So, two, count 'em two, posts in one day!! Holy Smokes, People!! Why? Because. Because J, in a stroke of Husband Genius, invited yours truly on a date. J does this on the twelfth of every Never. So, when J does this sort of thing, it merits a double post. Do not get used to it. I cannot guarantee that the next twelfth of Never will ever roll around again. But, The Man did good. Especially since we recently had A Talk. Most times, when we talk, I talk, and his eyes glaze over. He nods occasionally, but I'm fairly certain none of it sinks in - it just rolls right off him. But that is neither here nor there, the point is, The Man took me on a date. Feel free to celebrate with me, won't you?
He told me I could pick, so I did. I chose the local Elite Clubhouse Restaurant, mostly because it's always fairly quiet, the scenery is spectacular, and you don't have to wait an hour for a table, even when you have a reservation. This last part came in handy when J called me at 5:10 tonight and said, "Um, I'm going to leave this Small Town in ten minutes, which'll put me home right at reservation time, can you call and push it back 15 minutes??" No prob, Bob. Other places, the Maitre d' might look down his nose at you, and say, "I'm sorry (not really), but you were 15 seconds late for your reservation, so we gave away your table." The Man got lucky; we were shown to a table as soon as we arrived. I promptly ordered wine, because this Momma likes her wine. And The Man? Well, he ordered a gin and tonic. Because he's crazy like that. Momma is not a fan of the gin, but The Man is, on occasion. After poring over the menu for ages, we both settled on the special, a ribeye steak au poivre. To summarize, it's a pepper encrusted steak, served with a wonderful cream sauce. It should've been a home run. Here's my verdict: It was okay. People, I don't mean to brag, but I'm gonna. Here's the issue I have with paying other people to cook for me-I can most likely do it better. Yes, that sounds terribly arrogant and high-brow, but there it is. I have made steak au poivre, to the delight of young and old. The problem with this one? Whole peppercorns. True, the crust is not made with the little black powder, loosely termed as ground pepper, but this? This was too much. I couldn't taste the steak. All I could taste was pepper. And I was bummed. Even J was disappointed, and that says a little something. J is not the food critic I am. But I yam what I yam. The dinner finished on a good note, because the vanilla creme brulee was fab. Oh, the creme brulee and the cheesecake and I are tight. I passed on the cheesecake, because it was white chocolate, and the white chocolate and I are not so tight. But, the creme brulee was especially nice; it was a soft creamy custard, with a fabulous brulee! And the berries were a nice touch.
So, all in all, I give the meal three stars. But the company? Oh the company gets one thousand stars, because The Man took me on a date, said, "Order whatever you want", and listened to me jabber on the entire meal. Because I am the talker in this partnership, by far. J is not a talker. But after tonight, that's okay, because I know how wonderful he can be, even when he doesn't say a thing.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Taking License
We'll get back to Helping Around the House next time, but for now, I feel the need to tell you a humorous anecdote.
Summer is in full swing around our house, which includes Science Kids Camps for WyoBaby. Her most recent was a fly fishing camp, and she is hooked (Yes, slight pun intended. You're welcome.)! I actually went with the kiddos last Thursday, but had no grand scheme of wetting my own line. I knew, going in, that I would be otherwise engaged. My group was four of my favorite small people, and they kept me on my toes.
"Dang! Just lost another fly!!"
"Oh man, I'm caught in that tree again!!!"
"Grrrr. I can't find the fish anywhere!!"
"Hey! They're in the water, splashing around and scaring all the fish!!! Will you make them stop????"
"He just took my fishing spot!! I was there, but I had to leave to get a new fly, and now he won't MOVE!! Will you tell him to MOVE????"
And once or twice:
"OH MY GOSH!!! I CAUGHT A FISH!!! QUICK, TAKE A PICTURE!!!"
Oh yes, I got my workout that day. After lunch, we let the kids get in the water and splash and swim, because it was surface-of-the-sun hot out there. The director, who's a bit vigilant about germs, asked, "Do you think this was a bad idea? I mean, who knows what's in this water???" To which I replied, "They're fine! Heck, my brothers and I all but grew gills in the summer when we were kids; we spent so much time in the irrigation ditch. Look at me! I turned out just fine!"
On second thought..."Kids!! LISTEN UP!! Do NOT drink the water!! Keep your heads out of the water!! No diving! And when you get home, tell your parents you need to bathe a.s.a.p!! Mmmkay? Now, you may resume your splashing!"
All in all, it was a fabulous outing, and when we got home, WyoBaby began making her play for another fishing trip. Okay with me, maybe I'd actually fish this time! So, we made arrangements to procure a fly rod for me, and a spinning rod for J (He and I do NOT share an affinity for fly fishing. It's another deal breaker, but we've agreed to disagree, and to never discuss it at any length.), both borrowed from my brother J, who was going out of town, and could spare the fly rod. Next step was a fishing license for WyoMomma. I was in the clear when I was just helping the kids, but if I were to put rod to reel and tie one on, and avoid a monster fine, I would need said license. I'm big on obeying laws when the breaking of them carries hefty fines. Kinda silly, eh?
WyoBaby and one of her friends piled into the car, and away we went. Straight to the nearest gas station/convenience store/bait & tackle shop. It's a fine establishment, if you want some night crawlers, a coupla gallons of mid-grade, and 120 ounces of your favorite soda. A one-stop shop, if you will. So obviously, the standards for staff decorum are a bit lax. Enter the Fishing License Gal. I strolled up to the counter, and announced, "I'd like one fishing license, please." The woman at the register grunted and pointed to another gal at the end of the counter. "Oh, so I need to see her about a license? Okay, thank you for your help." (And your eloquence.) Away I sauntered, leaving WyoBaby and Friend to explore the wonders of live and jarred bait.
Allow me to set the scene. As I approached, this is what I observed. There sat a youngish gal, perched on a bar stool, staring into a computer screen, with a mouthful of Spitz sunflower seeds, and plastic water bottle she'd converted to a spittoon. Nice.
"Excuse me, I'd like a fishing license, please."
Mumble, spit. "Driver's License?" Spit.
"Oh, sure. Here ya go."
Silence. Spit. Type. Silence. Spit. Type. Mumble, "How" mumble, spit, "years" mumble mumble, spit, "resident?" spit.
"Pardon?"
"How" spit spit "many years" spit spit "have you been" mumble, spit "resident?"
Oh crap. Does that ever happen to you? It's something you should know, right off the top of your head! I mean, how many years have I lived in Wyoming? All of them!! But my little brain, distracted by the spitting glory in front of me, felt like a deer in the headlights! "Ummm. Oh yeah, now I remember. Thirty-two. Yep. Thirty-two years."
Grunt.
So there I stood, in stunned silence, while this gal typed & clicked. I was not altogether comfortable with the fact that she had my driver's license, and I couldn't see what exactly she was doing on that computer. For all I knew, she could've been enrolling me in a jelly-of-the-month club, or adding my name to one hundred junk mail lists. I longed for the old days, when you filled out the form with all of your vital info, rather than putting it in the hands of a stranger.
"Is this" spit spit spit mumble "right address?" spit spit spit spit (Hark! Fair Juliet speaks!).
"Huh? What did you ask?"
Spit "Is this your correct" spit spit spit "address??" spit spit.
"Oh. Yes. Yes it is." As far as I knew. I basically had no idea which parallel universe I'd entered, but I knew I wanted out. And how. Meanwhile, WyoBaby and her friend were an aisle away, examining the jars of bait fish, "Ewwww, that's GROSS!! Mom! Check this out!!!" "Mom!!! What the heck is this???" Serenity now.
The gal finished, and announced, spit spit spit mumble "Thirty-six fifty," spit.
"What?? I'm sorry, what the heck did you say???"
Spit "That'll be $36.50!"
"Oh, okay. Here. Take it. Take it all! But wait! What about my conservation stamp??"
Spit spit spit "included, sign here" spit spit spit spit.
"Well, thanks. Could I have a little plastic sleeve to protect my license, since I'll be, you know, fishing, and there's a chance I might get near some water?"
Mumble spit spit mumble "all out."
"Fine, that's fine. Thank you for all your help. WYOBABY!!! LET'S GO!! NOW!! PUT DOWN THE JAR OF MINNOWS AND GET IN THE CAR!!!"
I burned rubber out of there as quickly as I could, and headed home. Where we waited. And waited. Because it was four in the afternoon, which is hot time, and I was not all about fishing in hot time. Finally, at seven, we headed out to catch the big one. We ran into one of our favorite little friends, whose Mam and Pa had agreed to some fishing as well, and the kids were thrilled. We fished happily, until the mosquitoes were the only things biting, then ran for the safety of Big Red. All in all, it was an interesting day. And now, I'm good to fish for an entire year, before I get to visit my little license friend again.
Summer is in full swing around our house, which includes Science Kids Camps for WyoBaby. Her most recent was a fly fishing camp, and she is hooked (Yes, slight pun intended. You're welcome.)! I actually went with the kiddos last Thursday, but had no grand scheme of wetting my own line. I knew, going in, that I would be otherwise engaged. My group was four of my favorite small people, and they kept me on my toes.
"Dang! Just lost another fly!!"
"Oh man, I'm caught in that tree again!!!"
"Grrrr. I can't find the fish anywhere!!"
"Hey! They're in the water, splashing around and scaring all the fish!!! Will you make them stop????"
"He just took my fishing spot!! I was there, but I had to leave to get a new fly, and now he won't MOVE!! Will you tell him to MOVE????"
And once or twice:
"OH MY GOSH!!! I CAUGHT A FISH!!! QUICK, TAKE A PICTURE!!!"
Oh yes, I got my workout that day. After lunch, we let the kids get in the water and splash and swim, because it was surface-of-the-sun hot out there. The director, who's a bit vigilant about germs, asked, "Do you think this was a bad idea? I mean, who knows what's in this water???" To which I replied, "They're fine! Heck, my brothers and I all but grew gills in the summer when we were kids; we spent so much time in the irrigation ditch. Look at me! I turned out just fine!"
On second thought..."Kids!! LISTEN UP!! Do NOT drink the water!! Keep your heads out of the water!! No diving! And when you get home, tell your parents you need to bathe a.s.a.p!! Mmmkay? Now, you may resume your splashing!"
All in all, it was a fabulous outing, and when we got home, WyoBaby began making her play for another fishing trip. Okay with me, maybe I'd actually fish this time! So, we made arrangements to procure a fly rod for me, and a spinning rod for J (He and I do NOT share an affinity for fly fishing. It's another deal breaker, but we've agreed to disagree, and to never discuss it at any length.), both borrowed from my brother J, who was going out of town, and could spare the fly rod. Next step was a fishing license for WyoMomma. I was in the clear when I was just helping the kids, but if I were to put rod to reel and tie one on, and avoid a monster fine, I would need said license. I'm big on obeying laws when the breaking of them carries hefty fines. Kinda silly, eh?
WyoBaby and one of her friends piled into the car, and away we went. Straight to the nearest gas station/convenience store/bait & tackle shop. It's a fine establishment, if you want some night crawlers, a coupla gallons of mid-grade, and 120 ounces of your favorite soda. A one-stop shop, if you will. So obviously, the standards for staff decorum are a bit lax. Enter the Fishing License Gal. I strolled up to the counter, and announced, "I'd like one fishing license, please." The woman at the register grunted and pointed to another gal at the end of the counter. "Oh, so I need to see her about a license? Okay, thank you for your help." (And your eloquence.) Away I sauntered, leaving WyoBaby and Friend to explore the wonders of live and jarred bait.
Allow me to set the scene. As I approached, this is what I observed. There sat a youngish gal, perched on a bar stool, staring into a computer screen, with a mouthful of Spitz sunflower seeds, and plastic water bottle she'd converted to a spittoon. Nice.
"Excuse me, I'd like a fishing license, please."
Mumble, spit. "Driver's License?" Spit.
"Oh, sure. Here ya go."
Silence. Spit. Type. Silence. Spit. Type. Mumble, "How" mumble, spit, "years" mumble mumble, spit, "resident?" spit.
"Pardon?"
"How" spit spit "many years" spit spit "have you been" mumble, spit "resident?"
Oh crap. Does that ever happen to you? It's something you should know, right off the top of your head! I mean, how many years have I lived in Wyoming? All of them!! But my little brain, distracted by the spitting glory in front of me, felt like a deer in the headlights! "Ummm. Oh yeah, now I remember. Thirty-two. Yep. Thirty-two years."
Grunt.
So there I stood, in stunned silence, while this gal typed & clicked. I was not altogether comfortable with the fact that she had my driver's license, and I couldn't see what exactly she was doing on that computer. For all I knew, she could've been enrolling me in a jelly-of-the-month club, or adding my name to one hundred junk mail lists. I longed for the old days, when you filled out the form with all of your vital info, rather than putting it in the hands of a stranger.
"Is this" spit spit spit mumble "right address?" spit spit spit spit (Hark! Fair Juliet speaks!).
"Huh? What did you ask?"
Spit "Is this your correct" spit spit spit "address??" spit spit.
"Oh. Yes. Yes it is." As far as I knew. I basically had no idea which parallel universe I'd entered, but I knew I wanted out. And how. Meanwhile, WyoBaby and her friend were an aisle away, examining the jars of bait fish, "Ewwww, that's GROSS!! Mom! Check this out!!!" "Mom!!! What the heck is this???" Serenity now.
The gal finished, and announced, spit spit spit mumble "Thirty-six fifty," spit.
"What?? I'm sorry, what the heck did you say???"
Spit "That'll be $36.50!"
"Oh, okay. Here. Take it. Take it all! But wait! What about my conservation stamp??"
Spit spit spit "included, sign here" spit spit spit spit.
"Well, thanks. Could I have a little plastic sleeve to protect my license, since I'll be, you know, fishing, and there's a chance I might get near some water?"
Mumble spit spit mumble "all out."
"Fine, that's fine. Thank you for all your help. WYOBABY!!! LET'S GO!! NOW!! PUT DOWN THE JAR OF MINNOWS AND GET IN THE CAR!!!"
I burned rubber out of there as quickly as I could, and headed home. Where we waited. And waited. Because it was four in the afternoon, which is hot time, and I was not all about fishing in hot time. Finally, at seven, we headed out to catch the big one. We ran into one of our favorite little friends, whose Mam and Pa had agreed to some fishing as well, and the kids were thrilled. We fished happily, until the mosquitoes were the only things biting, then ran for the safety of Big Red. All in all, it was an interesting day. And now, I'm good to fish for an entire year, before I get to visit my little license friend again.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
'Helping' Around the House, Part One
So, my 'puter has been circling the drain for quite some time now, but thanks to Hubs, the Wizard of IT (Get it? It's like the Wizard of ID, only with IT...*tap tap* Is this thing on?), who happens to be married to one of my bestest friends, the ol' HP is back up and running. Sorta. As much as a PC can run. Have I mentioned I HATE PCs? Oh but I do. But that's another story. Today, I'd like to talk about J. I've mentioned him once or twice, right? Fancies himself an Axe Man, has a (somewhat closeted) affection for cats, devilishly handsome? Okay, good. Just makin' sure we're on the same page.
So, J occasionally tries his hand at 'helping' around the house. Some days he's more successful than others. The other night, he tried to help with dinner. Shall I set the scene? Okay, I will. J came home from work , cracked open a cold one, and placed his tush in a chair outside, while WyoBaby and I checked on all my flowers and plants. It was around the dinner hour, so she asked if we could go out to eat, so I wouldn't have to cook that night. (How cute is she?!) When she ran it by The Man, he replied, "Why don't we wait 'till Thursday, and we'll go to the Third Thursday Festival and eat out, mmmkay?" Well, WyoBaby's more into instant than delayed gratification, but she agreed anyway. After tossing back the Dos Equis, J announced he was going to shower. I continued to water my flowers. Right about the time he was all squeaky clean, I strolled inside to get dinner crackin', and he offered to help. Fine by me. I was going to take a shower while he grilled burgers. As I walked out of the kitchen, he said, "Where's the burger?" I replied, "Um, in the fridge." "I don't see it." (Of course you don't. You looked a whole nano-second before you asked me to find it.) "It's on the top shelf." Of course, because I only serve Top Shelf Beef...These are the jokes people! I'm calling my agent...
So I retrieved the burger, and headed off in search of soap and water. I almost made it out of the kitchen before, "How do I make the patties?" (Did a large piece of equipment smack you in the head today?) "You season the beef, then make the patties." "Okay, what do I season it with?" (Lord, give me strength!) "The Worcestershire and the Greek Seasoning." "So I put the beef in a bowl and add the seasonings?" "Mmm-hmm." "Which bowl?" "It really doesn't matter, just pick one!" "So, how much seasoning do I use?" At this point, I was ready to kiss my shower good-bye. "Just eye-ball it!" "Okay, but what temp should I cook 'em at?" (So when you offered to help, exactly how did you envision that scenario?) "Medium-low, otherwise you'll catch the fat on fire." "What kind of cheese should I use?" "Well, considering you just ate the last of the sliced cheddar, I guess you'll have to LOOK IN THE CHEESE DRAWER!" "All I see is mozzarella, Gorgonzola, and some smoked cheese." "Yeah, that would be apple wood smoked mozzarella." "It could be, I didn't really look." (Ya don't say?) "Well it is. It's apple wood smoked mozzarella. So those are your choices. What you see is what you get. Now make grill magic happen. I stink, and I want to shower!" He might have called out more questions, but I couldn't say, because I had tuned him out. I emerged from the shower a new woman, and went to check on Chef Boyardee. As I strolled into the kitchen, he called out, "You might want to check those burgers, I'm not sure how they're doing." And to think I was going to have to cook tonight...I could see the smoke out the kitchen window, so I was pretty sure he had not taken my advice re: the temp of the grill. "Looks to me like you're burning 'em." "No, they're fine, just come take a quick peek, wouldya?" Fine. Did I mention how much I appreciate your offer to cook dinner? No? Hmm. He followed me, like a puppy, out to the grill. Upon opening the lid, I was greeted by big flames. Too big to be doing anything besides turning burger patties into hockey pucks. "What do you think? Should I turn the heat down, and maybe move the burgers to the cooler side of the grill?" "Ya think?" "What about cheese? Should I put the cheese on 'em now?" "Yep." I turned on my heel and walked away. In the end, the burgers turned out okay, but I learned an important lesson: Help means something entirely different to J than it does to me. And, it's not a good idea to allow him to use the grill, unsupervised.
So, J occasionally tries his hand at 'helping' around the house. Some days he's more successful than others. The other night, he tried to help with dinner. Shall I set the scene? Okay, I will. J came home from work , cracked open a cold one, and placed his tush in a chair outside, while WyoBaby and I checked on all my flowers and plants. It was around the dinner hour, so she asked if we could go out to eat, so I wouldn't have to cook that night. (How cute is she?!) When she ran it by The Man, he replied, "Why don't we wait 'till Thursday, and we'll go to the Third Thursday Festival and eat out, mmmkay?" Well, WyoBaby's more into instant than delayed gratification, but she agreed anyway. After tossing back the Dos Equis, J announced he was going to shower. I continued to water my flowers. Right about the time he was all squeaky clean, I strolled inside to get dinner crackin', and he offered to help. Fine by me. I was going to take a shower while he grilled burgers. As I walked out of the kitchen, he said, "Where's the burger?" I replied, "Um, in the fridge." "I don't see it." (Of course you don't. You looked a whole nano-second before you asked me to find it.) "It's on the top shelf." Of course, because I only serve Top Shelf Beef...These are the jokes people! I'm calling my agent...
So I retrieved the burger, and headed off in search of soap and water. I almost made it out of the kitchen before, "How do I make the patties?" (Did a large piece of equipment smack you in the head today?) "You season the beef, then make the patties." "Okay, what do I season it with?" (Lord, give me strength!) "The Worcestershire and the Greek Seasoning." "So I put the beef in a bowl and add the seasonings?" "Mmm-hmm." "Which bowl?" "It really doesn't matter, just pick one!" "So, how much seasoning do I use?" At this point, I was ready to kiss my shower good-bye. "Just eye-ball it!" "Okay, but what temp should I cook 'em at?" (So when you offered to help, exactly how did you envision that scenario?) "Medium-low, otherwise you'll catch the fat on fire." "What kind of cheese should I use?" "Well, considering you just ate the last of the sliced cheddar, I guess you'll have to LOOK IN THE CHEESE DRAWER!" "All I see is mozzarella, Gorgonzola, and some smoked cheese." "Yeah, that would be apple wood smoked mozzarella." "It could be, I didn't really look." (Ya don't say?) "Well it is. It's apple wood smoked mozzarella. So those are your choices. What you see is what you get. Now make grill magic happen. I stink, and I want to shower!" He might have called out more questions, but I couldn't say, because I had tuned him out. I emerged from the shower a new woman, and went to check on Chef Boyardee. As I strolled into the kitchen, he called out, "You might want to check those burgers, I'm not sure how they're doing." And to think I was going to have to cook tonight...I could see the smoke out the kitchen window, so I was pretty sure he had not taken my advice re: the temp of the grill. "Looks to me like you're burning 'em." "No, they're fine, just come take a quick peek, wouldya?" Fine. Did I mention how much I appreciate your offer to cook dinner? No? Hmm. He followed me, like a puppy, out to the grill. Upon opening the lid, I was greeted by big flames. Too big to be doing anything besides turning burger patties into hockey pucks. "What do you think? Should I turn the heat down, and maybe move the burgers to the cooler side of the grill?" "Ya think?" "What about cheese? Should I put the cheese on 'em now?" "Yep." I turned on my heel and walked away. In the end, the burgers turned out okay, but I learned an important lesson: Help means something entirely different to J than it does to me. And, it's not a good idea to allow him to use the grill, unsupervised.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I've been sent back to the Dark Ages, technologically speaking. My laptop usually gets a signal from my wireless router, so I can connect to the internet anywhere in our house. But that has all changed. I tried to connect and BLAM! no connection, no network, no router, nothing. My little laptop couldn't find anything. I've been down this road before, so I went through the usual steps to resolve the issue. They didn't work. So I gave in and called the cable company. I then spent the next 35 minutes on the phone with a disembodied female voice (read computer), talking me through all sorts of steps, such as pinging. When two attempts to ping failed, she had me unplug and restart everything, again. At several of the more frustrating steps, she actually said, "I know you'd like to speak to a customer service rep, but we've come this far, and I'm confident we can resolve this together." So now I had a computer reading my mind. Great. "So, Miss Smartypants, can you tell me what I'm thinking now?! Yes, that's right, I did just think those bad words!! What are you going to do about it?! You don't have a body, so ha!" Sorry. It's out of my system now.
After all this mind-numbing frustrating nonsense, the computer woman and I determined my wireless router is fried. I don't like it when electronics fry. It makes my life inconvenient. In this case, I'm now wired to the modem. No more wireless freedom. I have to sit in one particular chair, in one specific area of one room, just to get online. I don't like it. At all. But I shall persevere. And I shall order a new wireless router, so I can once more roam the wilds of my house, laptop in hand. My daughter's room is particularly wild, by the way. I should probably disconnect and go address the issue. And I know I promised a new vacuum story; it's coming. It was going to be posted already, but then my router, you know, fried, so that put a big monkey wrench in things. And I needed to share my trauma with you. So I'll save the vacuum story for tomorrow.
P.S. Spring has ended in Wyo. It's a full-on winter white-out. It's cold and windy. And snowy. And I have to go out into all that yuck to get WyoBaby from school. I don't relish the idea. So, feel sorry for me, please. No? Well fine. I'll just suck it up. Happy Thursday!
Love,
WyoMomma
After all this mind-numbing frustrating nonsense, the computer woman and I determined my wireless router is fried. I don't like it when electronics fry. It makes my life inconvenient. In this case, I'm now wired to the modem. No more wireless freedom. I have to sit in one particular chair, in one specific area of one room, just to get online. I don't like it. At all. But I shall persevere. And I shall order a new wireless router, so I can once more roam the wilds of my house, laptop in hand. My daughter's room is particularly wild, by the way. I should probably disconnect and go address the issue. And I know I promised a new vacuum story; it's coming. It was going to be posted already, but then my router, you know, fried, so that put a big monkey wrench in things. And I needed to share my trauma with you. So I'll save the vacuum story for tomorrow.
P.S. Spring has ended in Wyo. It's a full-on winter white-out. It's cold and windy. And snowy. And I have to go out into all that yuck to get WyoBaby from school. I don't relish the idea. So, feel sorry for me, please. No? Well fine. I'll just suck it up. Happy Thursday!
Love,
WyoMomma
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Don't Abandon Ship! (Pleeeeaasssseee!!!)
I'd rather not speak of my unspeakable absence from bloggers' land. Really, I do apologize to my four faithful readers for my absolute lack of words lately. But I promise, I shall return, full-force, tomorrow. Or tonight. One of the two. And I shall bring a story of a vacuum. That's right, there's an update in the vacuum saga. So please, women and children, stay on the ship for just a few more hours.
Thank you for putting up with my erraticism (it's a word, I'm pretty sure)!
Love,
WyoMomma
Thank you for putting up with my erraticism (it's a word, I'm pretty sure)!
Love,
WyoMomma
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I Know Things About Stuff
Turns out that's not a highly marketable quality. I retain all kinds of useless, albeit interesting, facts. For example: The length of time coffee beans are roasted is indirectly related to the amount of caffeine in the beans. Which means, the Espresso roast has the least amount of caffeine. It's the concentration of the shot of Espresso which delivers that extra zing. Also, coffee has more flavor notes than wine. Terribly fascinating, right?
Knowing these types of things serves you well in only a limited number of situations. I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit. I can hammer out a crossword puzzle in short order. And I can handily defeat my family in a rousing game of Scene It for the xbox! That's right. I know my movies. And I'm not entirely sure what that says about the way I spend my time. But here's the rub: I know things about movies I've never seen, and I have no idea why. Somehow, my little brain randomly gathers information from unknown sources, and then files it away in a little area known as Useless Trivia.
But, since my brain wastes so much time in this fact-gathering exercise, it has no energy left to remember important things, such as, why I walked into a room. Or that I started a load of laundry an hour ago, but forgot to turn on the washing machine. My brain runs around in a million different directions, and only hits the mark one time out of a thousand. It is so incredibly frustrating. So much so, that I recently spoke to my doctor about the possibility that it might be a chemical thing. Turns out, I'm just like most other Wimmies. I have been genetically programmed to multitask. Except I wasn't there the day the manuals on multitasking were handed out. My genes may know what the heck they're doing, but I have no clue! I'm guessing I'm not the only Wimmy who gets incredibly frustrated when she gets in bed at night, and begins to remember all the things she forgot during the day.
You might be asking yourself, "Does she have a point? And if so, is she ever going to get to it?" Yes and yes. My point is this, in an effort to make sense of all my frustrations and triumphs, confusion and success, I've decided to write a book. It will be as much a journey of self-understanding as a tribute to all Wimmies who struggle to stay ahead of the game. And you, my faithful and beloved readers, might end up as a sounding board for portions of this book. So, fair warning, I'm going to throw some thoughts at you every once in awhile. Because, as much as I know about stuff, I'm not too clear on life.
Knowing these types of things serves you well in only a limited number of situations. I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit. I can hammer out a crossword puzzle in short order. And I can handily defeat my family in a rousing game of Scene It for the xbox! That's right. I know my movies. And I'm not entirely sure what that says about the way I spend my time. But here's the rub: I know things about movies I've never seen, and I have no idea why. Somehow, my little brain randomly gathers information from unknown sources, and then files it away in a little area known as Useless Trivia.
But, since my brain wastes so much time in this fact-gathering exercise, it has no energy left to remember important things, such as, why I walked into a room. Or that I started a load of laundry an hour ago, but forgot to turn on the washing machine. My brain runs around in a million different directions, and only hits the mark one time out of a thousand. It is so incredibly frustrating. So much so, that I recently spoke to my doctor about the possibility that it might be a chemical thing. Turns out, I'm just like most other Wimmies. I have been genetically programmed to multitask. Except I wasn't there the day the manuals on multitasking were handed out. My genes may know what the heck they're doing, but I have no clue! I'm guessing I'm not the only Wimmy who gets incredibly frustrated when she gets in bed at night, and begins to remember all the things she forgot during the day.
You might be asking yourself, "Does she have a point? And if so, is she ever going to get to it?" Yes and yes. My point is this, in an effort to make sense of all my frustrations and triumphs, confusion and success, I've decided to write a book. It will be as much a journey of self-understanding as a tribute to all Wimmies who struggle to stay ahead of the game. And you, my faithful and beloved readers, might end up as a sounding board for portions of this book. So, fair warning, I'm going to throw some thoughts at you every once in awhile. Because, as much as I know about stuff, I'm not too clear on life.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Just Call Me Grace (or Taylor)!
People, the last few days have been a bit rough. After spending a day trying to get back in the school groove after Spring Break, I was ready to jump right in to my day-to-day routine, when blam!!! sore throat. Now, most of the time sore throats go away on their own, but this one did not. I went to bed Tuesday night with a tiny little tickle in my throat, and woke up with a monster sore throat, headache, congestion and no voice. This threw a huge monkey wrench into my day, as I was slated to help in the classroom that morning. But when you have no voice, working with 3rd graders becomes rather impossible. And, I didn't want to share my germs with all those kiddos, so I stayed home. On the couch. All day. Watching The Office. I would like to take a moment to say that Netflix is quite possibly one of the single best entities in existence. And now, I have the streaming disc for the Wii, so I can watch the Instant Play selections on my t.v., rather than my computer. How great is that?! And, in their infinite wisdom, the folks in charge of Instant View included all episodes of The Office in that list. So I watched The Office. All day. In between naps. And that made things better. The Office is simply my favorite show. J doesn't appreciate the beauty of The Office, which breaks my heart a little, and if I'd known this before we married, I would have written a clause into our marriage contract, guaranteeing I could watch as much of The Office as I wanted, and he would have to keep his heavy sighing to himself. He just doesn't 'get' Michael Scott. I question J's sense of humor. But I love him regardless.
As luck would have it, I got sick on a day J was working in town, so he picked up WyoBaby from school for me. So, I didn't have to get off the couch and leave Pam and Jim and Dwight and Kevin and Meredith and Stanley and Michael and all my Office friends. Thank goodness for J. But my bliss was short-lived. Here's how sick days work when you're a Wimmy: (That's my new word. Wife + Mommy = Wimmy.) You get one, maybe two, sick days a year. That's it. If you dare to take more than one at any given point in time, your house will become a disaster area. Dirty dishes and laundry will pile up everywhere. Dinner will not get cooked. WyoBaby will not get help with her homework and reading. J will give you a look which says, "You're still sick?! I think you've been sick long enough, don't you?" And besides, this Wimmy is the coach of WyoBaby's soccer team, so I couldn't take another sick day. But, my friend, who has her angelic moments, offered to grab WyoBaby from school and slow down her Suburban long enough for her to leap out at our house. This gave me a bit more time to nap before practice. I was not 100%, but I was committed to giving those girls the best coaching possible. And things were going pretty well, as well as they can when you have 13 girls ambling all over the field, doing cartwheels, playing with each others' hair, talking baby talk, and only giving you half of their attention, at best.
I was doing my level best to explain Playing Your Position, and was helping the girls run a drill, which involved running down the field, passing the ball back and forth. After trying to yell my instructions, which were falling on deaf ears because I basically had no voice, I decided to join in the drill to demonstrate. For thirty seconds, it went well; I made two passes on the run, and was lining up for another one, when my world suddenly turned upside down. Do you recall my past issues with gravity? Yeah, they haven't gone away. Instead of kicking the ball, I stepped on it, which promptly took me from upright to sideways. In my mind, I could hear my slow-mo voice, saying "Nooooo" as I fell fell fell. You know that voice right? When something bad is about to happen in a movie, the character's voice slows waaaay down and gets deeper. That's what was happening in my mind. That's right, I hit the decks. Again. This time didn't hurt as much as the ice rink fall. In my mind, the track scene from Valentine's Day was playing. Did you see that movie? Oh, loved it! Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner are a high school couple, and she's being interviewed by a local reporter while he's running hurdles. He's looking pretty cool, and then blam!! he hits one of the hurdles and takes a tremendous dive. She yells, "That's okay, Baby! Just brush it off!! You're still hot!!!" It was like that, only no one was telling me I was still hot. One of the mothers came close to wetting herself, she was laughing so hard. WyoBaby was at the other end of the field, hollering at the top of her lungs, "Mom!! MOM!!! ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!" As I brushed the dirt off my knees and scooped my bruised ego off the grass, I mumbled, "Yeah, I'm okay." She didn't hear me, so she kept yelling, "MOM! MOM!! ARE YOU OKAY!!!" "YES BABY!!! I'M FIIIINE!! GET BACK TO THE DRILL!!!" The mother in the stands called out, "I'm sorry, but you had to see it from the outside, it was HILARIOUS!" Oh I just bet it was. So, not only was I trying to recover from my cold, I was now nursing a bruised knee and trying to get 13 girls to take me seriously. Good luck with that. They tend to tune you out after you've taken a fantastic dive. But I taught them how to do a throw-in properly, how to do a chest trap, and how to pass. Mission accomplished. After going home, popping some Advil, and crawling back onto my beloved couch, things got better. Until my friend, the angelic one, texted me, "Are you still awake? I will say several Baptist versions of Hail Mary for my blog." When I asked her if she'd written something naughty, which would explain the need for a Baptist Hail Mary, she sweetly replied, "No, I don't write naughty things. I just write about people I KNOW." And just like that, her little halo slipped. I fired up the ol' laptop, pulled up her blog, and read about her day. She'd had a rough day. But you know how she made it better? By ending it with, "At least I didn't trip over a soccer ball!!" People, that is what's known as adding insult to injury. Yes, I love her. But her halo is perched a bit precariously. The only way she redeemed herself was by adding, "Just brush it off, Baby. You're still hot!!" And that's why I love her. She's my own Taylor Swift.
As luck would have it, I got sick on a day J was working in town, so he picked up WyoBaby from school for me. So, I didn't have to get off the couch and leave Pam and Jim and Dwight and Kevin and Meredith and Stanley and Michael and all my Office friends. Thank goodness for J. But my bliss was short-lived. Here's how sick days work when you're a Wimmy: (That's my new word. Wife + Mommy = Wimmy.) You get one, maybe two, sick days a year. That's it. If you dare to take more than one at any given point in time, your house will become a disaster area. Dirty dishes and laundry will pile up everywhere. Dinner will not get cooked. WyoBaby will not get help with her homework and reading. J will give you a look which says, "You're still sick?! I think you've been sick long enough, don't you?" And besides, this Wimmy is the coach of WyoBaby's soccer team, so I couldn't take another sick day. But, my friend, who has her angelic moments, offered to grab WyoBaby from school and slow down her Suburban long enough for her to leap out at our house. This gave me a bit more time to nap before practice. I was not 100%, but I was committed to giving those girls the best coaching possible. And things were going pretty well, as well as they can when you have 13 girls ambling all over the field, doing cartwheels, playing with each others' hair, talking baby talk, and only giving you half of their attention, at best.
I was doing my level best to explain Playing Your Position, and was helping the girls run a drill, which involved running down the field, passing the ball back and forth. After trying to yell my instructions, which were falling on deaf ears because I basically had no voice, I decided to join in the drill to demonstrate. For thirty seconds, it went well; I made two passes on the run, and was lining up for another one, when my world suddenly turned upside down. Do you recall my past issues with gravity? Yeah, they haven't gone away. Instead of kicking the ball, I stepped on it, which promptly took me from upright to sideways. In my mind, I could hear my slow-mo voice, saying "Nooooo" as I fell fell fell. You know that voice right? When something bad is about to happen in a movie, the character's voice slows waaaay down and gets deeper. That's what was happening in my mind. That's right, I hit the decks. Again. This time didn't hurt as much as the ice rink fall. In my mind, the track scene from Valentine's Day was playing. Did you see that movie? Oh, loved it! Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner are a high school couple, and she's being interviewed by a local reporter while he's running hurdles. He's looking pretty cool, and then blam!! he hits one of the hurdles and takes a tremendous dive. She yells, "That's okay, Baby! Just brush it off!! You're still hot!!!" It was like that, only no one was telling me I was still hot. One of the mothers came close to wetting herself, she was laughing so hard. WyoBaby was at the other end of the field, hollering at the top of her lungs, "Mom!! MOM!!! ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!" As I brushed the dirt off my knees and scooped my bruised ego off the grass, I mumbled, "Yeah, I'm okay." She didn't hear me, so she kept yelling, "MOM! MOM!! ARE YOU OKAY!!!" "YES BABY!!! I'M FIIIINE!! GET BACK TO THE DRILL!!!" The mother in the stands called out, "I'm sorry, but you had to see it from the outside, it was HILARIOUS!" Oh I just bet it was. So, not only was I trying to recover from my cold, I was now nursing a bruised knee and trying to get 13 girls to take me seriously. Good luck with that. They tend to tune you out after you've taken a fantastic dive. But I taught them how to do a throw-in properly, how to do a chest trap, and how to pass. Mission accomplished. After going home, popping some Advil, and crawling back onto my beloved couch, things got better. Until my friend, the angelic one, texted me, "Are you still awake? I will say several Baptist versions of Hail Mary for my blog." When I asked her if she'd written something naughty, which would explain the need for a Baptist Hail Mary, she sweetly replied, "No, I don't write naughty things. I just write about people I KNOW." And just like that, her little halo slipped. I fired up the ol' laptop, pulled up her blog, and read about her day. She'd had a rough day. But you know how she made it better? By ending it with, "At least I didn't trip over a soccer ball!!" People, that is what's known as adding insult to injury. Yes, I love her. But her halo is perched a bit precariously. The only way she redeemed herself was by adding, "Just brush it off, Baby. You're still hot!!" And that's why I love her. She's my own Taylor Swift.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
