About a month ago, The Wo mentions that he’s finally gotten a notice for jury duty. He’s interested and intrigued, and has never even been called before. So he fills out the paperwork, I drop it in the mail, and think nothing more of it. Until I walk by his computer and see the rest of the summons, and in big red block letters, it says, “GRAND JURY”. Wha-WHA!?!? That’s quite the detail oversight! Then, like so many other things in my life, I promptly forgot about it, until he was on the phone with Momma Linda and mentioned that he would have jury duty in September.
GRAND jury duty, I interrupted.
Yeah. He had no idea.

I’ve been watching Law & Order for all the years it’s been on tv. All the variations, all the spin-offs, I am right. fucking. there. Love me some legal justice. (Yes, I am also fully aware the shows are nothing like real life.) I even have had the juror experience, as the foreperson on a malpractice lawsuit when I lived in St. Louis. Let me tell you what, I have no desire to be judged by a jury of my “peers” because half the people I sat with on that panel were competing with mushrooms for Most Active Life Form. Dude next to me kept falling asleep, in fact. Nice. I was freaking out. I took the responsibility so seriously, and was so riveted to every single detail, because I felt it was So Important. The case lasted 5 days, and by the 3rd day, the judge pointed at me before giving the rote instructions to the jury, instructions that were given to us every. single. time. there was a recess, a break, lunch, or leaving for the day. Basically instructing us we were not to discuss this case with anyone else, with anyone from the defense or the plaintiff, or among ourselves. It was about four lines long, and I had memorized it at that point. So when the judge pointed at me and saw my focused eyeballs, he pointed his gavel at me and said, “GO.” I began to say, “We are not to discuss this case with anyone else. We are not to discuss it with…” and he chuckled, told me he needed to say it, for it to count. Yes. I was focused.

The case we heard was about the head of OBGYN at SLU, and he was accused of not having magical fortune-telling powers. Basically, the woman had a baby, and then got pregnant again. The second child ended up being macrosomic (huge), and got stuck in the birth canal during delivery. She also delivered really, really, really fast. Was on a petosin drip for 10 hours, and then suddenly went from a 4 to a 10, in 7 minutes. (I learned more about childbirth than I ever needed to know, folks.) So the baby got stuck, and there was brachial nerve damage, resulting in a permanent injury to the boy. He had about 30% capacity of his arm. It was really awful, because they brought the kid in (he was 10 at this point) and threw balls at him, instructing him to catch them with his “good” side and then his “bad” one. But the whole argument rested on the first supposition, that the doctor “should have known” she would have this oversized baby, and should have in fact performed a c-section. The issue we (I) had, was that all her vitals and measurements were identical to her first child, a girl, who had been delivered with no issues whatsoever. Weight, fundal height, all that stuff was precisely the same. So there was no way he could have predicted it would go wrong. Anyway, it was rough. The doctor’s lawyers were quite skilled; the mom’s lawyer was more along the lines of shyster. And when we first convened in the jury room, I was selected as the foreman, and two seconds later, the DumbShit who’d been falling asleep had a crazy outburst, “I think because he offered her an abortion at the beginning of her pregnancy, we should find him guilty RIGHT NOW!”

Oh lord. Yes, the doc made her aware of all of her options, because she was over the age of 40, and the odds of having a special needs child went up, and as her doctor, he wanted her to know every LEGAL medical option she had. I told him to essentially STFU, as the abortion issue had nothing to do with this case.

It took several hours. Juries in St. Louis were notorious for large cash awards. But we finally found for the doctor. The three men on the jury held steadfast in favor of the plaintiff, maybe seeing themselves in the little boy, awkwardly catching a nerf ball in front of the jury box. And six months later, I was in a mall, shopping, and saw a woman who looked familiar. Turns out, she had been on the jury with me, and she had visited the judge after our decision was rendered, to ask what he thought of our verdict. He told her we’d made the right choice (though I wonder if he ever tells a juror that he thinks they fucked up). I still look back on it as a significant moment in civic duty, it’s right up there with the very first time I voted. But because of the DumbShit, I fear ever having my fate in front of 12 people, because there’s no guarantee my counterpart will be in the room, memorizing the juror instructions and paying attention to the rules and keeping emotion out of it.

With all that, I would say the Wo would make an excellent juror. We’ll see if he gets selected! We do know he is not allowed to bring knitting needles, that was emphasized twice on the phone tonight. It’s a shame, really, that knitting isn’t allowed. He can bring a craft, though. He suggested duck calls. That might be a really good way to NOT get chosen….

As we hibernated indoors yesterday, away from the stifling humidity, most of our energies wound up in the kitchen. I had been wanting to make Peter Reinhart’s recipe for Casatiello, and Italian Brioche, studded with bits of spicy salami and gouda cheese. What I love about his book is the complete thoroughness of instruction; he describes the process of how the dough will evolve, and what to expect. This dough has a high butter content, and after the butter has been added, the dough is very sticky, and altogether messy, resembling cookie dough. His instructions tell you to work the dough for 12 minutes, for in that amount of time the butter will distribute evenly and your sticky mass of dough evolves into a beautifully smooth, tacky ball that cleanly rotates around the mixer bowl. It was definitely one of those angels-singing marvel moments as I watched it happen. I baked it in a square springform pan to make one loaf; you can bake it in bags and in smaller sizes more typical of Brioche, too. It’s delicious, and made me wonder about other cheeses and even adding snippets of fresh herbs, such as the French tarragon that is always looking for something to creep into…..

In-between my dough mixing and shaping, James took over the kitchen and used the mixer’s food grinder attachment to make an amazing tomato sauce. The food grinder is great, because you get all of the pulp and meat and juices of the tomato, while efficiently discarding the seeds and skin. We have almost all heirloom tomato plants, and the flavors of these tomatoes are out of this world. Describing a slice of Carbon uses similar language as describing wine… smokey, bold, strong finish. So when you mix all these robust, intense flavors together, and cook them down all afternoon, you have a sauce that literally sings to you. He also incorporated caramelized onions and banana peppers, plus some sauteed chicken tenders. As James put it: summer in a bowl. It was excellent.

So where’s dessert? Well, this is a good example of how mistakes happen – even to those of us who’ve been cooking and baking for over 30 years. We had leftover egg yolks, because earlier this week, James had made zucchini bread, and one of the most awesome ingredients he uses is candied nuts. He’d done both pecans and walnuts, and the candying process uses a bunch of egg whites. So, what to make with egg yolks? Well, certainly a custard comes to mind – and with the heat, why not ice cream? Sounded good to me. Some things you take for granted, some things you don’t think about, and sometimes, even when you’re standing right there at the stove, stirring your mixture of cream and sugar and eggs and bits of natural vanilla bean, you take your eyes off what you’re doing to talk to your spouse, and the next thing you know, you have bits of cooked egg separating rapidly from your liquid. Gah. I tried plunging it into a water bath, stirring madly, but there are chemical processes that just don’t reverse themselves. I pitched a fit, pissed-off with myself for forgetting how quickly chemistry can happen, and then had to decide what to do.

I decided to give it a try, anyway, because the flavor was amazing, and not eggy, but the big question was texture. I chilled the custard, then put it in my Krups machine that I’ve had for 20 years. And waited.
It never froze. I think it was the fact my custard was too warm, still. So what to do? This is when experience is a good thing, because it makes you more resourceful. Rather than focusing on the failure of ice cream, I focused on what was wrong with my dish, and what could I turn it into? I had it: Milkshakes. I strained the custard through a sieve, removing the bits of hardened egg proteins. Then I added frozen strawberries to the blender until it was completely full. I figured that if any of the egg had made it through the sieve, the texture would be masked by the presence of strawberries (and keep in mind, the mixture never scorched, and was utterly, vanilla-ey delicious, despite the overcooking.)

The result was stupendous. My husband declared it to be one of the top 5 milkshakes of his life.

What was leftover was poured into a dixie cup, popped in the freezer with a fork in it to make a makeshift ice cream bar. The texture on that might be a bit grainy, but at least we know it’ll taste good!

Now it’s Sunday, and I think I’d like to go out for brunch.

Go hook up with that buff dude, you don’t need this pasty little vampire boy. He made you a dream catcher!

Oh have some pride, bitch.

(Me: well, that was dramatic.)

Singing: “I can’t live….if living is without Edward…”

Time Passes.

Get OVER it.

So dramatic.

(Me: She has bad dreams.)

She’s got a fuckin’ dreamcatcher, get that out.

(Me: She does!)
It’s fuckin’ defective! Whip out the receipt, take it back!

Nyuhhhh

Did you see Scordo’s post on Anchovies? (hello, Mr. Distracted.)

You’re freakin’ her out man, quit it!

You gonna try to get in harm’s way…

(Edward: Turn around)

Sings: “Every now and then…”

Is she on the back of his bike?

RAWR he’s strong.

Edward you’re fucking with her, knock it off.

OHHHHHH the rock hit. You missed the rock hit. (I was on Ravelry)

AW YEAH. Blood.

Hell she do on her period? Shark week! Vampires all over her ass.

(Me (singing): So haaard)

Singing: Yeah yeah yea You know dis

Love spelled backwards is love????

…So, this is a long-ish movie, and I could continue to fill this entry with his commentary, but you get the drift. I hope the action picks up soon, like the last one did!

I love broccoli. A few years ago, the Wo planted broccoli Rabe and we snarfed it up. This year, he planted a Rapini variety called “Rapa Senza Testa”. Wellza, Weza Liked itz a Lotza!

It helps to like greens, and broccoli and spinach, if you’re going to cook with Rabe or Rapini.

Here are the cleaned leaves from the plant:

I picked a variety of leaves – some bigger and older, some were newer and greener. With the older leaves, I tore the leafy part into goodly-sized chunks, and avoided the stem, especially at the base. (That part can get tough.) I left more of the stem on with the younger shoots. Two plants yielded about 5 cups or so of the green stuff – and while that sounds like a lot, you will quickly see how it disappears when cooked!

I started with a big ol’ Vidalia onion, and sauteed it in olive oil until it was semi-soft. Then I added some minced garlic. (So as to not burn the garlic, since it takes a lot less time to cook.)

Once everything’s soft and cooked, here comes the mound of Rapini:

Which quickly becomes this:

Meanwhile, a quick trip to Fritz’s yielded the protein in the dish (Sweet Italian Sausage Links):

Now, you can use a spicy sausage, and it doesn’t have to be in link form – you can cook it up with the onions, just drain off the fat. I’ve made similar dishes with spicy meat and it’s equally delicious. These links are pre-cooked, so I didn’t have to worry about cooking time. Just sliced them up into delicious rounds, and added them to the mixture.

I added freshly-ground pepper, and about a cup of water with a couple chicken bouillon cubes half-dissolved, and let it simmer. This is a brothy pasta topping, and since the bouillon already had plenty of salt, I didn’t add anything else. Since you’ve got a stronger component with the greens, balanced with the sweeter meat (or robustly complemented, if using a spicy version), you really don’t need a lot of herbs or other seasonings – of course if you want to throw in some basil, or something else, experiment away!

Spoon it over a nice curved-shape pasta – these were called “gnocchi” even though they were actually just a little fancier shell-shape. Trumpets, corkscrews, rigatoni – you want shape and the ability to grab a little extra juice. My photo got a little blurry, but you get the idea. Top it with some fancy Parmesan, or powdery, depending on what you did or did not remember to get at CostCo, pour yourself a nice cheerful white wine to keep it light, and savor the flavors!

In other gifts from the garden, here’s a shot of the stir fry I made the next night, with four days’ worth of snow pea harvesting:

Well, this is not an easy story to tell. But I’ve managed to tell it a few times now, and I even see the humor in it – hell, part of my brain even saw it in the moment, so I’m going to give it a go. If you’re exceptionally tender-hearted, then I suggest you go look at chinchillas and come back another day.

For those following on all fronts, you might have seen some exasperated plurks/tweets earlier this week (Tuesday), in which I screeched about a particular bird that was making a ruckus outside, so loudly I wanted to go and shoot it. Said bird kept up the racket all afternoon. When James came home from work, he noticed it, and decided to investigate. Turns out? We had two baby ducklings hanging out by my herb bed, and he got a small net and a box, and scooped them up.

I immediately changed from “goddamned bird” to “omg! SQUEE THEY ARE SO CUTE!” and while he went off to look for the momma duck, I tried to pick them up in the box. Fleet little creatures, ducklings are, but eventually, I scooped one up and delighted in its softness, beauty and fluff.

Tripper, meanwhile, walked by and saw the other duckling and went, CHOMP, and scooped one up in his mouth. Horrified, James and I both screamed at him, he dropped the duckling, I put him back in the box – where he died, 15 seconds later.

Fuck. My. Life. James took the dogs inside, and I removed the duckling from the box, and burst into tears. Now, see, most people, at the very beginning of this story, where I say, “Two baby ducklings…” have an instant transformation in their expression. They know. They understand, the doomed nature of ….. Nature. But not me. I think everything can be rescued, everything can be saved, just work hard enough and everything turns out alright. And so, suddenly, this dead duckling exploded into a personification of all the stress and angst with job-related things, that no matter how well-intentioned or hard you might be working, a giant black lab can come along and just pluck you out of your existence.

I pulled myself together, put the (now lonely) duckling in the box, and went inside.

Somewhere in the next fifteen minutes, a small case was made (again) for chickens. If we had a chicken tractor, we could just throw the duckling in there, and he’d be fine. We discussed options. Keeping said duckling, raising him. But I searched online, and there wasn’t a lot of hope or options there. Plus someone made the point that one duck is a very lonely duck. We still have a goodly number of feral cats around, and those probably created this very predicament in the first place. James boiled it down to two choices – he could take care of things, or I could take the duckling, try to find a pond with a duck family on it, release the duckling, and hope for the best.

I put some paper towels in the bottom of a Costco-sized Contadina Tomato Paste box, put the duckling inside, and into the Murano we went. James advised me to drive along Blue River Road, which truly is a beautiful stretch of asphalt tucked away in the city. I’d never been on it, so after veering off Bannister by the Federal Complex, I found the road and headed south. There were parks, and even some ponds, but I couldn’t spot any ducks, and even though there were cars parked in places, I also couldn’t see any people. Because it felt pretty isolated, I didn’t feel completely secure just getting out and tromping around. So I kept going. And going. And going. Until I got to Blue Ridge, and then I knew I had to start heading back towards home. I drove up Holmes, and spotted a great pond – but no ducks. And there was a strange woman parked there and the signs said “No Trespassing”, so I continued to look. I figured I wouldn’t be able to just roll on in to a golf course, but then I thought – Mt. Moriah! Yes! Cemeteries often have ponds, reflecting pools, etc. And as the sun inched towards the horizon, I found myself rolling through the placid hills and then – yes – there it was. Two large pools of water. I made my way towards them.

The good thing about hanging out in a cemetery is that nobody really pays attention to you. Most of the people there are dead, and the ones who are alive are focused on one or two spots. It’s a serene place, and I actually used to study in cemeteries in college, just to find complete isolation (and I was in my Harold & Maude stage).  So I drove around, waited for some people to leave that were nearby, and approached the pond furthest from the grave sites. No ducks, but there were a large number of geese. Birds of a feather! The ugly duckling. Surely, these feathered relatives would take on a lonely duckling.

Now, again, a good percentage of you have changed your facial expressions. I’ve watched it happen this week, again, at this point in the story. But I didn’t know. I know geese can be territorial, but I had no idea they’d be so discerning that they’d immediately know this ball of fluff was NOT of their species, and would proceed to peck him to death.

But that didn’t happen. Because that would have been pretty horrifying for me, yes, and I would have probably gotten into a goose fight and I really cannot imagine how that might have unfolded, except I probably would have been brought home to my husband by the South Patrol and asked to never enter Mt. Moriah Cemetery again.  Yet, tragedy was still inevitable, though I didn’t yet know it.

I released the little duckling within a dozen yards of the geese. He immediately turned and started running back at me. I thought, “OH SHIT, he’s already imprinted on me and now I’m going to HAVE to take him home and raise him, there is no other option.” Except he kept running. Past me. Towards the car. OK, dude, you really wanna go back with me, hm? No. You want to run away from me, and we’re going around and around and around the Murano.

I did stop and think, well, I’m in a cemetery. People who are grieving do crazy things. If I don’t do this TOO long, it will just slide by and people will not come over here to figure out what in hell is going on and why this fat lady is going around and around her car with a large Contadina Tomato Paste box, scooping at the ground.

Pretty soon, the duckling figured out that the same run/hide/evade experience could be had by just going around and around the back wheel.

We did this for fifteen minutes.

Finally, I gave up.

I told myself, “Ok. I’m going to get in the car. He’s on the inside of the wheel, so I will edge forward very slowly, and he will either be adopted by the geese, he will wander off on his own, or – worst case scenario – I will run over him, but at least it will be quick.”

And I look in my rear-view mirror, fully expecting to see a wandering duckling.

Nope.

I ran over him.

Of course I did. If we were going to sustain this giant emotional snotball of a metaphor, OF COURSE I HAD TO RUN OVER THE DUCK.

I just shook my head. Went home. James came in from the yard and said, “So, how’d it go?”

I replied, “The only way it could have gone, really.” And cried in his arms.

See, I know. I KNOW this is funny in a tragi-comic sort of way. But at the same time, I marvel at my naivete. My desire to fix and solve, a desire that is untouched by reality. I don’t think I would change that part of me, there’s enough inside me that is jaded and bruised and sharp. But oh how it stung.  I thought of how the circle of life is sometimes just a car wheel.

And then, changing subjects after telling this story last night, I (completely unwittingly) said, “So! Extra Virgin is SO good. I had duck gizzards!” and everyone collapsed around me in hysterics.

Circle of life, indeed.

I just had lunch with a sales rep I’d never met before, and had already rescheduled the lunch date once. I even contemplated rescheduling again, because I’ve got a bunch to do in a short amount of time. But I decided to just relax, go have lunch, and meet her. We had a great time, and in a really odd, roundabout way, discovered we both had lost our fathers and shared similar mom relationships, the same values, politics. It was a good reminder to me that in putting oneself out there, even if it’s not your first choice of action for the day, good things often flow back.

After that lunch, I realized Mimi Murano was running, literally, on fumes. So I got to spend extra to buy my gas in Kansas, but opted to minimize the blow by filling up at CostCo. Right after I started fueling, a minivan pulled in behind me, and I realized, as I was staring into space, tiny hands were waving from the back seat at me. I waved back. The hands moved faster. I waved again. I said something to the mom, as she headed back to the driver’s seat – about how her kids were really friendly and we were waving at each other. She laughed and said they will talk to anyone, they love to talk. I told her it was pretty cute.  She got in the van for a few minutes, and then got out and told me her three-year-old daughter was begging to be let out so she could talk to me. Of course that was an unrealistic request, but it was so utterly charming. And another reminder that when you think you’re invisible, someone else might think you look like a really great person to talk to!

Last, but not least, my husband has begun ‘pre-missing’ me. He already lamented last night how much he will miss me this weekend, as I head East to St. Louis for the Spring Fling and spend four days immersed in yarn, knitting, friends and fun.  He’ll be busy, I know – selling tomato plants, continuing to churn through yard stuffs and working on the gardens, but it’s always nice to feel needed, and appreciated, and yes, when you’re gone, missed. I, in turn, have been making meals that produce plenty of leftovers so he’ll have dinner options. Though I just KNOW he’s gonna eat one of those KFC Double Down things in my absence….

The Wo and I treated ourselves to a dinner out on Friday night. We went to one of our favorite local spots, Red Snapper, where the kimchi is homemade, and everything is delicious. Shortly after our appetizers came, a young couple was seated near us – well within earshot, and it was hard not to hear them as they ordered. The man ordered a tofu dish, and the woman began a long list of what she could/could not eat. We shared a waiter, and he was spot-on professional. She didn’t want peanuts, meat, rice noodles, eggs, seafood or dairy. She did want pad thai (?) but just the sauce, over buckwheat noodles. I puzzled over that order in my head, as many of her absolutely-not ingredients were, like, KEY to making a good pad thai!

Their food arrived. She indignantly told our waiter she did NOT want zucchini, she did NOT say it was ok to give her any kind of squash, WHAT were those peppers doing there, and back to the kitchen it went. Wo and I looked at each other and did that Vulcan mind meld thing, sending each other the “Whoa, wtf?” message. Our entrees arrived, and then shortly after that, our neighboring table’s re-do order came back. This time her voice rose, as it STILL contained vegetables she didn’t want. Our waiter ran over, dutifully listened to what she seemed to want, then ran it back to the kitchen again.

At this point, the Wo and I couldn’t look at each other because it would have been abundantly clear to our neighbors that we were a bit horrified by her.

I had the Spicy Calamari, by the way. Utterly delicious, and brought half of it home with me. JWo had the orange beef, and it was fantastic. We got a side of fried rice that filled an entire carryout container, despite both of us eating some with our meal.

Third time, here comes the dish de impossible. It looked like a pile of seaweed and noodles, but it was met with praise from its recipient. Finally! We kind of look at each other share that smirk of “WTH? Whew, that’s over.”

Oh no.

Two minutes later, she has waved our waiter back over.

“I don’t like the texture of this. It’s not what I expected it would be. What is that over there? (gesturing at our table)” and she proceeds to order some fried rice – but without egg. And, I believe, certain vegetables. We left before that order arrived. Who knows how many times that one went back.
Seriously?

When we got home, I called the manager, and told her that Philip not only was a fantastic waiter, but that they should do something extra for him tonight, like buy him a shot when his shift is over. She laughed and thanked me.  First of all, if you have serious-ass allergies or personal convictions about your food, Pan-Asian cuisine does not strike me as a great place to go for dinner. (All I could think about was how many dishes use fish sauce or shrimp paste!!!) And even then – Red Snapper is the kind of place that  would bend over backwards to make you a dish – just tell them what you can’t have/don’t like. But to make a waiter run back and forth for 20 minutes, and in a pretty condescending manner? I hate to think about how they tipped him.

So far so good on the Diet Coke withdrawal. I had one zinging craving last week, and I told myself I was just thirsty. It seemed to work (consuming some water) and my caffeine dependency seems to be maintained by a couple cups of coffee/day.  I haven’t noticed any miraculous changes, sadly, and the sale ads for it still catch my eye – but like I said, so far so good!

We saw Alice in Wonderland yesterday – I loved it. I guess there have been a number of reviews that ding it for this or for that, but whatever. I literally adored the two books as a kid, and thought Tim Burton’s movie was a great tribute to the imagination those works inspired. The room where Alice finds the door key, the “Drink Me” bottle and “Eat Me” cake? was such a match for what I imagined as a child, it took my breath away. There was one dorky bit – a dance – that I thought was totally disjointed, but such a tiny fragment of the overall movie. And let me just say that those CineSuites are the BOMB. It was our second time going to them, and they really are a treat. We don’t go out a whole lot (frugality!) and we’ve contained our movie-viewing to our Netflix + Roku, and premium cable channels, but the suites are enjoyable. The service has been top-notch, we both feel like we’re getting a good value and the food is good. Plus free refills on popcorn and drinks! (And I went with iced tea…)

James has been a gardening and working machine this weekend – he’s planted the lettuce and spinach seedlings in the garden, plus some French Breakfast radishes and snow peas. And? He’s putting in a small deck at the foot of the small deck on the back of the house. I took a two-hour nap yesterday and he had torn out the mint bed, the straggly rose bush and had the deck half done!  Me, I’ve been knitting.

Speaking of knitting – I finished my first Wollmeise project as part of the Loopy Ewe Spring Fling KAL on Ravelry. I made WendyKnits’ Talisman shawl, out of a skein of Indisch Rot, and loved it. The pattern, the yarn – and I love blocking lace.

Close up of the pattern:

Because I finished the shawl before the end of the month, I knocked out the rest of my Drifted Pearls scarf (pictures to come). It’s very soft and cozy! Now I’m working on Hemlock Ring Blanket, published by Brooklyn Tweed, as part of the March KAL. Because I have several other things I need to knit (sample cables for the Knitting in the Heartland cable class, for one!) I am churning through this – on the fifth ball of yarn out of ten.

Today is for muddling in the kitchen, running some errands, and trying to finish some laundry. This week is going to be pretty busy, between work projects and life projects, and something tells me things are only going to get curiouser and curiouser…. as she smiles like the Cheshire cat…..

Did you hear about this story? Well, I was at least glad to get more details this morning, as I went to bed scared shitless because of the activity surrounding it in our neighborhood.  I was getting ready to turn everything off and go to bed, and I heard some strange noises outside. The dogs heard them, too, but didn’t get too alarmed (and they bark at almost everything), so I didn’t think much of it. Then, a cop car with lights & sirens on flew down our street. Like, at least 60 mph. (I thought, huh, he’s going to realize he went BY Crazy Cat Lady’s house any second…. since that’s where they normally stop.) Nope. I’m turning off lights, and BLAM, there goes another cop car, in the other direction, no sirens or lights, then two MORE cars go by, with just lights. And the sound of a helicopter grows closer.

Now I’m a little skittish. As are the dogs. They are burfing and running from lookout point to lookout point. I am locking and checking everything and turning off lights as fast as possible. (If someone’s in our back yard, I don’t want to be lit up like a shiny pink target through the windows.) Our house is right by an elementary school, and in the parking lot, I see a huge convergence of  cop car lights at all sorts of crazy angles, lit from overhead by the copter. THEN they all peel off and are driving back down our street! They turn on the corner, another cop car meets them (this is all now just one backyard and across the street from our house), the copter is circling, and I hear POWPOWPOWPOWPOW like, fifteen times, and while they sort of sound like firecrackers, in my mind, there could only be one explanation: gun fire. And THEN, the copter keeps circling and the cars start backing up to leave like they didn’t get the person (though it would seem they did, now that I read the news bite)  and after the hubbub seemed to be moving away, I finally let the dogs out for one quick potty break, and put myself into bed, where my sleeping husband continued to doze, missing all the excitement. (I did try to see if he would stir and wake up after the gunplay, but he had taken a Tylenol PM and was out for the night.) Had it turned into a Shotgun Needed! sort of night, I would have tried harder, of course. I was just terrified we had bandito(s) in the greenhouse, hiding.

This morning, I reflected on the fact that was quite the run in the nighttime cold weather, from Popeye’s to our neighborhood. It’s not that far distance-wise, but there’s a pretty big hill, slick spots everywhere and I just can’t comprehend how all of that could have been close to worth it – what could the till be at Popeye’s? $100? Now the dude’s in a hospital bed, in critical condition. Another drain on the system, for who knows how long.  It blows my mind that we are neglecting students’ education, not putting the money into education properly, instead emphasizing test scores over actual learning, yet we’ll pay so much more in the long run with the less-desirable public services – prison, policing and officers involved in shootings, court system, hospital bills.  Our priorities as a nation are fucked up.  I don’t understand how we can be so logically challenged. I realize that even with massive overhauls, there will always be criminals, but I’m watching my husband slog through a classroom of kids who could care less about performing on state-mandated tests -  yet they know how to do the work, and get it when he uses an analogy of their apathy to them. It’s somewhat ironic: If you went to Popeye’s and ordered a bucket of chicken, ten pieces, but they put 6 raw ones in and gave you only 4 cooked pieces, you’d be mad, right? You didn’t order raw chicken! Well, that’s what you’re giving me – only 40% of your ability, when I know you can do 100%. They all nod. Yes, they’d be mad. Nobody eats raw chicken.

But they just don’t care. Get a gun. Rob the joint. It’s somehow, technically, easier. Again, logic is defied. I can only shake my head.

Today is NOT my friend Beth’s birthday. However, she did just return from a vacation. Yay! Beth! I am so glad you are home. It IS my dear friend friend Staci’s birthday, however, so keeses to her.

Beth is my bestest friend in the world. She shares a space in my inner circle with some wonderful people, and I must say, she is the most constant presence among these people, and we email and chat so regularly that I began to flounder when she took a vacation last week.

(Thursday)

Me: “I miss Beeeeeeeth.”
James: “When does she come back?”

Me: “This weekend but not ’til Sundaaaaaaay, oh my god she’s been gone so lonnnng.”

James: silence

Me:”NNnnnNNNNNYYEErrrrrrrrRRRR!” with dramatic flailing.

Me:”I mean, she doesn’t have internet so there are all these THINGS! She is not caught up! Like, like, does she even KNOW about the iPad? We would have talked about that. The world is moving along and THINGS are happening and we discuss those THINGS.”

James: laughs at me

I will say this, though, I had one giant rant-er-iffic meltdown with my husband over the week and he handled it fantastically.  He’s my best friend of all, of course, but we also know that girlfriends listen differently than husbands do. Bless his heart, he didn’t try to fix anything or tell me what he thought I should do, he just agreed that it was crazy, and (as always) offered to slash their tires. And he bought me some dinner and made me hot cocoa with Kahlua in it.

I’d take James and Beth into a knife fight any day.

(don’t worry, there are quite a few of you I’d bring to the party. Beth, however, would remember the tourniquets.)