Happy Thanksgiving!

Last year I started a new Thanksgiving tradition; blessed blessed silence and spending it sola.  I went to Boston Market, got the fixin's; and I went to Frys and got the roasted chicken.  I enjoyed every moment.  So I planned to do exactly the same this year.  This morning, after snuggling with Bonnie a while, I went to Starbucks and had my first non-fat, grande, one-pump peppermint, with whip, mocha of the holiday season; and I went to Frys and now have a perfecly roasted, savory herb chicken keeping warm in the oven.  Ahhhhh.

But I made a tactical error last night.  I went shopping at the last minute to get some stuff I can't get at Frys and discovered what can only be described as a holiday miracle.  Perfectly peeled and cubed, ready to go sweet potatoes?  Ready to go chopped mix of onion, shallot and garlic??  Ready to go mirepoix?!?!?  OMG

Somewhere a bell must be ringing because I have ready to go mirepoix.  For those who don't know, mirepoix is French for the holy trinity of onions, carrots and celery.  Ready to go mirepoix is French for "the you-don't-have-to-peel-cry-chop-accidentally-cut-your-now-oniony-garlicky-stinky-fingers-ever-again holy trinity."  It's like the French have a word for everything.

I love the food network.  I watch all the shows.  I have lusted over the idea of a sous chef for years.  And now I have one.  I call him TJ.  And I have ready to go mirepoix.

So today, Boston Market can keep their fixins.  I'm making my own smashed sweet potatoes and herb dressing (yay Pepperidge Farm!) with READY-TO-GO-MIREPOIX-FOR-GOD'S-SAKE and chicken stock in a resealable container.  So fuhuhuhuhuhking what if I didn't roast the bird, dry out the bread, and peel and chop and cry and cut my finger and have to use cut up lemon on the stinky and love love love cranberries in a can (it has GOT to have the ridges and shape of the can or it's just no good!) or dig innards out of a poultry's ass and brine and bake all of it myself?  It's homemade 'cause I'm making it at home and 'cause I said so.

Problem is, I don't feel like fuhuhuhuhuhking cooking now.  Sigh.

Since I've been gone...

Palo Verde - dead and gone
Variegated agave in the front - infested, then dead, then gone
Refrigerator - dead... but revived
Car - covered in bird poop
Classroom - smells like poop (frogs, crabs, milipedes... don't ask)
Bank account - drained
Job - stressful
Job - rewarding
Job - fun
Job - stressful
Dignity - gone due to a "wardrobe malfunction" while dancing the Macarena with the kids

Miss me?

The best things in life...

Chocolate in all its forms... especially dark though.
Apple cider... can't wait.
Food.
Naps. Short ones, long ones, in rainy or cold or hot weather, and right now with the wind blowing through the chimes...
Skinny dipping. I miss it.
DVRs - no commercials! - remote controls, and comfy couches.
Ceiling fans and AC.
Iced, venti, non-fat, extra whip mochas.
Texting.
Dogs.
Nieces and nephews.
Fall break. It's so nice to be kid-free right now.

If only I could be worry-free as well.

Can menopause be that far behind?

So I went to Target today. I needed body soap and lotion, laundry detergent, and greeting cards for various upcoming celebrations. As I wandered through the aisles I came across reading glasses. Ha ha ha ha, I don't need those. So what if I have to hold some papers as far from my face as possible as I rotate the paper looking for just the right angle of visibility? That means nothing other than there's something wrong with the light. Anyhow. Just for fun I "put [my] toes up against the bottom shelf and read the lines." Um. +1.50, whatever that means. It's amazing what I'm not actually seeing up close.

As I stood there contemplating the fading of the bloom off the rose, the female expiration date, the Autumn of my life, I noticed the Depends and the various creams, lotions, and potions meant to ease the discomfort of old age right next to the glasses. Ugh. I had to turn and look away.

Right across from all this? Ribbed condoms. KY. Enhanced for her pleasure. Trojans. And all sorts of similar stuff. Rows and rows of it. Really? Couldn't they come up with better placement for either of these stage of life products? It was all rather depressing and ironic and satiric and funny and sad all at the same time.

But I gave in and bought the glasses. They're red with tiger stripes. Enhanced for my pleasure.

From propane to methane

Ms. Grumperini, what is propane? A very good question asked today during our lit study. We had been discussing the chapter we had read last night, the narrative elements, the personal connections; and we had moved on to words we didn't recognize or understand. So I opened it up for discussion. It's a gas. It comes in those tanks you use in a gas grill. It's like gas you put in your car. Oh wait no, that's gasoline. The perfect opportunity to talk about the difference between gas and liquid and of course solid. Let's take water for instance. When it's water, it's a... liquid! Right. When it's an ice cube it's a... solid! Right! When you're boiling water and you see the steam coming off the top, that steam is... gas! Right! Oh, so like gas is like air! How do they get the gas in the tank? Why isn't gasoline a gas? Did you know that they think that there is methane gas in the Bermuda Triangle?

Uh oh. Methane gas. A student said methane. Please don't let any of the other kids have a clue what methane gas is. Snicker snicker. Uh oh. Someone knows. More snickers. Giggles. That's not appropriate (said by a student). Why? What's methane??

Uh oh. More giggles. Laughter. Fine. Methane gas is the gas that is released when someone, um, well, farts. Laughter, giggles, snickers. And it lights? Uh oh.

And then, as if I didn't have 30+ years of maturity on these kids, I find the story about one of my asinine friends who decided to see what would happen if he tried lighting his own methane coming out of my mouth. "...and he burned his butt."

That was the end of any constructive conversation about our literature study book. But they'll remember what propane and methane are; AND the difference between solid, liquid and gas.

I wonder...

...should I sell everything I own and move back to VA? I wonder if I could get a job there that pays more than here...

Things are not looking good here. But afterall, everything I own is just things. I don't need any of them as long as Bonnie and I have a place to sleep. Right? A room with a bed and a place for my clothes and Bonnie's water dish. That's really all that is needed.

It may come to that. Quickly.

Balance

There are two sides to every issue. How do I do this AND that AND enjoy them AND do them well? All things in moderation. Ah, the curse of the sign of the scales. Balance is an ongoing struggle for me. I'm either all or nothing, and I can't do the in between. It's 100 mph during the week, and crash and burn on the weekends. Or at least on Saturdays. I have come to hate Saturday. Yes, hate. I don't wanna do jack shit on Saturdays, and I end up tortured over this; which makes Saturdays even worse.

Perhaps I should just embrace this idea of doing nothing on Saturdays, make it ok, give myself permission. Perhaps once it's ok, I'll be free to do or not do as I so please without the added weight of blame and shame and the ensuing lethargy. And perhaps without all that lethargy and busy busy blame, I'll actually get something done AND enjoy the day?

I need to try this, this idea of making my zombie day ok. Of course, I'll have to wait a week. I already hated yesterday.