Identity Crisis

I am having an identity crisis of blog-sized proportions.  Who am I?  Who is this little blog?  It seems that nowadays everyone has a theme to their blog.  

• There are the cooking blogs with all kinds of healthy, quick, cheap, gourmet, delicious, satisfying, etc. tips a person could possibly desire for any occasion.  I love them.  But these people have the best cameras and photography skills in the world!  Have you seen their food photos?  Go now if you haven't! Mostly I'm jealous of people that make their living this way.
• There are the fashion blogs where a person shows you how she (mostly she) pulls out a dirty hanky, an old tank top from Goodwill, and a clunky bracelet from her dead Aunt Edna's jewelry box, and transforms into a fashion goddess.  (I do not have this skill.  Perhaps I should read more of these blogs.)  Then the blog author models all of these posh outfits.  Who is taking all of these pictures of them!?!?  
• There are the style blogs.  Rinse and repeat the above ideas but instead go dumpster diving for dressers and broken down lamps.  And then voila: your home instantly looks like a stylish New York loft.  Or on the other end, the rooms shown are stylish but completely unaffordable, serving only to make me discontent with what I have.
• There are the, so called, mommy blogs.  Well gang.  I'm not a mommy.  Although I'm sure I could give some awesome advice about how you should raise your children.
• There are the "How to Raise a Family of 15 on $.50 a Month" blogs.  Don't get me wrong.  These blogs have some AMAZING tips - tips I use!  But sometimes I feel about them like I do about extreme couponing.  Which is to say, while I am in awe, I wonder if the time and energy put into cutting costs is truly worth it in the end.  
• There are travel blogs.  These are generally full of helpful tips on saving money, where you should go, what's new and hot, what airlines are best. I only know about the places I've been.  Which may seem like a lot to some of you.  But, it's not nearly enough to start handing out advice.  Also, I only know which airlines I don't like.
• There are knitting blogs: blogs where people knit enough to actually have enough finished projects to show people weekly!!  I may wield my needles like I'm trying to knit my way out of a burning building, but I can't keep up with that pace.
• There are blogs for simple living, organic living, creation care/environmental living.  I'm a total sucker for this stuff.  But I'm not a role model for it.
• Political blogs.  I may go off on a political tangent every now and again but, BLECK!
• Feminist blogs.  I love feminists but we tend to put out some negative energy because when we focus on gender injustices we get, well, pretty ticked.

So I guess in the end, I'm just a standard old "personal" blog; telling my little stories and sharing my life with you.  This space may have elements of all of the above (minus the fashion advice - yikes!) but in the end, I guess I'm just full of words.  Maybe I'll try my hand at some entries that follow the above style of blogging in the next few weeks.  Maybe we'll all wish I hadn't.  :)

About a Birthday Boy

This is the story about a birthday boy who is, at once, both demanding and disturbingly unobservant.


The first part of this story is about Brian's birthday present.  Brian loves to grill, considers it an art form, and makes me much delicious meat.  But the years of hard use have taken their toll on his faithful grill.  Ready to retire the old one, Brian has been eyeing the Big Green Egg variety of grills for a couple of years.  They are cost prohibitive.  Luckily, some new versions of these kamado grills are on the market locally as of this year.  


I had a vision.  Brian would be out of town the three days before his birthday for work.  I would purchase the new grill and have it set up, waiting for him when he arrived.  I couldn't wait for that moment when his eyes would fall upon the new grill, and the recognition of this marvelous thing I had done would light up his face, and he would fall all over me with zealous appreciation.  


So, I purchased the grill, assembled the sucker myself, and waited for our glorious reunion.  He arrived home and immediately I suggested we let the dog out.  We sat on our patio, mere feet from the new grill.  Me, wildly anticipating the moment he would notice.  


Nothing.  Nada.  The dog did his business and we went inside.  


Fast forward an hour.  I come up with another excuse to head out to the patio.  This time I say, "Oh did you notice my cilantro is coming up now."  He would have to face the grill to take in the cilantro.  He swings his head around, says, "how 'bout that," and goes back to staring at nothing.  


Now at this point I'm wondering if this man is playing games with me.  Nobody can be this obtuse.  I become a bit testy because I'm sure he's toying with me.

Fast forward an hour.  I come up with the idea that my plants need watering and won't he come out with me?  Here's where it gets stupid.  I water my plants, that frankly don't need watering, and I ask him if he would please turn off the water and help me wind the hose up.  Feast your eyes upon where the hose is in relation to the grill.  (You may also notice my cilantro to the left.)


He stood, reeling in hose, staring at the new grill and ABSOLUTELY SAW NOTHING!  I briefly considered going back in the house and suggesting he throw something on the grill.  But I could take this charade for not one minute longer.  He walked away from the grill, and I said something to the effect of, "you're so dense."  I agree, it wasn't nice.  Brian, perplexed, walked back to the hose, thinking I was upset because it was leaking water.  At that point I stood by the grill and all but danced my merry jig next to it.  Basically, I pointed at the grill.  He stole every bit of fun out of that gift.  Let's hope it yields some good meat.


Fast forward 24 hours.  We're sitting in a Mexican restaurant for his birthday dinner when I ask him what birthday dessert he'd like me to make him.  (I knew that family was coming over to surprise him that weekend.)  I listed all the usual suspects, things I'm good at making.  Things any mid-western/Mennonite gal is good at making: pie, cake, cupcakes, brownies, etc. He didn't know.  He claimed it all sounded good.  I told him to just pick something then.  He said he couldn't.  


Then he proclaimed: "I want a molten lava chocolate bundt cake with cherry sauce."


?!?!?!?!?!?!


Where in all tarnation did that come from?  


Or, he said, the other option would be homemade cannolis.  


Are you kidding me?  Do I look like I have a hidden Italian grandmother somewhere who has taught me her secrets.  How about we pick something from the repertoire I have established?


I decided to go with the cake option.  Brian, decidedly, made this concoction up in his head based on other desserts he has partaken of.  But for me the search was on to find something that matched his request.  I love trying new things, however, I'd prefer not to do it for company.  Aww geez.


Luckily, I found a recipe that seemed close to fitting the bill.  The Tunnel of Fudge Cake.  (Some of you may remember the original recipe - it was a 1966 Pillsbury Bake-Off winner.  Ahem, my mother remembered it.)  However, this updated version comes from a fellow Hoosier.  I guess we mid-western ladies really can do it all - fancy or plain.

 Here is the link to Annie's Eats blog where I found the recipe.  


I have to say, Brian requested a real winner.  Perhaps this could be a new birthday tradition I could sink my teeth into.

Weak Week

*WARNING* What follows could be classified as a pity party and has been known in the state of California to cause birth defects and extreme irritation on the part of the reader.

I have never been so happy to bid sayonara to a week than I am to this one.  And here I was just getting ready to write an entry in which I exclaimed from the mountain tops that I am the happiest and healthiest I have ever been.  Thanks universe, for reminding me that life is full of poop.


The week began with a debilitating cold that made me waste an entire weekend sleeping and feeling miserable.  When I wasn't sleeping I was wallowing - and producing more snot than one can possibly fathom.  


Already in a weakened state, I received news on Monday that triggered an 18 hour crying jag.  Granted, I am prone to bouts of crying when I am sick (please tell me this happens to others) but this episode was really quite epic.  I still have a headache from it.


Now, weakened and depressed, my neck decided to become kinked, rendering me sleepless.  I even tried sleeping with one of those ridiculous doughnut looking travel pillows under my neck.  (Okay look, those pillows really do make sleeping on an airplane at least bearable.)  But sleep has been elusive.

Weakened, depressed, and tired, I began yesterday in a very precarious state of mind.  But hope springs eternal and there are always little things to look forward to in a day - like the mail delivery.  I love getting the mail.  I look forward to bringing in the mail.  Sometimes I know it's there and I make myself wait to go get it because the anticipation is just such fun.  But yesterday, the mail carrier approached the house - and just walked on by. 

Hours later I received an email informing me that my favorite store in town, The Shuttle Shop, is closing.  This is my local yarn store - where I learned how to knit and how to knit confidently.  This is where my shy, insecure self branched out and met new friends.  This is the cozy little shop with the fun and quirky owner and where I spent hours sitting on the sweetly battered furniture knitting away happily.  This is where I developed a hobby that I love and a past-time that relieves stress.  This is a refuge in this town for me.  So somehow this felt like the final resounding blow on this already battered spirit.  It felt like every part of my sunny disposition exploded in a gory pool around me.


So when Brian walks in this door in a few minutes and our weekend officially begins, I am shedding this week like an over-ripe snake skin.  I am letting it go and I am going to be happy again.  Because that's how I normally am.  And that's how I choose to be.


Happy weekend to you all.

Hot Pockets

In my last post I alluded to our kitchen project.  Those of you who know me know about the project, and how I nearly lost my marbles during it.  


It really wasn't even a huge project, we didn't remodel anything.  We didn't replace cabinets or counter tops or appliances.  And yet, the inevitable disaster area was present for one ENTIRE month.  For a person who doesn't rest easy when the house is a mess, (not that it never gets messy) this was a living nightmare; a constant source of unease and tension.    


And the food situation!  Oh the humanity!  Somehow I was under the delusion that I would be able to pull food together in a torn-apart kitchen.  But when push came to shove, and I had lessons to teach and painting to finish up, food preparation just wasn't top on my priority list.  So we started dining out.  A LOT.  Enough so, that when I tallied the dollars up that we spent during January and February eating out, I thought I might mistakenly be looking at the bank statements of a Las Vegas high-roller.  Enough that I resigned myself to the fact that we would have to take out a second mortgage on our home to pay it back.  Enough that I briefly passed out and dreamed of a world where we hadn't spent enough to send 30 children to school in Kenya for 14 years. Waking up merely found me once again, facing this cruel reality. 


With the kitchen project still unfinished I realized that we had to find another solution.  Without any usable counter top space, a stove that was sitting precariously in the middle of the kitchen, and less than hygienic conditions, I realized we had only one option.  Microwaveable food.  


I grew up in a home with a thrifty mother who prepared well balanced meals for us.  "Instant" anything was simply not in her menu plan or on her grocery list.  (My poor mom, who lovingly baked us cookies from scratch, all the time had to listen to me whine about how I wanted "store bought" cookies just once in a while.)  As I've matured, this is something I have tried to emulate - cooking from scratch, avoiding overly process foods.  So it was with great shame that Brian and I went foraging for frozen foods that would take only minutes to heat up.


Into our grocery store we went, completely reversing our normal shopping experience.  The items that our eyes normally just skim over were now what we sought.  We loaded into our cart: Deli meats, bread, (so far not so bad), microwaveable Kraft macaroni and cheese cups, three boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes, a bag of frozen burritos, and a family-sized box of Hot Pockets.  And then we hightailed it for the self-check-out counter with great haste lest someone we know, or even strangers, would see our embarrassing bounty.


Now, all of this is not to say that I am opposed to the occasional Hot Pocket or frozen burrito.  I am not such an elitist that I find it impermissible to occasionally partake of such fare.  Life gets busy, things happen.  A frozen burrito can save the day.  It was that our shopping cart was filled up entirely with these culinary delights.  It felt like some sort of guilty pleasure to purchase so many easy options.  


So we went home, filled up on, what became, really boring food, for the next several weeks, and gutted it out.  (Ha!  I didn't even mean to make a pun but it's funny right?)  For those of you with a little spare time, here is a video of comedian Jim Gaffigan talking about Hot Pockets.  (It's a clean clip, other than some talk of poop.)  Every time we grabbed a Hot Pocket out of the freezer, we sang the theme song and thought of this little clip.  Hope you enjoy!

Break Down

Now that our kitchen is complete, it would seem that the cosmos has let loose a slew of bad luck upon us.  It's one of those times where you think that being an adult, owning a home, owning a car, responsibility, is all completely overrated. 


Brian's fancy new car has an ominous "clunk," our washing machine is leaking water, one of our windows won't open, the burners on our stove only come on with gentle coaxing, we have a HUGE clogged drain situation, and - Brian would say, most notably - his beloved watch literally fell apart while at work.  


So our week has been spent dealing with the above crises.  The watch (which Brian loves only a little less than his sunglasses, which he loves only one half of a degree less than me) is now fixed.  The car is repaired.  The clogged drain is well on its way to wholeness.


There are days that I feel like I'm the only one who does anything around here.  I throw a grand old pity party for myself...and then I start getting a bit snappish, shall we say.  But then there are days like yesterday when I watch Brian lay on his back in a filthy crawl space for five hours, cutting into pipes that are spraying and spilling the most horrifying sludge of disgustingness all over him, and I realize that I do not, in fact, do everything around here.  These are things I could not begin to accomplish on my own.  I would gladly clean the toilet for the rest of my life rather than once deal with what Brian valiantly tackled last night.  


Now I feel kind of bad for telling him he was singing too loudly in church Sunday.  Well, I actually felt bad immediately.  I sort of stole his joy in the Lord.  Clearly, I am a lazy ogre, and Brian is an attacker of muck-filled-pipes with the voice of an angel.  


Here's hoping your week is finding you with a smoothly running household.

Let's Make a Deal

I love a good bargain.  Not that kind of bargain!  I lack the ability to find a good deal in a store or at a garage sale.  Much to my great frustration, I am not endowed with that kind of luck.

But I am a champion at the household chore bargain!

I come from a long line of bargainers.  I learned it from my older sister, who learned it from our older brother, who perhaps learned it from our oldest brother though I can't confirm that, and he probably learned it from a medicine man in Minnesota.  (They were all really good at cheating at board games as well but I, thankfully, have not inherited that.)

It went something like this:
Lanie (Older Sister): Hey will you go out and water the cows for me?
Me: No.
Lanie: If you go water them you can have my Huey Lewis and the News 45 record.  (She knew I'd been drooling over that sweet 45 record.)
Me: Deal.

Here's another scenario:
Lanie: Hey if you wash the dishes for me tonight I'll vacuum for you tomorrow.
Me: No.  I don't mind vacuuming.  What else you got.
Lanie: I'll vacuum and do the dishes next time it's your turn.
Me: No, I want you to do the dishes the next two times it's my turn.
Lanie: Deal.

There are several keys to the bargain. 

• One must know how badly the other person wants the deal.  If they want it enough you can really get some great trades.  Conversely, if you initiate the deal, do not let them know how badly you want it unless you want to wind up doing the dishes the next 15 times it is their turn. 
• One must be willing to yield a little if initiating said deal. 
• One must always be storing away information about the other party in order to bring something enticing to the table the next time a deal is desired.
• One must sometimes engage in bargains with the other party - even when not in the dealing mood - in order for reciprocation to occur. 
• One must know how to make the other party feel like they are getting the better end of the deal.

For Instance:
Me: If you run to the store for me I'll empty out the dishwasher.
Brian: I don't want to run to the store.
Me: You'll be back from the store and resting on the couch again before I'm done emptying this dishwasher.  You are clearly the winner here.
Brian: Okay.

Now, to be fair to Brian, he is easy to take because he, evidently, did not grow up bargaining.  It usually doesn't occur to him to wheel and deal with me when he wants something.  And he never makes a counter offer!!  He could totally counter offer, throw in extras, and come out a champ - some of the time at least.  But most of the time it's really kind of pathetic.  It's like he's taken the thrill of the game from me. 

Slowly but surely, he's getting the hang of it.  Just the other afternoon I was complaining about vacuuming and he asked if I wanted him to do it.  Ummmm...OF COURSE!  And then he said, bringing a tear of pride to my eye, "you have to do something for me then."  I was ready to deal! 

"Okay," I pressed on.

"You have to let me play Assassin's Creed (a video game)" he replied.

"DEAL!"

In my best Charlie Sheen voice spoken in my head I thought, "Duh, WINNING!"  I didn't have to do anything!  Except not complain about him playing a video game.  Sweet, innocent Brian.  You've so much to learn about bargaining power.  I found plenty of ways to entertain myself for an evening.  Plus I got to watch him vacuum. 

And he looked dreamy.

Give Me a Head of Hair, Long Beautiful Hair

I gave the old oil and vinegar hair care regimen a fair shake.  I really did.  And in all reality it wasn't bad.  But that chapter, my friends, has come to a close.

I began this journey with my knitting friends who challenged me to try it for the period of Lent since I was interested in it anyway.  All was going okay, but I never felt like my hair was getting conditioned very well.  My hair didn't feel as silky, tangle free, and soft as I wanted.  I kept waiting for the magical transformation in my hair - hair that had never felt healthier - that others had spoken of.  It never really came.  (Sort of like the elusive runner's high that I never once experienced in all my attempts at becoming a runner.) 

The end of June is when I was finally able to see my knitting group again.  I hadn't seen them since February!  (Which is wrong and unhealthy.)  They, in their delightful honest ways, told me that my hair looked fine except that it wasn't as shiny.  I agreed. 

I decided to try an experiment with the vinegar conditioner by throwing in a tablespoon of olive oil with my vinegar water mixture.  I hopped in the shower, went through my normal routine, and when that conditioner met my hair I thought I heard angels singing.  This, THIS, is what conditioned hair felt like.  I rubbed it through my hair ends and rinsed it out, all the while reveling in the luxurious feel of my hair. 

Ah, but what a cruel hoax it all turned out to be.  A few moments later when I was blow drying my hair I realized that I had not in fact rinsed out the "conditioner" at all.  Somehow, I had thought the vinegar would cut through the oil and allow it to rinse off.  The oil sat on my hair like those poor bird-victims of the Exxon Valdez disaster.  I thought maybe as I blow dried it the heat would help it to absorb into my hair.  This did not happen. 

I walked around with my oily cap of hair wanting to wash it so badly.  And I mean wash it with shampoo.  Not only did I feel the baking soda wash was not going to be any sort of match for this oily disaster head, but I was longing to feel the rich lather and sudsy softness of a shampoo - that complete squeaky clean feeling that comes with all that soapy goodness.  But I had come so far!  How could I just give up, revert back? 

I decided I would shampoo and condition (and I mean manufactured conditioner here) JUST ONCE and then I would go back to what I was doing.  Maybe try some other experiments with the conditioner.

In the shower I was nervous.  Would I remember how to do this?  How would my hair react?  Well, it's like riding a bicycle, the squeezing of the bottles and the lathering of the head.  And let me tell you how my hair reacted.

My. Hair. Loved. It.

I don't think my hair had ever felt so silky and supple and soft and gorgeous in my entire life.  I don't think my baby hair felt as sweet as the hair on my head felt on that particular day.  I was like a Pantene commercial, touching my hair, swishing my hair, smelling my hair, tossing my luxurious locks. 

A part of me knew right then and there that it was over.  We were going camping that weekend and I decided I didn't want to hassle with taking baking soda and vinegar and putting together my mixtures while camping.  But I would go right back to it the next week I said.

When we got home we were getting ready to leave in a few days for another weekend.  I decided there was no point in hassling with it right then either.  I would get right back to it the next week.

But the next week came, and I marched slowly into the bathroom.  I grasped my mustard and dressing bottles I'd been using for the hair care mixtures, and walked resignedly into the kitchen, where I placed them gently in the dishwasher.  It was over.  In the end, I'm simply too vain.  Woe is me.  I am too weak and too proud. 

I have decided that what is better, for my hair at least, has little to do with what I'm washing it with but rather the frequency.  My hair is so much healthier when I only wash it every third day.  It was a good run.  Now I know.  And sweet mercy, you just ought to run your fingers through my hair sometime.  I can't get over the difference. 

Birds Inc.

I hate to tell you that the bird drama is continuing around here.  But it is. 

The saga of the birds has now moved to the front porch.  Yesterday, whilst watering the hanging flower baskets on my front porch, I discovered a bird nest in one of them.  "No wonder this basket's not looking too hot," I thought to myself.  I looked in the nest: no eggs, no birds.  I decided that the birds must have moved on.  I removed the nest and discarded it in the alley where it was promptly smashed by passing cars.

This morning I awake to find a dove sitting in said hanging basket.  I thought, "silly bird, you can't live here anymore.  I took your nest.  These are no longer suitable lodgings."  When the dove was spooked by a passing car I peeked in the basket to see what damage was done, and behold, there was an egg.  Now I know that egg was not there yesterday.  This dove laid that egg this morning.

Now I'm filled with extreme remorse.  Can you imagine what I've done?!?!  I threw out this mama's nest!  She worked tirelessly to get a cozy space ready to birth her babies, came back to the nest this morning in the midst of birthing pangs, only to discover that her work had been destroyed!  And now, there was no time for her to even gather the resources to build a new one.  The baby was coming and the inn had been torn down.  I am a horrible monster. 

And what do I do about my flowers that are in that basket?  Do I just let her sit all over them and destroy them?  Will I be able to water them?  Will she and her babies be pooping on them?  I read that the gestation period is about 14 days.  How long will they be living there after they hatch?  What if they don't hatch and I've sacrificed my plants for nothing?  Are these residents permanent - will they be returning each year?

Clearly I cannot evict a mother and her babies.  That would be cruel beyond belief.  I guess I'll just be tip-toeing around the front porch for awhile awaiting the new arrivals - and for the magic of nature to unfold.

For the Birds

It's no secret that I am officially old.  One hallmark of my advancing age is my daily bird-watching.  That's right.  I am obsessed with birds.  It won't be long now until I'm taking bird watching trips, learning bird calls, purchasing bird books, and otherwise engaging in this geriatric past-time. 

However, the birds have been angering me of late.  Frankly, they're needy and rude - not taking into account my feelings or appreciating my efforts to make their lives better at all.

1. A few years ago I purchased a lovely hummingbird feeder to replace my cheeky plastic red one.  The new one is really lovely.  I purchased it at a bird store in Indianapolis.  It's purple and has a lovely disk shape with elegant detailing and a perch for the birds to sit while they eat.  I brought it home, threw out the old one and waited for the hummingbirds to come.  I thought there would surely now be more hummingbirds than ever as word spread throughout bird land of the new and superior feeder that was hanging over by the little yellow house.  I figured I might have to purchase a few more of them so that fights would not break out amongst these charming, yet territorial, feathered creatures.  But they did not come.  In fact, the ones that had been visiting ceased feeding at our house at all.  Finally, last year I went and bought a $3 el-cheapo hummingbird feeder that was red and plastic and stupid looking just to see what happened.  Within minutes the hummingbirds returned.  All manner of hummingbirds descended on that grotesque red feeder.  I am beside myself.  I don't even know if I want them around if they're going to act like that.
2. Ah, the gold finches, with their sweet songs and enchanting head movements.  They love my gold-finch-feeder.  They really do.  I filled that baby up at the beginning of spring and they immediately came and ate.  And ate.  And ate.  They ate like crazy.  Until the feeder was only a quarter full.  And then they stopped.  No more finches.  I wondered what happened.  I thought maybe they were all busy having their babies and would return in a few weeks.  Or maybe a terrible bird tragedy had befallen them like those birds in the south last year.  Were they dropping dead out of the sky?  I worried about my little finches.  I decided to fill the feeder again, even though there was clearly still plenty of food in it, just to see what happened.  Again, within minutes they were back.  All manner of gold finches, verily, every gold finch in the county it seemed was eating their fill.  So, evidently they were all too good to eat the food at the bottom of the feeder?  What?  They want a full feeder or they won't eat?  Who do these finches think they are?  Shame on them.
3. This final example is really the last nail in the coffin for me.  I had read that birds like to eat where there is a water source so they can drink and bathe and be generally content.  So this weekend I finally purchased a bird bath.  Just a silly cheapy one but I think it looks kinda cute.  I thought it would be the final installment in my bird-paradise-back-yard, and I knew the birds would love me for it.  But I also have these little candle holders on posts in my flower beds.  The idea is that they can hold citronella candles but in reality all they do is collect rain water since we never put candles in them.  They are a few feet away from my new bird swimming pool.  And yesterday, I watched a bird reject the bird bath only to land on the edge of one of the candle/water holders.  It took a drink, which was cute so I almost forgave it.  And then.  Then this bawdy little bird turned around, placed its little tail feathers in the water (which was still kind of cute) AND POOPED IN MY CANDLE HOLDER.  I SAW THE POOP FLOAT DOWN THROUGH THE WATER.  And then it flew away.  I have now attached signs to each of the candle holders informing these foul fowl that these are NOT birdy bidets.  Okay, I haven't actually done that but I am incensed, downright offended.  These birds show no respect. 

And that, good people, is why caring for the birds might be better left to the birds.

A Fishy Story

A few weeks ago Brian was away for the weekend repairing a screen in Virginia and I, with a particular and shameful weakness for McDonald's Filet O'Fish meal, decided I should treat myself to this culinary delight.  However, I made the mistake of talking to my sister on the phone and divulging to her my plans.  She shamed me.  She said that if it was a fish sandwich and fries I was desiring that I should simply make it myself, that it would be more delicious and nutritious.  Since I had nothing better to do, and the guilt she had laid upon me was quite immense, I decided to give it a go. 


The first step was purchasing the supplies.  While I try to avoid pre-packaged foods, the ingredients list on the fish fillet box did not seem overly offensive.



I then had to bake my little patties of fishy goodness.



Whilst (I think that word should be used more.  Don't you?) the fish was baking, I whipped out some delightfully tasty tartar sauce, if I do say so myself.

I lovingly placed my fries into a cozy little oil bath.



I then had to tear up a brown paper bag (since I haven't been purchasing paper towels, which would have been much easier in this situation) and spread out my happy fries and sprinkled them with sea salt.



Then I had to steam my buns, because a true Filet O'Fish connoisseur knows that the bun must be steamed for that soft cushiony delightful feeling.



And then it was time to assemble my meal.  Just a tad classier than eating out of a paper bag in a parking lot.

So now you are probably wondering what the verdict was.  (Or how bored I could have possibly been to not only cook this meal, but document the entire process.)  Well...

I should have gone to McDonald's. 

My first mistake was in listening to a woman (my sister) who earlier in the day had prepared six quiches and ten pounds of roasted potatoes for a meeting that would not take place for another week.  She did not discover this gaffe until arriving at the EMPTY meeting location, food in tow.  So, she doesn't even know what day it is and I'm listening to her give me advice about how to make food that is better than a trusted institution.  (Okay, I know that McDonald's is absolutely horrible and I try not to eat there.  It can't stop me from loving their delicious food though.) 

So I gave it a shot.  It didn't take long to prepare.  I'm sure it was better for me.  But my fries were too thick and they got soggy.  And the sandwich lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.  And somehow it just didn't have the delicious irresistability of that Number 9 meal that I adore.

It was probably the absence of plastic and crack-cocaine that is likely in those yummy fries and sumptuous fish sandwich.  Still...

What Just Happened Here?

After spending three months carefully researching prices and travel advice, poring over reviews, watching Rick Steve's "Best of Europe" episodes, and dutifully squirrelling money away for a trip to Ireland in September...last night we finally booked our trip to:

Prague and Budapest

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

I don't even know what happened. 

I need to go pull myself together before I accidentally enroll in graduate school all "spur-of-the-moment" too.

Oops, I Did it Again

Well the Showalters are looking into refinancing the homestead.  What with me having given up some significant wages in the last year, and the interest rates being low, it looks like a way to possibly save a few bucks a month.  (What's that?  I could get a job you say?  Hmph.) 

We lined up an appraisal for Monday morning at 11:00 a.m.  Enough time for me to get my house, and myself, in tip-top shape for "the man" to come look at my home and judge the dickens out of it. 

Sunday night we made jokes about how I was going to be home by myself for the appraisal and that maybe I should show a little skin, if you know what I mean (wink, wink), in order to get a better value on the house.  Skin.  Honestly.  That's all we were talking about.  An ankle, maybe an exposed knee.  Get your minds out of the gutter people.  Alright, maybe flashing a hoot had been talked about.  But it was pure jest. 

Or so I thought.

Because honestly, who shows up an hour and fifteen minutes early to an appraisal?  When has a repair person, or the cable guy, or the plumber shown up early - ever?  The answer is: they don't.  If they give you a window they are always near the tail end of that window. 

So I woke up on Monday morning and got my house cleaned, all in my pj's.  Now all my pajamas are cozy, fleecy, utilitarian numbers.  So I often stay in them until I really need to get out of them.  Why get in clean clothes to clean the house and dirty them up?  I think it's good stewardship.  (Although I did have that awkward encounter with one of my piano students who popped by in the morning to reschedule her lesson last week.)  So at 9:45, a generous amount of time before my 11:00 appointment, I went into my bedroom and started changing.  One pair of jeans and a brassiere later came a knock on the door.  I immediately hit the deck like a gun shot had gone off. 

The problem is that several years ago we repainted our bedroom and hung up roman shades on the windows.  We quickly discovered that they are SEE THROUGH from the outside of the house!  It's ridiculous.  So I really need to get some fabric to hang behind them.  But the headboard of the bed covers the front window pretty good so unless you're standing on the porch, looking in to the front window, you really can't see much.  So I haven't worried about it even though I probably should get it taken care of. 

But who knows what the early appraiser saw.  Did he decide to do a little checking around before knocking on my door?  I can just hear him saying to his young son who was with him, "Son, this is why you don't call if you are going to show up early."  In the end it was a frazzled and embarrassed woman who answered the front door, having exposed herself to the working man. 

And no, it didn't seem to help the appraisal, which makes me feel all the dirtier.  Guess he didn't like what he saw.  Ugh. 

Week Report

Well, there's nothing much to report from here.  It's been a pretty quiet week overall. 

There was that one evening that Brian and I played euchre with friends and he went ape-crazy over a very well-played and strategic move that I made.  He yelled at me for minutes.  He pouted for hours.  I gently urged him to apologize for his behavior for about two days:

• Laying in bed saying, "are you sure there isn't anything you want to say to me?" 
• Kissing him goodbye as he heads to work fishing, "is that everything then? Does anything look a little different now that you've had a good night's sleep?" 
• Snuggling on the couch, whispering in his ear, "are you ready to admit you were wrong yet?"

But I got nothin'.  He is stubbornly clinging to his deluded sense of euchre morals. 

Then there was that one night that I went ape-crazy a few nights after the euchre incident.  And I mean, I really lost my cool in an uncharacteristic way and said a load of stuff that was cruel and untrue.  Geez Louise.  After thirteen years of marriage you'd think we'd have this figured out.  Clearly that is not the case.

I, however, apologized immediately.  (You like my self-righteous superiority?)

But I was still a little sore at him for a day or two. 

Then there was the evening that I decided to make venison chili that I simply couldn't enjoy.  And then in the morning I threw up.  HA!  It could have been that I didn't eat much of the chili therefore I stuffed myself with odds and ends I found in the fridge and chances are one of those things had, shall we say, turned?  But the chili put me in such a state of extreme hunger that I was forced to eat rotten food.  I still blame it on the chili.

And I'm glad it's no longer in my belly.

I don't know what I'm going to do with the remaining ground venison and the venison steaks seeing as I don't like it and will therefore, likely not be cooking with it.  Oh and poor Brian was SO excited about that meat.  SO EXCITED!  (A co-worker of his hunted Darrel the Christmas deer for us.)  I don't want to be wasteful but...gross.

And then there's this:

This is a beautiful calendar that Brian's mother gave us for Christmas.  And I hung it up with great joy when the new year hit.  (I actually REALLY love the ritual of changing the calendars.) 

But last week I looked more closely at it - and my mind when into a complete tailspin.  Honestly, it turned to mush for moments as I grappled with the utter confusion the images brought on.  Look more closely.

For the love of everything holy, who is the cruel person that decided this was a good idea?  It looks so much like a regular calendar that I had been reading the days all wrong.  For who knows how long?  (Well, probably not that long considering it's only the 12th.)  What if I've made crazy plans for 27th thinking it's a Saturday?  There is potential for mayhem here.  Now that I'm on to it's little tricks though, I'll be on my guard.  But not cool, calendar maker.  Not cool.  (But Linda, I do love the calendar.  I'm just saying, perhaps a warning would have been in order.)

Blah, Blah, Blah, New Years Resolutions, Blah, Blah

Oh 2011, how you loom brightly before me with your endless possibilities and promises of new/good things.  I have so many things that I resolve to do in this year that my head is swimming.  I was going to stick to just one thing and then I decided that lacked enough ambition for 2011 to respect. 

On new year's eve I decided I wanted to start a new tradition, inspired largely by the burning of Zozobra that I witnessed in New Mexico.  I found the burning of my "glooms" to be so cathartic that I wanted a little more of that in my life.  So I sent Brian outside with a challenge: to create fire using several pieces of soggy wood and a few newspapers.  He did not disappoint.  An hour later he had a blaze going worthy of burning the most wicked of glooms.  We wrote our woes down on slips of paper and cast them into the fire.  Gloom!  You shall haunt us no more!

Resolutions:  (Laces her fingers together, cracks her knuckles, rubs her hands together, prepares to type.)

1. As per my earlier entry, stop obsessing over what others think of me.  I have decided that when I find myself in the throes of obsession I will inform Brian who has been instructed to then slap me across the face and tell me to get a hold of myself, thereby creating a link between obsession and physical pain that should cure this bad habit.
2. Earn more money for our household, i.e. pull my own weight around here.
3. Stop obsessing over money and self-worth.
4. Drink more water for the love of Pete.
5. Read more books.
6. Stop feeling guilt over reading books.
7. Knit myself a garment that actually looks good on me.
8. Stop being a vampire bat and actually have a regular sleep schedule.
9. Move to Europe.
10. Be content in Indiana.
11. Become a travel agent.
12. Win the mega millions and be independently wealthy and move to Barbados.
13. Find out what I want to be when I grow up.
14. Embrace a simpler life - without feeling guilt that I am not living up to my potential.
15. Stop accumulating so much STUFF!  Stop buying stuff and wanting stuff...
16. Right after I get my new pair of boots.
17. Be kinder to Brian, avoiding references to his large head (both figuratively and literally) and the gray hairs on it.
18. Blog more.  I totally blew it last year.  I was going to try to beat my 2009 number and failed.
19. Be healthier - including the need to quit singing songs about how much I love butter.
20. Find the solution to world peace.

Okay, some of these are more dreams than resolutions.  But I don't care what you think.  (There.  See.  That wasn't so hard.)  HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!

Daily Dose of Pathetic

So a few of you have wondered how our "second date" went, and I admit I have sadly neglected my dear blog.  To fill you in, the "date" went off without a hitch.  We had a great time.  We laughed, we ate, it was a very enjoyable and civilized gathering.  I don't think I made a fool of myself.  And I imagine we will see these people again socially.

But through that experience, and then a week in Costa Rica with five other people, I have had an epiphany about myself.  I care WAY too much about what other people think about me.  (Not really a new revelation for me.)  And I know that we all do it, but I'm realizing that I do it to the point of obsession.  I find that I change a bit of who I am depending on the person I am with and who I think that person wants to be around.  So, last week, around five other people, my mind almost exploded with the challenge of being who I thought each of those five distinct individuals wanted me to be.  Poor Brian had to walk me through a mental break-down one night half way through the vacation.  I literally ended up sitting on his knee crying.  (There's a pathetic image that I bet none of you particularly wanted.)  Don't get me wrong here, the vacation was amazing and everyone was fantastic (a trip report should be following soon).  This was just one "off" evening for me and it triggered baggage that I realized needed dealing with.  

As 2011 looms ever closer, I have decided that I need to "let go" for my new year's resolution.  I really don't know how I'll do it.  It's not like deciding to floss or exercise every day.  Those things are concrete.  But I may need to adopt a mantra for handling my unhealthy concerns - even though I'm afraid of becoming callous and mean.  I just need to do my best, and if others don't like it it's their own problem to deal with.  (Even typing that gives me hives and leaves me convinced I will end up friendless and alone.) 

Perhaps I should stick with the experts and adopt the daily affirmation of the wise and timeless Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!" 

Second Date

I have said it before and I'll say it again.  It is HARD to make friends!  If you don't have several rug rats, a slew of co-workers, and you're not in college, how in the heavens are you supposed to make friends?  I see why people become regulars at the local pub because I think basically I would have to hang out at a bar and try to "pick up" friends.  I need to work on my pick up lines.  "Is your dad a thief?  Because someone stole the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes.  WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?"

So tonight I find myself in a situation that has my palms sweating and my mind in a whirlwind of doubt and self-loathing.  Brian and I are going on a second date. 

Several weeks ago we were invited to a birthday dinner at some friends house (who are Brian's co-workers...thank God he has co-workers) and they had invited another couple and a friend whom we had never met before.  We had a fabulous time!  I mean the conversation was flowing, the group was clicking, we were laughing, the stories were titillating.  It was so much fun. 

And then Brian called me from work and the couple we had met that evening invited us to their house for dinner along with Brian's co-workers.  Now, I feel completely honored and a little flattered.  I mean, they liked us.  Enough to invite us to dinner at their home after meeting us only once. 

Oh no, I just had a thought.  Maybe they don't like us.  Maybe they think we're suckers and they're inviting us over to try to coerce us into a pyramid scheme.  I'm going to assume this is not going to happen.  They didn't seem the type.  One never knows though.

So, eliminating the above option, I'm back to assuming they enjoyed our company, which, after the initial rush of pleasure immediately made me panic.  Second date, we have to perform.  (Not put out or anything - that comes after the third date right? Oh gosh, what if they're into that kind of stuff and they're going to try to proposition us?  I'm also going to assume this is not an option.)  What if they deem that they're first impression of us was wrong, that we are NOT after all super cool, funny, or interesting but instead, we are real dullards?  I mean, we have to be charming, witty, engaging, intelligent conversationalists, and try not to smell bad.  (Did I put on deodorant?)  It is so much PRESSURE!  I don't know if I can do it.  As of this writing, I can't think of a single darn thing to talk about.  I haven't watched the news today.  I can't ask who they voted for yesterday.  I have done NOTHING interesting for days and weeks it seems.  I am thoroughly expecting disaster. 

Perhaps it is this kind of over-analysis that is the true reason I can't make friends.  Here goes nothing...let's hope I don't make a dolt of myself.

Evils of Gambling

So I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore because he is a HORRIBLE influence.  First of all, he took me to a casino.  So there you go.  Bad influence.  Secondly, he is a horrible gambler.  I play penny slots and I have a method.  I walk around.  I let the machines speak to me.  If they don't speak to me I don't play them.  Sometimes I try a machine and two pulls into it I realize it must have been speaking to someone else.  I pull my money out and I walk away.  When I have won a dollar or two (it's penny slots remember) I pull my money out and walk away looking for a new whispering machine.  And then, before I know it, I have gingerly turned my $20 into $34.57. 

Brian sits down at a machine and tries to manhandle it into giving him money.  He doesn't care about what the machine may or may not be saying to him (typical man) because he's got some words for that machine!  He sits there and pushes that button over and over willing it to take him to the sought after bonus round where he thinks the real money will be made.  And if the machine doesn't take him there immediately he thinks he's in too deep (you know, $2.50 or so) to just get up and walk away and therefore must keep playing on said machine until he wins and recoups his money.  Oh he has a sickness.  And that is how Brian aggressively turns his $20 into $8.33.  I remind him often that I am clearly a better gambler than he is.  He disagrees.  But the money doesn't lie. 

And then I don't know what happened.  He got in my head.  He manhandled my brain like he manhandles those machines, except I wasn't as strong as those machines.  One minute I tell him we should cash out, take our $15 profit and go get some lunch.  20 minutes later we walked out empty handed.  NADA.  So, I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore.

Wasted Days and Sleepless Nights

The thing has happened that I have been afraid of all summer: namely I have flip-flopped my days and nights.  You see left to my own devices, without needing to be up at a certain time each morning, my sleep cycle will eventually creep into the pattern of a nocturnal animal.  My internal clock evidently has the exact same genetic make-up as that of a vampire bat.  This is very frustrating to me.

I come by it honestly.  While a youngster I would be lying awake at night and I would hear my dad prowling through the house.  He'd be up in the kitchen and then he'd be back down.  Then he'd be up again.  He probably had no clue that his daughter suffered this same affliction and was lying in her room sleepless.  But I wasn't really allowed to prowl.  Plus I think it would be awkward running into your dad in the kitchen at 2:00 in the morning.  Me in my jammies, him in his not-jammies, being all, "hey, how's it going? Down here for a snack?"  Followed by uncomfortable silence. 

My mom came over yesterday and I was bemoaning the fact that I had been awake until 4:00 a.m. that morning.  And she said, rather casually, "yeah, your dad and I don't really sleep."  Awesome.  It's going to get worse.  They both have sleep troubles.  So, I have that to look forward to.  I guess I don't really stand a chance. 

I try.  I really do.  I have developed a system you see, to help me get to sleep.  It is simple really, and up until recently, very effective.  I have it down to a science.  My problem is that my brain will not wind down or shut off when I lay down so that I can go to sleep.  And it isn't good activity going on in my brain.  It is BAD activity.  As in, the most unpleasant thoughts and memories assault me while I lie helpless to the attack. 

Bad brain says:
You remember that time in 5th grade that you told those boys at the pond that you hoped they drowned?  You were just joking but what if they thought you were serious!  Why would you say something like that?  Stupid, ugly, stupid thing to say.  What an awkward kid you were...

And you're still awkward.  That telephone conversation you had today was a real doozie.  You sounded like an idiot.  I bet the person you were talking to thought you were a dummy.  And what if she misinterpreted that thing you said.  I would have misinterpreted it.  I bet she did too and is TERRIBLY offended.  How will you ever make it right...

Like the time when you and Brian were dating and you mistakenly made him upset for just a second but then you got mad and pouted the rest of the evening.  You are such a b***h.  I think he probably remembers that and judges you constantly for it...

And think of all you need to get done tomorrow.  You're lazy.  Why aren't you more productive?

And on and on it goes.  Reliving every bad memory, every stupid thing I've ever done or said from the time I was five years old to the present day.  (So, um, that takes quite a bit of time.)  Not to mention that I have to brood over the future, which always looks grim in my bad brain, for a while.  And I just cannot get out of my head.

So the system I have for falling asleep, which I don't really like to tell people about because it's a bit embarrassing, is this:  I turn on children's movies that I have seen multiple times.  Sometimes I watch comedies that I have viewed numerous times but mostly it's children's movies.  And I do not set a timer on the TV because then, good heavens, I have a deadline that I have to be asleep by and I DO NOT NEED THAT KIND OF PRESSURE!  Kids movies provide a warm and comforting back-drop and are usually laced with good humor and cute noises which gently lull me to sleep.  It has to be one I've seen because if it's a movie I haven't viewed before, I will want to stay up and see what happens.  And listening to these silly movies shuts out the bad brain noises.  Usually.

So I have seen, more times than you can shake a stick at, Ratatouille, Horton Hears a Who, The Incredibles, Monsters Inc., Kung Fu Panda, and my personal favorite falling asleep movie, Cars.  There are others.  I go through phases.  Right now it's Kung Fu Panda.  Crazy movie.  Silly panda wanting to be the kung fu Dragon Warrior.  What is he thinking?  The method is so effective that often I'm asleep before Lightning McQueen has made it to Radiator Springs, or Po (the panda) begins his kung fu training. 

But alas, this week my methods have been unsuccessful.  On Wednesday night I watched three movies before falling asleep.  (Seriously, Nights in Rodanthe is the most horribly depressing movie.  Why even bother making such a dreadful feature?)  Even when I turned on Kung Fu Panda my brain wouldn't shut down.  I had to keep telling myself to listen to the movie.  Last night, or this morning, I was awake when Brian's alarms went off.  (Granted the alarm sounds at about 4:30 a.m., it's not like it's 8:00 in the morning...that would be ridiculous.  Although give me a week and, at the rate I'm going, that might be the time I'm going to sleep.) 

So, the goal this weekend: get a grip, and try to achieve a sleep schedule that doesn't resemble that of the undead. 

Hopefully I will not have to resort to heavy doping. 

A Simple Afternoon?

The weeds outside my back door have been calling to me...more like they have been nagging at me like some old harpy.  The truth of the matter is I don't mind heading outdoors and getting my hands dirty - that is until things have gotten out of control.  Then I get so overwhelmed that I'm paralyzed from even beginning.  To make matters worse our beautiful patio and sidewalk that Brian laid down two summers ago was completely overtaken by weeds, weeds that should not have been there.  I insisted that plastic be laid down before the patio blocks were laid.  Fat lot of good THAT did. 

But my good cheer would not have a damper put on it by a few wayward weeds.  I invited Reggie outdoors with me and put him on his chain so that he could enjoy the fresh air with me.  In hind-sight, that may have been a mistake.

I'm merrily pulling weeds, listening to the radio.  A man walks down our alley.  As per usual, Reggie runs after him barking like a vicious degenerate.  (He is on his chain though, so no harm befalls the innocent walker-by.)  I apologize for my dog's rude behavior and go about my business.

As I'm pulling weeds I'm looking at our sidewalk thinking it just looks really, well, unkempt somehow.  I can't quite put my finger on it.  As I poke around a little I discover that the reason is that the grass is starting to grow over onto the sidewalk, the way it is wont to do.  (Not that the stupid grass will grow where we plant it, but take over the sidewalk, sure.)  I try to pull it like it's a weed but that's getting me nowhere really fast.  So I come up with an idea to get out our flat-edged shovel and pummel the thing into the earth thereby creating a straight, clean edge. 

I bring out the shovel.  The SECOND I put that shovel in my hand and place my foot upon it Reggie goes absolutely ballistic!  I don't know what that shovel in my hands looked like.  Perhaps he thought the shovel was attacking me.  Perhaps he though I was attacking the shovel.  Whatever the case may be, he had a pure hatred and aggression towards the situation.  First he wrapped me up in chain barking and growling at the shovel.  I got off the shovel, gave him a stern word or two, unwrapped myself, and tried again.  AGAIN, the second I got on that shovel hostility ensued and my beloved dog BIT MY LEG!  He bit my leg and broke the skin.  Alright, I didn't have blood streaming down my leg and it was just one puncture mark, not a whole mouth shaped wound.  BUT HE BIT ME. 

And I was ticked!  So I took said shovel and gave Reggie a firm whack across the rump.  Nothing crazy - although I must have looked crazy with my shovel and my yelling at him about being bad and all.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a neighbor working in her yard and thought I should probably pull it together.  So there I am, yelling, wielding a shovel, and at that very moment a sheriff pulls up.  The first thought that ran through my head was, "How in the world did he get here so fast?  It just happened.  When the neighbor called he must have been right here." 

So he pulls up and says the obligatory, "hello ma'am" and all.  I put down the shovel.  Do I even need to say that I am total mess also?  I was sweaty, dirty with soil from head to toe, and I probably had a crazy look in my eyes.  Then he asks, "Did you see a man with a black shirt and jeans walk by here?"  Shew!  A narrow miss from winding up in the klink for animal cruelty. 

I replied that I had, about 30 minutes previous.  Then the sheriff wants to know if he appeared drunk.  I said I didn't know, my dog had been barking and that was all I really paid attention to.  He said he had a report of a drunk walking that way from another neighbor. 

Really?  Poor guy.  If he was drunk he was keeping to himself pretty nicely, not causing any trouble.  It was a beautiful Friday afternoon.  So he hit the sauce a little early.  Who cares?  Anyway.  There ended my run in with the law.  Reggie and I gave each other the cold shoulder for about an hour. 

The stupid shovel didn't even work.  I edged the entire sidewalk with an old kitchen carving knife.  If there is anything that is not fun AT ALL, that is it.  This would be a superior punishment for children because it is THAT AWFUL...although you may not want to give misbehaving children a carving knife.  Proceed with caution.  But I have to say I am quite proud of the results.  And though I'd like to say I will never do it again, spring has a way of making me forget how awful certain things are. 

I will, however, not be using the flat-edged shovel near or around Reggie in the near future.

The Great Pumpkin Crisis

You know how sometimes you just get a hankering for something?  And you just MUST HAVE that something.  Nothing else will do.  No substitutes will satisfy.

Well for me that something tonight was a pumpkin cupcake - a beautiful pumpkin cupcake slathered with mountains of cream cheese frosting. 

It didn't begin this way, my obsession.  No it began as just a notion.  I needed to stop at the store on the way home from knitting at the church to pick up some milk.  I had sort of been craving said cupcake so I told Brian that since I had to stop at the store I'd pick up some canned pumpkin.  Nothing too serious at this point.  I wouldn't have stopped at the store just for the canned pumpkin after all.  But as I neared the store I began visualizing my cupcake, still warm from the oven and dripping with frosting, and I could almost taste it.  I found that I was driving a little faster, hastening towards the object of my desire. 

I stopped at the "little" Owens (grocery store by my house) to pick up my items.  I went to the baking aisle, no canned pumpkin.  Odd.  I went to the "canned fruit" aisle.  No pumpkin.  Seriously?  Back to the baking aisle, I must have just missed it.  Nope.  Back to canned fruits.  Rinse and repeat about three times.  Finally, irritated but not surprised (the "little" Owens is, well, smaller and therefore doesn't carry everything I need all the time) I decide it truly isn't there.  I wonder to myself if it's seasonal...but I notice they have boat loads of canned cranberry sauce and gel and chutney, and seriouly if anything is seasonal that should be it!  I briefly wait in line to ask the check-out clerk if they have it and I'm just not seeing it.  But the line was too long so I decide to pay for my items at the U-scan and run to Marsh for the pumpkin.  Already I had an unhealthy need for the pumpkin.

I go to Marsh, a large grocery store in town that I find sells a lot of interesting and oddball items along with the regular stuff.  They'll have the pumpkin for sure.  I find the pie fillings and NO CANNED PUMPKIN.  I see the place it should be on the shelf, three rows of it with the price tags on the shelf telling me this is where it belonged.  I stand in awed shock.  How can this be?  This is getting stupid ridiculous. 

Determined not to be bested by canned pumpkin, and convinced that my cupcake is going to taste that much better, I decide to drive all the way across town to the "big" Owens.  I frankly, think it is the best grocery store in town.  They will not let me down.  I phone Brian to tell him where I'm headed and warn him that if big Owens does not have the pumpkin someone is going to have to pay.  I don't know who, but they'll pay big.  I hit the baking aisle with confidence only to be greeted by a sign that reads, "We're sorry.  We are currently out of canned pumpkin."  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Is there some pumpkin crisis going on that I didn't know about?  Was there a hurricane that hit a large pumpkin crop thus rendering this pumpkin shortage?  Have the pumpkin crops of this world been struck by blight or pumpkin rot?  Are the local schools studying the merits of the pumpkin and every child in Warsaw has simultaneously decided to make a school project out of canned pumpkin?  Is it Korean Thanksgiving right now and the entire population of Koreans in the region is celebrating but have adopted the American tradition of pumpkin pie?  I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING!

I looked at the boxes of cake mixes for a minute, thinking I could just bake something else and it would be just as good and I would forget I ever wanted a pumpkin cupcake.  Right?  But I just didn't have it in me.  I called Brian on the way home and squeezed out in a pained voice, "it's not good - I can't talk about it," and hung up the phone.  Oh the humanity!

So, in the end, I did not have a pumpkin cupcake.  I was bested - defeated if you will.  My mom and I talked today about planting a garden together (because I do not have fertile soil in which to sew seeds) and she said I should think about what I'd like to plant.  I'll tell you Mom.  I'll tell you right now that we need to dedicate a large portion of your yard to a pumpkin patch so that I never have to go through this devastation again.  Noone should ever have to live without pumpkin.  And I'd like to see to it that noone does.