My New Sous Chef

Daughter has a job. I hate Daughter's job. Not the job exactly, the fact that she even has a job. I am used to her being here to help me when she wasn't in class.

Now, I have hired a housekeeper. 

Now, I have to have someone else help me in the kitchen.

Enter Husband.

Sigh.

He is my new Sous Chef, I explained. He said, "Huh?"

I said, okay, you are my  new helper. He said, "Oh." None too enthusiastically, I might add.

So, today was spaghetti and salad day. Now, I have to concentrate when I am making my sauce. So I assigned Sous Chef to making a salad.

The first time he's ever made a salad, he tells me.

The man is sixty-six years old.

But I believe him: ("Do I peel the radishes?")

At any rate, he made his first salad, I got the sauce to taste reasonably well and we ate.

The aftermath, the clean up, was difficult.

It looked like two rabbits had been in a vicious fight in the middle of the vegetable garden on the island. And the stove looked like mass murder had occurred where the sauce had popped here and there while it simmered.

But we got it cleaned up, just in time to be hungry again.

I'm too old for this.

Carpel Tunnel Rules!

Raise your hand if you have Carpal Tunnel.

Ha! Trick question. If you have Carpal Tunnel, you can't raise your hand. (well, maybe some of you can, beats me.)

It is one of the minor ailments I have, but after working on my book yesterday and getting eight pages done, Carpal Tunnel wasn't so  minor.

If you are a writer, contemplate this: How easy is it to read eight pages of a novel versus to write eight pages of a novel? And, no, don't send your therapist's bill to me.

It's like comparing having to floss versus a root canal.

Don't be a writer unless you just hafta.

But the trip is exhilarating. You go into 'flow' and don't know where the time goes. One has a great sense of accomplishment when the rush is over. As  you read what you've done, edit as you go, and then let it get 'cold' for further editing, it does feel like you are on top of the world.

That  may not last long; however. Like when you go back and read it after it's 'cold' and you say, "What the heck does that  mean? Can I really not spell anything correctly?"  Etc.

Still, this past week I have accomplished a great deal. Searching all through this stupid computer to find hidden poems, essays and short stories that for some reason were filed in a hundred different places; compiling them into one file and printing them out so I can actually see what I have was very satisfying. As was working on my current novel. 

Who knows? Someday you may be forced have the privilege of reading this load of junk fascinating collection.

Until then, somebody get  me the ice pack. My arm is killin' me.

Turning a Sow's Ear into a Wal-Mart Purse

Several years ago, when we built our garage, we added an extra twelve feet in length, partitioned it off and called it Husband's studio.

At first he was enthusiastic. Painted the walls with the color he picked out, bought a few framed prints, put up valances in dark blue, that kind of thing.

He put his art supplies in it.

Then it sat and gathered dust and cobwebs and general nastiness as years went by. When he did decide to do art, he lugged stuff from there to the kitchen table, thus disabling two places.

I finally cobbled out a corner of the studio for a work computer, thinking that I could go there and be alone to work.

Ha.

My family all have working legs and you know where those legs took them.

At any rate, about two months ago, I stopped and looked around me. This little room had potential, if I didn't think I'd smother to death every time I went in.

So, I went to work. By that I mean I put Husband and Daughter to work.

Now it looks rather spacious. I have a good file cabinet, a work table, an armchair for company, good lighting and shelves for all the books I have for sale.

Husband still has his own computer out here, plus his easel and art supplies. He even perked up and said this now looked like a place where he might be able to paint or draw.

As soon as the floors are cleaned, I'll have a pretty spiffy place. Give us a few days to get that last chore done, and I'll give you the grand tour.

It won't take long, the place is twelve feet wide.

What a Weekend!

Around eight o'clock Friday night my body exploded.

Okay, not really. But man, oh, man, it sure felt like it.

I was fine one second (in fact I'd had a pretty good day) and the next I had a full blown (pardon the pun) stomach virus.

Achy joints, fever, chills and all sorts of intestinal phenomenon took place. Finally, last night, about 48 hours later, it passed. (Pardon the pun, again).

At some point yesterday, late morning, maybe, I thought I really needed to come downstairs, if only for a few minutes. My fever had broken, so I wobbled on down for a few minutes.

Good Lord.

Husband had been in the kitchen.

Alone.

There was no discernible counter space seen. Both sinks were completely overrun with dirty dishes. The bottom dishwasher drawer was open. Somehow Husband had managed to get it stuck in that position.

The good news is, there were still a few clean dishes left in it.

He had attempted to fill the sugar canister, as it had emptied (mysteriously). But a large clump came out and he wound up spilling a third of it on the floor and surrounding areas.

If I hadn't been sick to my stomach before, that would have cinched the deal.

I think I swooned.

Even the fish, who resides on the window sill over the kitchen sink, was looking at me frantically. PTSD, I assume.

I never got as far as the pantry, where the two tall trash cans are, but I can guess.

I wobbled back to bed, and as soon as Daughter got up, I mewled to her that she had to clean up the kitchen.  She assured me those were her plans, not to worry.

Worry?

Who me?

By last night, the kitchen was back to the normal happy place it was designed to be. I was not afraid to eat something from it; feeling secure it no longer held any hidden plagues.

And I was feeling better, too.

Whatcha wanna bet I did not lose ONE pound through all this?

Ah, well.

It's good to be back.

Three Years Later

On October 20, 2012, I blogged. This was my second blog, really, because I'd blogged one time a year previously, then forgot about it.

Since 2012, I have blogged 620 times. (Today is 621).

As of right this minute, 27,756 visits have been made to my blog.

60 countries have read my blog.

I don't understand why people far away, with whom I have no connection, would read my blog. Not just once, but again and again.

Maybe humor connects us all, like music.

Whatever the explanation, if there even is one, I thank every single one of you, wherever and whoever you are.

UP(s) UP(s) and Away

Husband and I have lived in the same place about twenty-eight and a half years. 

We have had a zillion deliveries from nice legs gentlemen in the big brown trucks that are the opposite of downs.

The other fellas, those who are FED with xes find us, too, sorta. They deliver to the garage. Now our garage doesn't look like a house. It looks very much like a garage. Why they do this is way beyond my understanding, but it is a fact, nonetheless. 

But suddenly, our dependable, brown truck fellas can't find us.

We have become invisible.

They have been trying to deliver a package for almost a week. We've given them very detailed directions plus our phone number. No one's called, no package has been delivered.

When we call them, they are cheerful and positive. They take our phone number assuring us there is a driver in the area who will call us right away.

No way.

I miss their pretty legs  smile.

My Trip to the Big City

Boy, do I hate traffic.

I forget how bad Atlanta traffic can be (not intellectually, but emotionally) until I'm in the thick of it again.

Yesterday was my doc appointment down yonder. We got south of Husband's home county when traffic came to a sudden standstill. Very odd thing to happen there, in the middle of the day. We found out why.

A terrible wreck (going in the other direction) had just happened, the responders were jumping out of ambulances and firetrucks, grabbing gloves, stretchers, etc. They were running to people lying about on the ground. I tried not to look too closely, I am not a rubbernecker by nature.

I just started praying.

But traffic didn't clear up. That's because we came upon another wreck, also going the other way. It was older, and although there were still some firetrucks left, it was mostly cleared. I figure that's what had traffic backed up so badly before the first wreck we saw even occurred.

I was wrong.

We were pretty much at a standstill, traffic as far as the eye could see both ways, and we were barely into Cobb County.

Finally we saw what had started traffic buildup: a funeral procession. It was military, I was told later. A dozen police vehicles, twenty or more motorcycles with flags, and lots of other cars in the procession were going slowly up the interstate. Traffic had stopped on both sides to honor it.

What is usually an hour and fifteen minute trip was a full two hours. I walked into my doctor appointment with five minutes to spare; only because my little voice had told me the day before we needed to leave really early. I actually listened to the little voice. Whoda thunk?

When we got out of the doctor's office, guess what? Yup. Traffic was really bad.

So we did what was smart. I knew physically I was doomed no matter what we did (and I was right, somebody dial 911, I'm hurtin' too bad to do it myself) Why sit in traffic when you can go to your favorite restaurant and eat like a pig?

I had only eaten breakfast, lo many hours previously, not knowing I would be in traffic forever, so I was one hungry woman.

I don't know what this place does to their chicken, but it is altogether a different chicken than your mama cooks. Not saying your mama doesn't make good chicken, I'm sure she does. But this chicken is cooked over a wood fire, and they put sooper sekrit stuff on it that makes you almost weep. Of course I had mashed taters and spinach cooked in olive oil with little chips of garlic thrown in.

A moment of silence, please.

We usually don't order dessert in restaurants because: a. it is ridiculously expensive and b. we are too fat already.

But Husband was feeling expansive (ha!) and we decided to indulge.

The waiter described it thusly: "It's an apple crostata, which we won't be serving much longer. Cooked in a skillet over the wood fire until the crust is toasty brown, it is then smothered in vanilla bean ice cream with a cinnamon syrup."

Translation, in case you don't speak Eye-tallion: We fry it up in a arn skillet and put vaneller ice cream on it then drownd it with a sweet surp till it gives up the ghost.

They served it up in this little iron skillet about the size of a bread and butter plate that would tickle your granny to see.

The weird thing was, it must have had some kind of magnet attached to it, because over and over, I had to keep stretching my arm further to get my share. It kept zooming over to Husband's side of the table, no matter how many times I scooted it back toward the center.

What it was, was, the best fried apple pie I have ever put in my mouth, and that's saying a whole lot.

Have mercy.

When we left the restaurant, it was still bumper to bumper (what is wrong with these people?), so we went to our favorite department store to kill another hour.

I got some Christmas shopping done. (Don't hold your breath, it was very little) and bought some necessary things: a new spatula as the handle of mine had snapped off, a really cool picture frame for mere pennies, some socks, stuff like that.

Finally, traffic had cleared and we journeyed to the house.

Only took us seven hours to get there and back.

I'll try to forget about what it does to me until April; my next appointment with doom and doctor.