face if you were to try to promote some other man ahead of him in the awesome derby. You would not win that argument, because not only do I have a large stock of awesome things he is and does to fall back on for opening, rebuttal, and closings, I am devious and sneaky and would try to make you AGREE with me, and pretty soon you'd be Daffy Ducking your way to 'Duck Theathon!' and I'd still win, so don't even start with me.

For he is awesome. Just today at church he was featured in an intro video piece about 'being an influencer,' and I about swooned when his do-ragged, carpenter-pencil-totin' noggin appeared on screen. Lordy, that man is good-looking, but even if he wasn't my opinion of him wouldn't change, as he is, as mentioned, awesome. Well-stocked in skills, intelligence, empathy, humor, insight, energy, and love, the man is fully enough reason to celebrate this day.

So, even though homemade chocolate cake isn't really enough of a tribute to just how much I think of him, and the few presents I bought are mere tokens of my affection, a party in his honor we shall have, and I don't even CARE that it's Mother's Day and I should be hanging out in my PJs with a glass of wine, a good book, and my teen boys at my beck and call! For in a few weeks it is my birthday, and that's what I'll ask for. :)

Devious, remember?

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• To all the moms out there - I appreciate all of you for the hard work it is to raise children to become useful citizens.
• To my Mom - thanks for not drowning me when I deserved it (see 1974-1980, or maybe 1990).
• To the horses about to run in the Derby - don't break a leg!
• To Biff - happy birthday to the very best LOML that ever was made. You do, in fact, rock.

Tiff out.

SNAFU

There's nothing quite like being half-naked in front of strangers, I always say. Heck, some of the best parties I attended in my callow youth practically demanded partial nudity, and that was before the bonfires got going!

Today, however, there were no bonfires or mysterious substances being passed around on mirrors or in glass smoking apparati. No, there was only me, Marti the nurse, a treadmill, and an ultrasound. And oh yes, for a few moments there was a doctor.

Sexy, no?

Answer: No.

--> Not my cartoon, I'm sorry to say.

When you're in spitting distance of 50 years old, and the tests that you're about to undergo require you to strip to the waist, attach several electrodes, don a paper jacket, and THEN walk on a treadmill until your eyeballs beat to the rhythm of your heart, after which (and, to be honest, BEFORE which), your boobular region is smeared with blue goo and a cold cold wand is pressed up into your ribs while you're asked to just 'not breathe for a minute,' there's practically nothing that hollers out 'take my photo and seethe with envy! for I am fierce and to be adored!,' now is there?

Again, no.

But, when one has had periods of crazy-heart, by which I mean freaking messed-up heartbeats, for a period of months, one does tend to mention that to one's doctor, who assumes a concerned attitude and begins to talk about such things as 'electrocardiogram' and 'stress test' and 'low-dose aspirin regimen, just in case.'

And so, for the past month, I've been silently freaking the f*ck out about what was going to happen today. Because of COURSE my occasional skipped hearbeats meant I'd had a heart attack, and was a walking time bomb for having 'the big one' that could at any moment drop me on the floor like a cartoon piano, all busted and useless. Naturally I was a candidate for keeling over suddenly and with all the grace of a newborn foal, because hey, I'm special and would only GET big events of LifeChangingProportion, right?

Turns out, after being poked and ultrasounded and staring at pictures of MY OWN HEART BEATING, and marveling at the mitral valve's cute lil' fluttery flapping, and then sweating out an 8-minute regimen of stress on the treadmill, which ENDED with a nice 3 minute walk at 3.2 miles per hour on a 14% incline, thankyouverymuch, and then more staring at my mightily beating heart while trying to hold my frelling breath so they could get a nice shot,

That heart in my chest? Is normal.

NORMAL.

Skipped beats and thudly restarts are, it was communicated, perfectly normal. In fact, people who have skipped beats Every Other Heartbeat are commonly not medicated, as it's not dangerous, just 'very unsettling.' My puny 1 or 2 a day? Chicken feed. Or worse, mouse feed. Nothing to worry about.

I'm normal.

Never mind that I could plainly see the skipped beats on the monitors, that I could see the proof of some wonky electrical work going on in there; the main fact is that overall I'm maintaining a good beat, with no disturbing prolongations of any of the major waves, dang ain't that mitral valve cute, and the ventricles are working harder on exertion than at rest (as it should be!), which pretty much means there ain't no clogging going on or other alarming things happening, so, normal.

Of course, the full report isn't coming out for a couple of days, so I can still hold out hope for some rare oddity to be inhabiting my chest, but you know what? Where the basics of my plumbing are concerned, I'm perfectly happy to be normal. All the oddness can happen in my mind, where it probably won't hurt anyone for a long long time. Me included.

And so today was good.

Hope yours was too. Tiff out.

Archived!

Four years ago 27 April fell on a Friday.

So I wrote this. Not because it was the 27th, but because it was a Friday, and I used to mock news headlines on Fridays. That was pretty fun. I should maybe do that again sometime.

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Five years ago 27 April fell on a Thursday, and I wrote this. Some things, like my ability to whine, do not change much from year to year it appears.

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In other news, NAY has been around for more than 5 years. Dang.

This is post 1289.

In the beginning I wrote almost every day, the words poured forth as though from a mountain spring, fresh and crisp. Ideas overflowed, spilling over with exuberance and glee, and sometimes with insight or humor. In this blog there are stories and fiction and poetry and stupidity and cussing and complaining, it is a mirror of what is going on in my life or what interests me or what I made for dinner last night.

There are many who say the personal blog is dead, and to that I reply "up yours, hater." Even though many people who used to write don't write anymore, or write so infrequently that a new post by them becomes something truly special, there are still personal bloggers out there who do as I do and just....write. No purpose other than to capture something of this world and the time I'm having in it, for no other reason than to get it down before it's forgotten and gone.

And even if the post happens to be about other posts and how I feel about writing them, then that's OK too because that is, in fact, what's on my mind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the Corporate Bonding Session that's happening right now, and which, as it turns out, is kind of fun.

Shhhh, don't let anyone know I said that!

Tiff out.

who's right?

Lately I've been interested in facial symmetry.

Actually, I've been fascinated by facial symmetry for a long time. And optical illusions, of which facial symmetry experiments are sort of a part.

So, I did my own. Took a pic a week ago or so as part of the dreaded group experience that shall take place tomorrow, and it's about as much of a full head shot as I've had n a while, so, I messed with it.

First off, the 'me' me.


Now, the doubled-up right half (my right half, that is):


Then, the doubled-up left half:


I now know what my evil side is. That right side is ready to kick your as and eat your shoes for supper. The left half wants to bake some bread and practice perfecting the faux-hawk she's got going on, and maybe go pet some goats because it's soothing.

Also, 2Left faces needs a nap. Those bags are disturbing, and put the years on.

Having never gone through this exercise before, I'm surprised at how very uneven my features are, even down to the fact that my jawline is utterly different from the right to the left. Skinny face right, fat face left. And the eyes - big one right, little one left. Snarling mouth right, happy mouth left.

It's....weird. And fascinating, in an all-too-revealing way.

---

And, if you're interested in doing this too, all it takes is a little Powerpoint action, a little Paint conversion, and you're in biz. It's fun, and you might just find your hidden alter-ego hidden in one doubled half of your face.

With that, Tiff out.

But WHICH Tiff?

Mwuahahahaaaa!

Losing Power

You don't want to hear about my dinner, do you?

Or how I thought I was getting sick today because it felt like someone was jabbing a super-sharp pencil into my left ear.

Or how, when I breathed in through my nose, the resulting sinus sear was enough to bring a strong woman to her knees in pain, even stronger than being left by the Only Man She'll Ever Love or 'The One That Got Away.' When a deep breath makes you cringe, it's highly likely that you'd rather be dumped by Mr Perfect than take even one more breath.

Welcome to my Monday.

Topped off with swollen glandules and a dab of a fever, I was rocking the walking dead thing for about an hour.

And then, about 30 minutes after the first bourbon, it all cleared up.

Good medicine. Gooooood.

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And so here is a picture of the Easter eggs we made Saturday.

Happy Monday. Let's keep fingers crossed the Tuesday is twice as good for half the price.

I'mma go for one more dose of medicine before falling into bed with a hot water bottle and a copy of whatever Terry Pratchett book tickles me.

Yep, I'm one hand-sign away from rock stardom. Tiff out.

Things about stuff

Cats do not enjoy skink tails once the tail is separated from the skink. Apparently, the whole lifelessness thing really pulls their taffy.

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At which point cats will leave the skink tail on the laundry room floor while they play with the remaining part of the skink (the part that still moves!), in the bathroom, going all 'hide and seek' with it under the bath mat.

---

It pays to be very aware of what's under your bathmat when there's a cat staring intently at it.

Sometimes there might be a skink.

---

Dying modems are particularly annoying creatures. Getting a new one is a pleasure that only the supremely frustrated can appreciate. 60 whole minutes without the signal dying? PRICELESS!!

---

Car salesmen do NOT like to be walked out on, no matter how many times you tell them you have to leave.

Yeah buddy, I'll just BET someone else is going to want this 6 year old Grand Caravan with the ratty carpet and the slightly grotty seats. Yep - it's been sitting on the lot for 2 months, and tonight's THE NIGHT that a thundering herd of folks are going to descend on your lot looking for that particular diamond in the rough.

Cut me a chilly cold break, dude(s) and dudette.

And if it should come to pass that in the 3 hours we needed to absent ourselves from your place of business someone does come in and buy that van out from under us? Then, OK. It's not like this is our dream car or anything. Because seriously? A Grand Caravan? With over 130K miles on it? It's a PEOPLE HAULER, not a status symbol, and for the next 4 years that's my driving life.

So be it.

Plus which, that sexy cassette player can't be that big a selling point.

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Yep - Tinkerbell will, as of about 8:30 tonight, be on her way to the auto auction. In the past 5+ years I've put 150K miles on her and had many adventures, including hitting a deer! She's been a good car, but is, once again, at the point that she's bound to need another major surgery soon, and if I'm going to bleed money it may well be on the devil I don't know that also has third-row seating.

Because with 2 kids who already have 34-inch inseams, it's all about the leg room, baby.

---

And now I need to go clean out the Tink, as she's hauling a metric crapload of junk, which I'm sure the nice people at the dealership do not want.

Pretty sure they didn't factor in my Goodwill donations, extra plastic bags, random toys, and the travel mug from our church into the trade-in value.

Though the pile of CDs might , just MIGHT, have been a selling point.

---

I might cry a little when we leave her at the lot tonight though. She's stuffed full of memories. Deserves a tear or two, don't you think?

Tiff out.

I raised my literal hand too fast after being pushed over the edge

Imagine, if you will, a company sponsored’ fun function.’ If you’ve had many a year of life in the corporate world, you will recognize the dread that ‘fun functions’ can strike in the hearts of hermits like me. It begins with immediate avoidance behavior, plans to schedule multiple doctor’s visits for the day in question, the possible brewing of something terribly infectious for the date on which your colleagues will be glorifying in free hotdogs and silly games, or perhaps a minor car accident to incapacitate you with a touch of whiplash. If you are me, you do all these things within a few moments of reading any announcement of corporate ‘fun functions’ (unless they involve amusement parks, because hey, ROLLER COASTERS!) as fun functions rarely are and usually involve things like 'participation' and 'small talk.'

*Shiver*

Well, spring is here and, just like tulips, the inevitable announcement popped up a few days ago - There Shall Bee A Springe Flinge and All Are Invited! What’s more, in addition to Fyne Faire Food There Shall Bee Games, so Forme Y’all Some Teams and Sign Up for Randome Bits of Merriment!

Forsooth! All the MORE reason for me to catch the plague by then! Games AND teams? What ho! A chance for Publick Embarrassment – sign me out and verily so!

But, it’s not to be that easy, for my boss’s boss is apparently of rather the exact opposite mindset and indicated his interest in forming a team for the merry-making, and even came up with a pretty good name for whoever wanted to sign up to play along. “So what, Tiff!” I can hear you saying “Just don’t sign up! Who cares if other people in your group get involved? You can still be the curmudgeon in the corner, the hermit in her hideaway!”

Not so fast there, sparky. You see, there are only 6 people in our group at the moment. That’s right, 6. The team is of 4 people. One person won’t even be here that day, and another instantly volunteered themselves out. With a fair amount of chiding, it turns out at me and my boss, another manager, and the boo’s boss will be on a team.

A team styled on Star Wars. A team that wants to make tee shirts of stars wars characters with our faces on it. To wear while engaging in jollility and acts of skill.

If there was pointed stick jousting? I’d totally sign up, because dang. Kill.Me.Now. You just KNOW there are going to be pictures of the participants, and I’ll be there with my fat ol’ face and neck sweating out Minute to Win It games in a tee shirt bedecked with ‘original’ Star Wars characters, one of whom (you guessed it, freaking Leia) will have my mug photoshopped on, and I’m supposed to look happy about this!

*sigh*

Now y’all should know I love me some star wars, but sadly there was no chance of me getting the Lando Calrissian or Admiral Akbar part. Crap – were there any other women at ALL in Parts IV-VI? Any, that is, with speaking parts and not just draped around Jabba’s fat ass in devoted supplication? Seriously – there are no good promo pictures with Aunt Baroo, and she didn’t do much of note except get blasted to a simmering chunk of char after raising a Dark Lord’s offspring, now did she?

So, Leia. At lea st it’s just on a freaking tee shirt and we don’t actually have to DRESS the part. Me and the Cinnabon hairdo would not make a good team.

I’m not making too much of this, am I? Also, is it OK to get sloshed before a corporate ‘Fun Day’ in order to oh, say, ENJOY it? Because I’m pretty sure I can find someplace with a 2-for-1 margarita special that would serve up delicious helpings of sang-froid to assist the Queste del Fun.

Y’all rock this Monday. Tiff the Grouchy Out.

second verse, same as the first

It's a windows-open kind of evening here at the Tiny House. Doors open as well, which the pets love because then they can come and go as they please. Thus far this year the great outdoors is reasonably insect pest free, so having the back door flung open isn't such a liability as it would be, oh, 2 weeks from now when I expect the mosquito population will increase logarithmically over a period of just days, making it impossible to enjoy spending time outside without generous applications of insecticidal poisons on the ol' dermis, and maybe not even then.

For now, I'll take when we're given, weather wise. These are the days it pays to live in the NC piedmont. There are , like, 4 of them a year. Nothing to do but bask 'em up!

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We are in receipt of a brand-new custom-made kitchen table here at the TH. Y'all? I am officially a grownup. CUSTOM FURNITURE? Get the frack outta here!

It does help that a friend is a furniture maker, and that he needed an infusion of cash, quick. Having connections is a goooood thing where custom furniture-making is concerned, I've discovered. We asked him to make us a Mission-style table with 2 leaves, in a nice bourbon-colored finish, and he went nuts, creating a thing of beauty. The grain on the top alone is like rivers of lush chocolate coursing over a landscape of rich dark leather. GORGEOUS!!!

I probably should take pictures, but in the 3 days it's been here it's already been covered up with a tablecloth and heaped up with crap. That's sort of sinful, but the tablecloth is serving to keep the top as pristine as possible, and the piles of stuff simply can't be helped. It's a table, and even a work of art like this has a purpose. Which is to heap things on, clearly.

So, for those of you keeping score for The Great Kitchen Remodel, all's we have to do now (and by 'we' you know I mean Biff) is to trim the place out and fix up a few paint oopsies (which, OK, I can do), and we're DONE! Oh wait, and put the shee-shee back on the walls - I think people call that 'decorating' (which I need to do and quit being lazy). But then! Done!

Oh wait again. We still have to make the stained-glass inserts for the buffet cabinets.

*Sigh*

Anybody got a spare 3 or 12 hours to come over and help us get done? I'll let you look at our new table iff'n ya do.

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Speaking of getting things done - my Mom's coming down next Friday for Easter weekend.

I started cleaning today.

*Ahem.*

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One last thing. Saw a flatbed truck yesterday taking a car someplace. I think probably to the body shop, as the passenger side of this car was riddled with BULLET HOLES. What in the corn-fried Hades happened there, do you think?

And what, might you surmise, does the inside smell like? I can't imagine there'd be much sphincter control happening while being shot at. Probably not going to get much for it at the auto auction.

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With that, I'm out. There's pizza dough to make! Peace!

breaking up is hard to do

Recently I've been cooking for two.

NOT EATING FOR TWO, cooking for two. Two families, once a week. One of those families is mine, one is a family that is busy helping one of their own recover from major surgery.

I volunteered to provide one meal a week for them, and have done for 3 weeks straight.

Yesterday, that family broke up with me.

The 'thanks so much for all you've done but a bunch of other people have signed up to help us out now and you've been great' message came and I have to admit I felt a little....dumped, being as how I'd told the family in question I was planning on cooking for them once a week through April and they said 'OK that sounds great - you're great!' and now? Rug Pulled. Out.

I know they're releasing me from a burden.

I know they're thinking of me and being kind.

However, I can't help but feel like the loser weirdo kid who was fun while everyone else was on summer vacation but now it's back to school and because the cool kids are back I don't get as much as a handwave in the hallway.

Wouldn't you?

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Bonus - we ate their chili tonight for dinner. Heh.

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I'm on a mission to kill all the weeds in the front yard. This is bg news, as there are mostly weeds in the front yard. However, I figure 20 minutes a day with e spade and determination will oust the unwelcome guest from the lawn of dichondra we're hoping to establish, and in a few years I won't have to do much except dab at the rogues bits of weed with Roundup and go recover on the porch with a nice double shot of Maker's Mark.

It's a good thing we live in a second-rate neighborhood. That big ol' pile I of weeds uprooted tonight can sit in the middle of the 'lawn' until next 'clippin's day' and we won't suffer much for it at the tongues of those who live near us. Here's to neighbors with worse yards than mine and those folks on the corner with a backyard full of scattered crap.

We look positively regal by comparison.

Tiff out.

Probably ought to get off of this chair

An encouraging news article I just read from the fine folks (gents?) at Men's Health magazine is that because I am an office worker who sits (and types! and thinks!) for a living, I am at 54% greater risk of having a heart attack than someone who does not sit for a living.

Fitness level doesn't matter, smoking status doesn't matter, a bunch of other risk factors don't matter - if you're a sitter you're more likely to be clutching at your chest sooner than someone who has a more active job.

After finding out this information, most of the fine people (men?) at Men's Health now stand up all day at work.

All. Day.

Emails, meetings, work-work , they're paying attention at attention. They're preventing heart disease while whiling away the hours upright. Being erect, apparently, is better for your cardiac health forecast than being all wet-noodle chair slouchy, and you can take THAT to the organ bank.

Thankfully, with a few life alterations, we who sit for a living can creep back toward relative vigor by following a few lifestyle alterations - 1) stand up twice an hour for at least a minute, 2) instead of typing out long emails go TALK to the person, 3) blah blah that's all I remember.

Keep in mind, would you, as I type this I'm sitting in the same chair I've been in for the past 8 hours, practically MELDED into the fabric of the new awesome kitchen chairs of much comfort. That's right - still sitting. However, by my count I've stood up about 20 times in the last 8 hours, to let cats in, let the dog out, let the cats out, throw out recycling, get coffee, get something to eat, put away dishes, and general puttering about the kitchen. Getting out of the seat then is covered, but as the travels have been restricted to 'what can I do in my kitchen' with a dash of 'let's see if we can make it all the way out to the front porch,' what I've done today doesn't yet = exercise.

But still, it's a start, right? The standing?

Of course, as someone who sports a lovely set of varicose and spider veins in my legs (sexee! woohoo!), standing for long periods of time is right out. A happy balance must be struck - but because I don't know the optimum ratio of sittin' and standin', there's every chance that soon I will be like a little ol' jumping bean, up and down and up and down. Up for health! Down for health! Up for health! Down for health! Confusing! But, if plan holds, all the up and down will result in quads of steel and a chance at not keeling over sooner than is absolutely necessary.

OK - quads of extruded PVC. Steel is setting the goal a little too high in that regard, but I'll settle for nothing less than significantly reduced keeling as a result of this new lifestyle.

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(FYI - I took this yesterday. ACTION SHOT!)

One other thought: there's NOTHING better than attending a minor-league baseball game on a warm sunny Sunday afternoon.

NOTHING.

Not even if your team gets utterly creamed in the first few innings and by the 7th you're thinking of many other things you could be doing. No, not even then, because those other things don't involve a stuffed catfish on an ATV or nearly colliding with the first baseman who is trying to snag the foul tip that popped up and came down right in front of your seats, or the bright sun bring up the first crop of this season's freckles, and those other things CERTAINLY don't involve ballpark food.

Which, guess how much one slice of pizza, one soft pretzel, 2 sodas, and a bottle of water costs at the ballpark?

If you said 17 dollars, YOU WIN!

Doesn't matter. It's worth the price for the atmosphere, to hear the crack o' the bat, to watch the foul tips and pop flies, to see the ONE great play your team made right there in person (nice double-play, BTW guys!), and to soak up a sunny Sunday afternoon with 2 kids who normally have their faces planted in electronics. 3 hours, a little sunburn, and time to hang out are truly priceless.

Gee - I wonder how much season tickets are?

steel-belted mysteries and the tao of routing

So, this came up in a conversation with Biff last night:

Are you living at odds with your goals?

Oooooh, yeah. That's a question it hurts to answer.

After careful introspection, I have decided to answer this question but instead of giving the whole truth, I will simply answer 'Sometimes, yeah.' Sometimes I do live at odds with my goals. Especially when those goals include the mundane and craptastic, like taking out garbage or doing laundry or sweeping the floor for the umpty-millionth time. Things that undo themselves almost as fast as you can do them up are frustrating kinds of goals to achieve, aren’t they?

Like, for example, I recently paid off my car via a lovely telephone conversation with a representative of the bank that initiated the loan 3 years ago. Why, a few minutes on the phone was all that was needed for her to merrily chirp ‘well, that does it – you’ve paid off your loan! Congratulations!’

Sounds easy, right? Sounds like I was living toward my goals, right? That I was taking the reins of responsibility and whipping the horse of progress into a full-on gallop toward a GOAL! Well, I'm here to tell you that it wasn't so much as gallop as a crawl, my a one-legged sloth. For those few minutes of congratulatory talk and achievement of they payoff, I waited 3 months. Three MONTHS to make the call, to pay off the damn car, to relieve myself of financial burden. Three months of procrastinating and excuse-making. Three months of living at odds with my goals.

It felt so good to have it over and done with – I felt like an adult, facing up to my responsibilities! Finally, some progress toward financial freedom! Woot-woot!

And then I got an email:

Dear Tiff – you are late with your car payment this month. No, we don’t know why the electronic automatic fund transfer isn’t working anymore like it has for the past 3 years, all we know is you owe us 148.72 like, yesterday. Make it snappy, sister!

WHAT? The loan outfit wants a payment on a loan I PAID OFF a month ago? They’re telling me my moment of living to my goals was a sham? How could this BE? So I did the only thing that’s meet and right so to do in this circumstance: I wrote an angry letter. I explained just what went down on 04 Mar of this year, how I was CONGRATULATED by a very nice customer service rep, how I actually have the title to my car in hand which indicated to me that the payment went through, that I’m pretty sure it’s not my problem that the payment was somehow borked and no, I don’t feel like I should be paying an y interest on that loan I was told I’d paid off, thanks for asking.

And I got an email BACK! Saying ‘well shoot, we’re sorry, but dang if it ain’t your bank that reversed payment almost immediately on this here charge and please hand over that there payment to us, thankee kindly and take it up with the folks on your end.’

This being an adult is hard WORK, people. Consistently hard work.

So I called the credit union at which I bank. I asked, almost nicely, why they reversed the charge. The helpful customer service rep searched my account for the transaction, and….found nothing at all to indicate that my loan company ever touched the account for the amount in question on the date in question. NOTHING! It’s like those few hard-fought-for minutes on the phone with the congratulatory lady that occurred on 04 March while I was standing on the back deck were a figment of my imagination. Poof! Moments of my life utterly erased into the void of eBanking!

Except – I have the title, and a nice note from the loan initiator once again congratulating me on the recent payoff of my loan, and aren’t I a good little citizen for doing that.

Folks, this begs a question - Because i have the title and the nice letter, can’t I just count that as put-paid and skip the rest of the financial drama, or am I really going to have to go back to the bank with a request to please provide me with some kind of tracking information that they use when doing those types of payoff transactions that the nice girl at the credit union can use to find out if in fact the loan people really even tried to take the money out of that account (which I distinctly recall specifying them that they should do)?

I think the title and nice letter should, in fact, count as put-paid, because at this point? I AM HAVING TO DO ALL THE LEGWORK, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for! Something about not finding the ACH transaction code and could I maybe find out a trace# the bank uses and ohmygosh could I maybe also figure out if this is an FDIC-insured agency that also happens to require terminal employee loyalty by completely effing up all important end-of-loan transactions so that the bank keeps getting their interest payment and their customers can’t access a chance to improve their credit scores?

But let’s remember – it wasn’t the bank farking things up. Oh no - they're happy I paid off my loan! It was the CREDIT UNION. It seems they don’t want me to pay off the loan. They don’t want my money to leave their coffers. They DENIED me the ability to get out of debt on my own terms and are now asking me to please provide them information that might turn the key in the lock of their mysterious systems that would free up MY MONEY.

Shit man. I’mma just go get a payoff quote and MAIL the bank a damn check.

And then? Wait for it to get lost in the mail, so that I can continue living at odds with my goals, but this time, as I'm clearly becoming more adept at facing responsibility, I'll be living at odds with my goals through no fault of my own.

It just seems easier that way.

Tiff out.

Well, I don't know, IS my blog public with feeds enabled?

A cupla quick things here today, in no particular order:

1) Jeff Kay, of the fabulous and romantic (only one of those is really true) West Virginia Surf Report has made his new comic novel, Crossroads Road, available for sale on Kindle or Nook. Even though the book was only released, like, 6 hours ago, some people have already FINISHED the dang thing and posted reviews. Who has TIME for that? Only the very fortunate, I would submit.

Better than the advent of a humorous novel by a very funny guy on instantly available media is the fact that it's priced at just $3.99, a bargain for sure. Who can resist that?

Well, actually, I can, as I do not have a KindleNook or other eReading device, and so will have to wait until the HC version is available. Sometimes being a Luddite means not getting to play with the cool kids, or read their books first out of the gate. There's nobody to blame but myself for this most unsatisfying turn of events.

But hey - don't let me be the example you live by - go show the man some love (like he needs me to shill for him, because he doesn't), and order ye up a debut comic novel by a man who deserves your dollars and guffaws. If you read it, please don't give away the ending, mmk?

2) Thing 1 is starting to get slews and slews of college junk mail. And also the random invitation to go to Boys State.

Boys State!

When I was in HS, getting nominated to go to Boys State was kind of a big deal, but Thing 1 seems utterly nonplussed. How do I get him to see that being nominated for stuff like this is an honor and also could be a pathway to bigger and better things? He's so freaking laid-back about this whole 'future' thing, and doesn't seem to understand that grabbing a hold of opportunities like this are once in a lifetime and could change your life if only for the experience of having them.

OK, I know Boys State is run by the American Legion and was originally a reaction to the 'socialist' Pioneer Camp and so some might scoff at its possibly shaded purpose, but who's ever heard of Pioneer Camp anymore? Nobody, that's who, but folks know about Boys State and if you say you went there might just be some doors open for you.

My fear is that unless those doors open to a glorious computer-filled room chock full to the brim of the coolest new games, that he's just not going to be interested.

So, somehow, I need to MAKE him interested, or simply force him to apply/go/whatnot.

Because really. I skipped way too many of these opportunities in my youth, and now I could totally kick the teenaged me's ass for doing so. There are very few times in your life you're invited to lead...each time you should grab that chance and hold on tight, right?

Sometimes this Mom thing is a tricky business to navigate.

3) Biff is away for the next couple of days, and the Things are with their Dad. This is obviously a good time for me to be productive, start an exercise program, organize the paperwork, and generally conquer the Earth.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Who wants to bet that instead the evening is spent surfing too much web, playing too much Bejeweled, chastising myself for being lazy, experiencing a burst of productivity at around 10, then falling into bed feeling slightly guilty at having wasted a fair chunk of otherwise good time?

*Sigh*

Fine. I'll go put on my walking shoes.

But I don't have to like it.

Tiff out.

taking it loose on the horsey train to whatsis

To both my real-life friends who live in the 'Quay area, let me just say this: I'm glad it wasn't your dead body the cops found on the side on the road this morning.

That would have sucked if it was you.

To the family of the person who WAS found on the side of the road this morning: I'm sorry. That is no way to have a Tuesday. Or any day.

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Speaking of, a friend's daughter just had some repair work done on her back, and this girl and her siblings are under the age of majority it falls to their Mom and Dad to 'be there' as the strong examples of 'how to do major surgery when we've never done it before' that most parents dread having to be because it is foreign, exhausting, and expensive.

Nobody teaches you how to do that, in case you didn't know. You just go by feel.

Nobody really knows how to parent two younger siblings wile trying to help your oldest learn how to SIT again. There are, quite simply, no classes for that shit. That particular shit is exhausting, totally absorbing, and all-encompassing.

Which is why tonight I cooked enough food for 20 people. The way I figure it, if I'm cooking for 4 I can cook for 10, and if I'm cooking for that many I can cook another whole meal because dang, I'm not in the position to have to try to 'adjust her meds' to 'deal with pain', so I'm a-cooking like a madwoman to help out those who are going through just such a thing. I believe it is the least I can do. Plus which, I got the Things to make meatballs with me, which is a highly family bonding experience for the 5 minutes it takes for 3 people to make 36 meatballs approximately the size of golfballs. Or perhaps more. It was 3 pounds of meat, is what I'm getting at. A good whack of beef, I think is what they call it in England.

Or is that Prince William? I don't know.

Be that as it may, the bonus is that we have dinner for tomorrow sewn up tight. The downside - the meal I prepped for us tonight, that should have served 6? Nah. Somehow the 'knowledge and power training' class at tae kwon do the Things took tonight just broke out the hunger in 'em and I basically had to stop them from chipping off pieces of cheese-bedecked Pyrex and popping it in their mouths once the real food was gone.

Heck - for a dish that had no added salt, it sure went down easy.

So, there's the one thing I did today that makes me proud to be me. Could have just gotten by with a 'we'll be praying for ya' but sometimes circumstances scream at you to do something more. All you ever really have to do is listen.

And now it's late, and I need to get my butt in bed. Sweet dreams to all, and see you soon. Tiff out.

whiny mcwhinterson here.

Dang, y'all. Today has been a butt-kicker. Guess that's what waking up with a splitting headache, nauseous tummy, and runny eyeballs will do for a person. Normally I try to be stoic about such things and stiff-upper-lip stuff as much as possible, but this most recently-acquired crud was so vomitocious that I couldn't even take the one semi-well kid to school this morning. Thank goodness the Biffster hadn't left for work yet and could take the boy while I shuffled around trying not to urp in inappropriate places and to keep the snot production well dammed with 'facial tissues.'

Due to the advent of ick, so far today I've accomplished the following: a 3-hour nap, quaffage of 2 liters of water, a quick shower, the making and eating of 1 PB sammlich (with banana and raisins!), and a bit of light cleaning before the dudes from the furniture store showed up with our gorgeous new kitchen chairs that are probably made of platinum because that's how much money they cost, approximately. All that activity flat-out exhausted me, and thus I am on the couch again, not even ashamed that my butt is starting to go numb because the rest of me still needs to sit, dang it, and I might just go ahead and take another nap here soon.

Ah well, that's in the past. Now I'm just waiting for the next burst of energy to see if it's possible to finish making the pea soup I started last night.

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What's most weird is I didn't feel ANY of this coming on last night. Felt great, as a matter of fact. Thing 2 had a headache and a little throat thing in the evening, and took himself a couch nap for a while, but I thought it was just allergies.

Well, if allergies are contagious, that's what kept Thing 1 and me home today.

Here's hoping we're the last to get it. While it's seemingly a fast-moving bug, it's not fun to live through those first 8 hours. It's been a long time since I wished I could just barf and get it over with; this morning saw the reincarnation of that sentiment.

And I hate barfing.

Well - I think I feel that burst coming along, so here's to good health for all of you and a basket of fluffy bunnies too if you want 'em - Tiff out.

Ahahahahahahaha!!

Biff and I were given tickets to go see 'Yes' last night at the Durham Performing Arts Center (DPAC, for short). Is that not spectacularly lucky of us? I submit that it is. We were GIVEN tickets to a show we might actually enjoy!. Folks, tickets started at $35 for the nosebleed seats, so we saved at least 70 bucks.

Which we then pretty much then turned around and spent on giant beers. At 10 bucks a pop you can swallow a whole lot of simoleans in a hurry.

Being an experienced concert-goer (like, I've totally been to one before!) I thought it would be super-smart to visit the ladies' room before heading into the show for maximum listening time prior to the onset of beer recycling. Even smarter of me was to take the very FIRST stall because nobody ever uses the very first stall, right? It should be clean and free of germs and stuff! Smart, See?

Also smart was the courtesy flush I performed to mask certain noises I really didn't even want a group of strangers to hear, because I'm very conscientious about the public bodily noises. Nobody wants to listen to someone else doing 'that,' if you know what I mean (by which I mean flatulate, and there I said it).

Courtesy flush is almost always a good idea. Not so much last night, as it appears I picked a rogue toilet. One push of the little black button and HOLY CRAP! The nice clean toilet in the very first stall of the ladies bathroom on the third floor of DPAC shot a gallon of water OUT of the bowl, directly onto my back.

Yes, at 'Yes' I got toilet-geysered. Somewhere that's a security camera with footage of a chubby middle-aged half-neekid white chick getting hosed, quite literally, by a commode with a vendetta and LEAPING off the seat in a vain attempt to not get any wetter.

The leaping, my friends, was a bust. The damage had totally been done. And of course I was wearing clothes that blatantly showed off that I was soaked from the neck down. Cotton will do that. Nice green cotton, light green in the front, deep-woods green in the back. Also? Dripping. From shirt, pants, HAIR, dripping. Oy.

Let it be said right now that I am glad that I discovered this little plumbing peculiarity on the courtesy flush, and not after any real use had been undertaken. Because, wow, that would have been a short concert. Being blasted by crapper-cannon is only bearable if the water is clean; under any other circumstances we would have, rather understandably, might I add, been heading right back home.

As it was, I borrowed a handful of paper towels from the concessions boof, asked Biff to help me mop up the worst of the damage, and then waited until most folks were in the theater before hiking up, up, up to our seats, whereupon I pressed my soaked back and netherbits into the plush chair, hoping the foam would sponge up overflow, and proceeded to get my groove on.

Because, seriously, we were there for the groove-getting, and a little surprise douchery wasn't going to hinder that, ya know?

This is the point at which I say I'm glad I'm not one of those women who have fancy architectural hairstyles (not that there's anything wrong with that) or super-nice dry-clean-only clothes (or that) or no sense of humor (there IS something wrong with that), because last night was an evening that could have gone very differently indeed. As it was, all's I could do is laugh and be grateful I wasn't rocketing anything up my shirt other than regular ol' cold water.

Silver lining, y'all. Sometimes you have to look hard for one, but it's always there. Amirite? Of course I am. Everybody has those moments - if you'd care to share in the comments, please do. We would all love to roll around in your misery for a while. It smells like cookies and bacon from here.

Which reminds me - someone brought Kielbasa into the theater last night. Unmistakably kielbasa. There was no kielbasa on sale at the DPAC. Where did the kielbasa come from, why did it smell so good, and why was someone bringing it into the theater? Why kielbasa at all? Is it someone's pre-Yes concert go-to food? Why is Yes associated with kielbasa then, when I think pretty much all of them are vegans? Is that some cruel/ironic twist that a sick sociopath is playing on the artists? WHY KIELBASA? WHY?

And now I have to go to work - y'all help with that kielbasa thing, then have a great day, mmk?

Tiff out.

An outline of the full report, due date forthcoming.

Here are some of the things in which I was involved this weekend, in case you wanted to know how a glamorous internet blogger and wanna-be real estate novelist (heh) spends her time:

• Cleaned the fridge
• Watched skydivers
• Walked a runway-length and back while Biff flew around in an airplane
  
• Made brownies and spicy steak and a sandwich that required a cinderblock to fix properly.
• Did massive amounts of laundry
• Opened all the windows and aired out the house
• Let in a fly.
• A FLY! It’s MARCH!
• Brushed out the dog, who, it seems, was hiding an extra dog’sworth (that’s about a pound) of fur in her fur.
• Learned about massive changes at our church, which are all good, but no more sermons in a movie theater for us. That’s kind of sad. I like the movie theater idea. The seats are comfy. And there are cup holders. And it smells like popcorn after the 10:30 service. Somehow this is not enough of a benefit to keep us from actually getting our own building. Hrmph.
• Had one of the best naps EVER yesterday afternoon. 3 hours of cozy bliss with windows open (even though it was a little chilly) snuggled up with a rock star = awesome. Of course, for the rest of the day my internal clock was way off, but that’s a minor point where NAP is concerned.
• Butlered for the cats far more times than I care to admit.
• Edited, edited, edited. Still not done with it. There’s a writer in Tennessee who is getting impatient with me. Sorry, WiT – I am working on it. 50 more pages is all.

And that’s about it.

Also, Saturday was as gorgeous as it gets, but, sadly, it couldn’t coax the daffodils to bloom. This is just not their year, and are withering without fully emerging. It’s not just the ones in our yard, either – the ones in the lot next door (from whence ours came) are puny this year too. However, in the median of North Main Street in Wake Forest there is an absolute riot of Spring color happening, from daffs and jonquils to cherries and Bradford pear, it’s as picturesque as it can be and make me smile each time I drive to and from. Yay Spring!

I do hope you had a satisfactory weekend, and that this Monday is shaking your hand in a very polite way and insinuating itself into your reality with deference and respect. If so, life is as it should be. If not, welcome to my boat. Now get rowing.

Tiff out.

Clearly, not thinking clearly

So last week I invited some friends over for dinner.

For tonight.

That’s right, I’m all contra-societal norms and such, and I invited people to dinner on a WORK NIGHT! That, right there, is a rock star move, ain't it? I thought it was at the time - so devil-may-care, so bon vivant! SO far in the future it all seemed totally do-able!

Of course, today is also the day the abscess cat has a follow-up visit with the vet, but that’s at 4:30 so surely that will be over and done with by the slated 6:30 arrival time of our guests, and I can get home by 5 to make a dinner by 6:30 if Biff takes the cat, and I can get the homework part of the day done by 5:30 if the Things are done with it so I can check, and I’ll bet I can find a table cloth to put out for dinner so that we’re not eating off the bare table (because nothing says “I don’t give a crap about hosting niceties” like not having the table dressed at all. Because, we could serve McDonald’s for dinner off a nice set of plates and table linen and it’d be OK, but if we’re putting out filet mignons on paper plates and bare wood then I’m feeling pretty bad about it. It's my issue, I know, and i"m sure most people don't feel the same way, but how hard is it to put out a tablecloth? Not hard. So there. The end.). The only thing I’m wondering is: what are we having for dinner?

That's Right, friends – I invited people over, and as of this time (10:44 a.m.) I have no idea what to serve them. I am maybe not the best party planner ever.

One bright point, we’ll have salad, for sure, because I asked them to bring it.

Beyond that…well. Ahem. I got nothin’.

All right, that’s a little lie. I have about 1.5 pounds of hamburger mix in the fridge (ground beef and chicken mixed with egg, ketchup, S&P, and breadcrumbs) that’s leftover from making “Enormaburgers” (trademark pending) last night, so I could do a meatloaf. There are russet ‘taters in the pantry so I could do an au gratin. There’s that salad coming, so the veg is taken care of. And? AND? There’s most of an apple pie and some homemade brownies left over from small group the other night.

Is that enough? Is it fancy enough? Is it wholesome enough? Should I care, or is a mid-week dinner with friends supposed to be ‘family style’ and not totally over-the-top? Does Rachel Ray do this, or Martha (no last name required), just have a cheery little dinner party in the middle of the workweek? If they do, I’m just betting they don’t have to run to the Target for a tablecloth, but then again they probably KNOW where their tablecloths are at all times and places, and have them organized by fabric, season, and size in wicker baskets that neatly stack inside their backyard accessories warehouse, plus which they probably have a personal forklift driver to fetch the tablecloth and related items (Candlesticks! Charming ceramic figurines! A centerpiece! Napkin rings! Cloth napkins in adorably contrasting colors!) so that with a single phone call (or Tweet!) the minions will be on the move and once Rachtha arrives home from a day at the office she can immediately begin taking advantage of the fully decked-out home and a kitchen full of already-chopped veg.

At the Tiny House? Not so much, what with the vet appointment and homework and the dreadful lack of ceramic figurines...

Question then: if you were invited to someone’s home for dinner on a Wednesday evening, would meatloaf, potatoes au gratin, salad, and 2 desserts (plus coffee!) be appropriate, or would you maybe hope for something fancier from your clearly mental hosts?

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OK – I’m off to online shop the linens at Target to cut my browsing time this afternoon. Time is of the essence!

Y’all have a good one Tiff out.

She needs it more than me.

If you don’t know Kaply Inc., the home of the inimitable Tracy Kaply, why then you’re missing a stream-of consciousness experience that only super-good goofballs could normally produce. However, Kap’s recent consciousness is having some rough patches (equivalnt not to goofballs but rather more to Lemonheads), and so you should go over there and tell her you’re sending good thoughts her way and won’t that stupid graft heal up already so we can get back to the stories about Los Gatos and hair color?

I mean really.

REALLY.

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Heard around the Tiny House this weekend:

“I just shaved off my mustache.”

Said by Thing 1.

Yes, he’s finally shaving. For a while now the peach fuzz has been gaining ground on his upper lip, and the sideburns were creeping down his cheeks. Things on Thing 1 were looking rather unkempt, so after I gave him a haircut this Sunday I offered to shave the sideburns and his neck for him. After showing him how to work the razor, he took over for the second sideburn, and then a day later took the new razor I bought for him and zipped off the rest.

So, yeah. My baby is shaving.

Heck – he’s 15, so it’s time, right?

One more step taken toward adulthood, and I'm still not convinced I approve of this whole 'growing up' thing.

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Also, we got brave and painted the kitchen the Beach Glass shade our Little Miss Color Wheel #2 helped us pick out. And, well, it’s taking some getting used to. The change from DARK BROWN to very pale gray-green is a shocker, as there’s a whole LOT of very pale gray green to get used to.

What’s nice is that it brightens up the room immensely. Also the color matches the occasional green glass tile in the accent on the backsplash. The color contrasts nicely with the wood and tile work.

But…it’s taking some getting used to. As is our wont, as soon as it went up both Biff and I were all like ‘uh oh’ and ‘um’ and other ho-hummy things. Change clearly is not easy for either of us as far as decorating goes. But after a couple of days, the color is growing on me. By next week I’ll be totally ga-ga over it and wonder why I hesitated falling instantly in love with it.

I suspect though that we’ll never convince Thing 1 of the positives of the Beach Glass. He, quite vociferously, has voiced his distaste for the Beach Glass.

Good thing he’s going to college in about 2 years.

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One last thing. Young men look really good in tuxes. Teen boys look nearly all grown us in tuxes, to be more specific. Our teen boys looks especially good and grown up in dress clothes, as I’ve been reminded this past week and again this morning, as it’s band concert and Festival season, wherein band kids dress up in fancy clothes and play music for audiences and judges. Why, even at 7 a.m. young men look great in tux shirts and fancy dress pants as they’re being dropped off at school by a bleary mom (me) who had to spend 30 stupid minutes that morning ironing the fancy tux shirt and dress pants so that her Thing 2 wouldn’t be a mess of wrinkles for the judges and audience at Festival.

Sadly, I didn’t think to take a picture. Couldn’t actually, because of the dark that is 7 a.m. and a certain lack of focus on my part. Still – I’ll keep the memory. That’s good enough, right?

Dang, I hope so.

--

Y’all have a great day, I’m out.

Complaint department, third floor

Woke up this morning in an absolutely foul mood. I blame the post-alarm dreams for that, as they featured the following, though not necessarily in the order in which they appear:

• Chicago
• Lots of snow
• Walking barefoot through snow
• A steamroller-type machine that could dry out the snow, which was probably the coolest thing about the dream
• My mom, though NOT my Mom, as this mom was disheveled, kept a dirty home, and hoarded keepsake trinkets like engraved glass tumblers with the names of amusement parks. Shelves and shelves of trinkets, reaching 12 feet high in the overstuffed (but well-organized) closets, along with boxes and boxes of old slides and home movies. Lots and LOTS of boxes.
  
• The high-school class reunion that was unexpectedly held at my not-a-Mom’s bare and dusty home, plus that fact that nobody told me about it, we all had to wear white shirts and I only had green, and there was some mysterious’ boyfriend’ who rode a motorcycle and liked to wear long flowing skirts. I did not care for this boyfriend at all and did not know why he was there. He looked like Russell Brand, which made things even worse. Because, ew.
  
• Children making snow forts in precarious mounds near heavily trafficked sidewalks, pushing out blocks of sandy snow toward where I was walking
• Having to get to the airport on time to drop off the Things so they could take a flight to an unknown place, and we were running super late because I’d had to walk barefoot in the snow back home after a farm party with the reunion crew and mysterious boyfriend over mushy earth and steaming sidewalks that the steam-roller thingie had just cleared, and then my not-a-mom wanted to DRIVE but she didn’t have her glasses and it was my rental car anyhow…

Which is when I woke up, grumpy and late.

And then, before I’d had as a SIP of coffee, Thing 1 is pestering me about getting back on Runescape (I said, and I quote: “don’t even talk to me right now” because he’s not yet done doing the housepainting that got him MineCraft 3 weeks ago, and I’m not about to start paying for stupid Runescape again until at least the painting is done, and does that kid need a J-O-B or what?), the cat with an ass abscess zips into our bedroom (where she’s NOT allowed) and hides under one of the recliners, making Biff and I have to clear off all the crap that’s on it as a result of the many house projects that are ongoing in fore to tip up the chair to get to her, at which point she slinks under the OTHER chair, so that one gets cleared off and tipped, so she can scoot under the first chair, at which point I want to sharpen a stick and commence with the random acts of pokery, but instead growl and cuss.

BEFORE COFFEE!!!

Then Thing 2 forgot to take his trombone out of the trunk this morning at school drop off, so I had to backtrack to the school to drop that off, then I’m held up 10 minutes waiting for a road crews to let us past the re-surfacing work they’re doing on the road I need to take to get to work, and

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You know what?

There was a huge freaking earthquake in Japan this morning, and hundreds of people lost their lives. There are protests in the streets of numerous countries by people who want democracy, there are starving hordes in too many places to count. The petty stupid issues I face in my comfortable home with healthy kids and the ability to pay the vets bill – INCONSEQUENTIAL.

I’m going to shut up now, go fix a nice cup of tea, and take deep cleansing breaths while chanting "my life does not suck, my life does not suck."

Y’all have a good day, and a better weekend. Tiff out.

Someone could have told me I had ‘sign here’ flags in my hair.

Today is my first day in the second new cube I’ve had in the past month.

Yes, victory - for I have moved!

I was told on Friday morning that I would be able to move that afternoon and, what's more, I NEEDED to be out by Monday morning as there is a new person moving into my first new cube Monday. Convenient? Not so much, because I was working at home on Friday and wasn’t planning to come in. More less-convenient was that an entire cascade of moves had to take place before mine, as we’re playing cube dominoes in order to consolidate groups and make room for new folks. Also even least-more convenient, Biff and I were headed out of town Friday afternoon at about 3, which was, of course, when I was told I could move the cube.

So, I didn’t.

I figured I could just go in Sunday afternoon, pack up my few things, and move at my leisure without having to sidestep around people and cart my personal belongings around the halls.

Except that, after a very early Sunday morning departure from Oldfriend’s house in VA, I’d neglected to put my backpack in the truck. My backpack that contains my work ID. The work ID that is also a door key, which would have allowed me to get into the stupid building on Sunday afternoon. But, no matter, there’s always a guard on duty. I figured they could just buzz me in and Bob’s your Uncle.

But, would there be a guard on duty? There ought to be, I thought, but caved into the pressure Biff placed on me with the question 'have you ever gone in on the weekend and know for SURE there's a guard?' and called the office to ensure that our soon-to-be 40-minute commute to move my stuffed E. coli and computer equipment and various other toys and knickknacks wouldn't be in vain.

The first general number I called told me to call the new general number, which I did and got a ‘this number is not functioning right now’ autoreply.Naturally I dialed again to ensure I did it right the first time, and whaddaya know, I got the same results. So, there was noway to know for sure if there was a guard on duty but to drive the 24 miles to work to see. 24 miles. On a Sunday afternoon. To, quite possibly, be turned away at the door if there was no guard.

Which we were. There was no guard. I had no ID to let us in, so no move.

Sigh.

HOWEVER, instead of being disheartened, we instead went shopping. It was decided that we’d zip up to a furniture store to see if there were any kitchen chairs that leaped out of their collection and begged us to take them home as companion to the kitchen table that’s being built. One trip around the showroom yielded some promising, but pricey, options. Another trip around yielded a salesman, who filled us in on things like ‘options’ and ‘upholstering’ and tempting nuggets of custom woodcraftery that, by 5:30 yesterday afternoon, we were putting pen to paper and buying us some dang chairs. OK, putting a deposit on some dang chairs. Sticker shock set in and I went for the quasi layaway option.

To be buck-nekkid honest, they are embarrassingly expansive chairs. They are perhaps the most expensive chairs I’ve ever bought. Why, just one of these chairs is as much as I would have thought a whole dining set should go for a few years ago. They are sort of showpiecey in a very understated way.

And they are worth it. Totally worth the price tag, the sticker shock, the grimacing, the bleed-out of the bonus money, because they are COMFORTABLE. They are the most comfy of the billion different chairs we sat in. They are nice and wide (key for well-padded people), have a remarkably supportive back for a wooden chair, and they suit both Biff and I both in style and fit.

Yes, I’m waxing rhapsodic about stupid CHAIRS. Shush. This is the first new furniture I’ve had, except beds, in years and years. Finding a great chair that works for us instead of just picking something cheap and ‘it’ll do’ is huge for me. Yes, I’m nearly 50, what of it?

So, in 6 to 8 weeks, for the equivalent of what’s about 10 days worth of paycheck, we will be delivered of 4 new, ‘05M’ stained Mission-style kitchen chairs. We shall sit in them and love them very much, all the days of our lives, because manohman, with a cash outlay like that I’m thinking I’ll never need to buy more. I feel, well, like an adult, and it feels kind of good.

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And that’s part of what we did this past weekend. How about YOU?

victory, she is mine

Lest ye forget, for the past several weeks I've been assigned to the Worst Cube in the Building, a nickname that suits far too well for my taste and that has been verified by everyone who just happens to pop 'round to it while waiting for their coffee to brew.

For the record, I don't care for being 'popped in on.' We won't go into all the other things I hate about this new workspace, because enough time and verbiage has been spent on that already.

Well folks, the squeaky wheel does, it seems, get the grease, because as of Monday I'm being MOVED! Woohoo! Now, it's not back to where I WANT to go, my former cubicle with the privacy and quiet and access to natural light, but that would be like me asking to be put in an office at this point - ain't gonna happen. The new spot is a few rows away from the hub of office social life that is the space right outside my cubicle, and if you don't think that could make a big difference in atmosphere, I'm here to tell you you're wrong, wrong, wrong. The whoosh of the coffee machine, the whirr of the printer, the almost never-ending chatter of coworkers as they take breaks, the flush of the bathroom toilets 10 feet away, all will be much more muted once I move 30 feet farther away from them.

It's sunk to this then. I'm happy about being in a middle cube in the middle of a farm o' cubes.

Just call me Dilbert.

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Made some kickass chicken chili last night and some peanut butter/banana/chocolate chip/raisin muffins. Neither of them involved me pulling out a recipe book, so kickass could have easily been 'barely digestible' given the free-formness of the cookery. Sometimes the plan comes together, don't it?

Anyhow, here's the chili recipe, mostly because it actually turned out and I need to write it down before forgetting it:

The thing you need to pour:

2 Tbsp olive oil
Things you need to chop up:

2 boneless skinless chicken ta-tas, cut in bite-sized pieces
1 diced onion
1 cloves garlic, diced
1 chopped bell pepper
Things you need to use a can opener on:

2 15-oz can black beans, drained
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes, undrained
1 15-oz can kernel corn, undrained
Things you need to 'measure' and sprinkle:

2 Tbsp cumin
2 Tbsp chili powder
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 tsp ground red pepper
S&P to taste
1/4 c corn meal (or corn muffin mix)
1/2 c grated cheddar cheese

What you need to do:

1. In soup pot heat oil over medium-high flame, sautee chicken until just light brown.
2. Sprinkle 1 Tbsp cumin and some S&P on chicken pieces.
3. Add chopped veg and sautee until onions are starting to turn translucent.
4. Dump in the canned veggies and spices, stir well, cover and turn heat to low. Simmer on low for at least a half an hour. Chili will be thin at this point.
5. 10 minutes before you're ready to serve, stir in corn meal and cheese, turn heat to medium, and let cook for 5 minutes.
6. Cool for a few minutes, then serve with more cheeze on top and maybe, if you're super fancy, a little chopped coriander (which I did not because we were out of it and it was 11 p.m. as I was making this, so no I wasn't going out to the store).

Really super-easy, and pretty danged yummy. Oh, just do not leave out the smoked paprika, as I think it's key. Also cumin. Don't make this without it, mmkay?

Thanks, and have a great weekend. Tiff out.

There's nothing a little money can't fix, right?

Currently, there's a an imprint on our couch that resembles my rear-end. When I, on occasion, stand up to do something important like rub some feeling back into the netherbits or go get another glass of water, the imprint stays there in the green velour-y nap, a perfect picture of a recent occupant, right down to and lounge pant wrinkles.

However, the imprint is, it seems, a fair bit wider than my actual butt should be.

This means only one thing: we need a new couch.

It would be a rare universe in which I'd really want to know just how big my butt is courtesy of the furniture. That universe would probably be someplace made entirely of funhouse mirrors and shades, where restaurants only served celery and guilt, and where everyone else was bigger than me. After all, feeling thin and petite is better than being thin and petite, which is why every bride has a chubby bridesmaid (in case you didn't know).

Let's be frank: I need a couch that doesn't mock me. I also need a couch that is comfortable, doesn't have 18-million stupid pillows to arrange, is clean, and looks like it was made sometime in this century. Instead, our couch is made of lies (see: butt imprint), saggy foam, worn-out fabric, and cat hair.

It is, to be frank, a very ugly couch. The love seat is no better. Well, not 'love seat,' but rather 'big chair,' because I would hope that Biff and I could actually sit next to one another on a love seat without having to carefully arrange body parts while sitting down so to achieve a minimum amount of overlap as well as comfort, because once we're IN the chair it's fairly rough sailing to adjust. ANYTHING (see: velour). So, it's a 'big chair,' certainly not a 'love seat,' for I do not love it so much as I tolerate it because up until this week I was to damned cheap to do anything about replacing the heinous furniture I got 4 years ago from a used furniture store that, with the purchase of a kitchen table and 8 chairs still ran, in total, under 900 bucks.

That's right, 900 clams for a couch, BIG CHAIR, table, 4 parson's chairs, and 4 kitchen chairs. You can probably guess at the state of each of these items at this point, being that I didn't even get the best used furniture in the store due to 1) severe cheapness and 2) limited supply of actual attractive furniture at the used furniture store. I am not one for bold floral prints or plaids, clearly.

So, what's changed? Why new furniture now now NOW?

Well, we had 'bonus day' at work this week. I KNOW! A freaking BONUS DAY! Where we get extra money as a reward for meeting things like 'targets' and 'goals'! It's amazing, right?

Note: it would be way MORE amazing if the bonus wasn't taxed to Kingdom Come (and back!), but that's not a point I'm willing to argue with the bean-counters and folks at the IRS who make up stupid rules drive regular people like me and you crazy with dread and confusion. Oh, no. I'm taking my half-a-bonus and doing the following with it:

Being grateful for it
Shift some money to savings
Give some money to church (a real tithe on this one, as it's totally an 'increase' and not at all slated for anything like bills.)
Pay Biff back for the new kitchen table
BUY FURNITURE
And throw the rest at credit card and other debt.

See how that works? I can get stuff with the crazy bonus money. Oh, yes, it's a sad truth that with the half-a-bonus I'm giving up in taxes and 401K contributions I could have done other stuff like 'pay OFF credit card' or 'purchase CAR,' but no. Not this time. I'll have to do things like budget and save for those; however, I am NOT waiting for new furniture.

Because? The couch is a LIE, and I can't have that in my house. It's simply not a good role model for the Things.

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I'm going to go look at pictures of leather couches now and try to contain the drooling. Y'all have a good day - Tiff out.

recapp'd

Two days ago I was on vacation.

Three days ago I was just limping out to the parking lot of a ski area.

Four days ago we were setting out for the mountains.

One day ago I was, sadly, back at work.

Methinks we’re doing this vacation thing wrong, as it went by much too quickly and seems already far in the past.

So, let's recap what happened during those couple of fun-filled days in that glorious land known as 'away.'

While we were on vacation we did many things, like hang out at Appalachian Ski Mountain. OK, we skii’ed too, which, when one hasn’t skii’ed for over 20 years is an activity that carries with it a fair amount of initial trepidation. Like, ‘oh my Lord how did I get suckered into this?’ trepidation. However, if one can have refreshable ski legs (much like their aqueous brother, ‘sea legs’), than by about hour 4 mine were coming back. Unfortch, Thing 2 never really GOT ski legs, quit afterr about 3 hours of good solid trying, and so didn’t enjoy as much time on the slopes and Thing 1, Biff and I.

Which is why Thing 2 isn’t sunburned. Perhaps he is the smartest of us all in this regard, and I forgot that hey! It can be sunny in winter, and there’s all that snow that acts as a dadgum reflector, and when you’re in the outdoors on a giant effing MIRROR for 6 hours you are, most likely, going to suffer some ill effects therefrom.

Like, sandpaper lips. And reverse raccoon eyes. We've raced far beyond attractive, and are currently veering straight into 'stunning,' I know.

Still, fun. And tiring. And, 3 days later, it might just be that my calves don’t hurt anymore.

-

As I expected, Thing 1 is a complete and total daredevil on the slopes. At 15 years old he is a the typical adolescent boy, barreling downhill as fast as possible and using the technique of ‘fall down’ to stop when things get going a touch too fast for comfort. It is fortunate that he is a bouncy limber thing.

After 15 years as his Mom, I’m finally learning how to simply not care about this need for speed and overall level of crazyheadedness, as the continuous state of terror I’d otherwise be in would have cause the ol’ ticker to stop in horror by now.

So, hooray for learning to let go.

-

We had lots of other cool experiences too, including hitting up a few tourist traps and historical sites, soaking in zee Tubo’ Hotness (awesome invention. Every home should have one), and lunching at a really cool place in Boone called Our Daily Bread that has apparently been around for 25 years but because this was our first time I’m going to pretend like we discovered it. I recommend the chili. The meat kind. They have vegetarian chili too, but that’s not what I had. I had the meat kind, and it was good.

Anyhow, one really really cool thing that happened is what I want to tell you about before I let you go, because it’s almost the end of the work day and I know you have other things to do, but this is cool so give me a minute.

The hot tub at the cabin faces Broadstone Road, which leads to Valle Crucis. The road twists around, following the path of a creek that is, as you might imagine, at the low point among folds of hills. On Sunday afternoon I was soaking in the hot tub by myself and watching the sunlight fade from a ridge opposite. It was peaceful, for sure, but the cool part was that from the west the valley was starting to fill with super low-hanging clouds. At first it seemed like they were only over the Watauga River, but slowly it because apparent that the fog was coming up our little valley along the creek path. If I shut my eyes for a count of 60 seconds, I could see just how far along the road the fog had come.

Eventually, the trees on the ridge opposite lost definition and the air got moist and very cool. The road below, normally very visible, disappeared. The ridge disappeared. The driveway disappeared. The world had, in the space of 10 minutes, shut itself out for me. For a period of time there was true and utter solitude. The air was blue in the twilight, shapes of near trees were muted, car headlights down below crept slowly along the fogged-in roadway, and I floated, alone, in a hot tub made for 4, with glorious steam rising gently into the cool evening.

I stared at it all, committing it to memory, so that someday I’ll have it to live all over again. The peace, the marvelous encroachment of low-slung clouds, the muffled sounds, all entered into a space in my brain I hope is one of the last to go, because it’s not every day we’re treated to such wonder, is it?

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Seems I’ve used up all my words for today. If you have a moment of sublimity (word!), share in the comments, won’t you?

Tiff out.