Riding the Bike with One Pedal.

Category: domesticity (Page 3 of 4)

Nothing Like A Little Gunplay Before Bed…

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.

Oof! Ice!

James and I had a hilarious conversation the other night which will probably lose oodles in the transcribing.

He was going to bed and was very tired; I was standing next to our bed, and saying goodnight. He said something about did I see that Kathy Bates was going to be on a tv show in the latest EWeekly? I said, Yes, I did see that, what show was it?

At this point, he’s got his bipap mask on so he’s really drowsy and doesn’t want to have a big conversation. I start guessing various shows we watch.

“Big Love?”

shakes his head ‘no’.

“24?” (no) “Big Bang Theory?” (no) “Nurse Jackie?”

He makes the sign for “OK” with his thumb and finger. Now we’re playing charades. OK! OK? Nurse Jackie? (no)

O? O? Zero? He’s nodding. Zero. Then he makes the sign again. O? Zero – O. Huh.

He’s moving on.

Draws letters in the air with his finger. Except the letters are right-ways from HIS perspective.

P? NO! F? Yes!

ZERO OF?! NO!

Somehow we get some more letters. an I. C. E.

He’s lifting his face mask to tell me this is easy. I am laughing so hard I can barely speak.

NCIS?

NO.

Ice. Zero O O O O F

Ice.

My sides hurt and tears are streaming down my face, as I lean against the bed in pain. I declare I cannot understand how we watch any show named Oof Ice.

Finally, exasperatedly, he tells me. The Office.

Oh, yeah. The Office! OofIce!

And then I made myself a small dish of Tin Roof Sundae Ice Cream and proceeded to collapse in laughter all over again. rrrrrrrrOofICECREAMSUNDAE!

We’re weird, but hey. Laughter is good!

Busted

You know when you’re alone, and you make a face or react to something, and you don’t censor your muscles or reaction or words, because nobody can see you?

The other night, I was making chili for dinner. It’s been freaking cold, and it sounded like a great, quick meal. James was in the living room, on the couch, and just barely in my line of sight when I was standing at the stove. The television was on, and we’d finished our conversation. I pulled the chili seasoning packets out of the pantry – there was a small amount of “HOT” powder left, and a plenty of “Medium-Hot” in another package. (By-the-by, we get a lot of spices and seasonings from Penzeys over in old Overland Park – it’s a cook’s mecca!) I put the remainder of the Hot powder in the pot, and then started to shake out some more of the Med-Hot.

That’s when it happened. The bobble. The lurch. The shifting weight, while negligible, threw me, and suddenly I found myself dumping in a quite goodly amount of the chili powder. I felt my face contort into a “WHOA WHOOPS OH FUCK” and simultaneously,  my brain was thinking, “JWo isn’t seeing this, just don’t say anything, carry on, get control of the bag.”

Then I hear, from the living room, “That’s not a good face!”

Whups. Busted. Not that it wouldn’t have become apparent once the meal was served! It was some damned spicy chili, but I will say, those Penzeys people make a helluva spice – the depth and robustness of the peppers gives it a huge full flavor, they don’t rely on just straight hot peppers to flame it up. So it could have been a lot worse. But we had bellies o’ fire and relied on the oyster crackers a little more than usual!

Overheard

“I think Donald Sutherland is fairly sexy, in the same way I find Christopher Walken and Tommy Lee Jones all Old Man Sexy.”

“No, you find him sexy in a Kiefer Sutherland kind of way.”

“NO, he is like a wiser, more experienced, less DRUNK kind of Kiefer, and that IS sexy.”

I think if both the Sutherland men were smoldering their eyes at me and asking me to choose, I must say, my early-onset proclivity for Walter Cronkite and Ted Knight would win out.  That and the fear Kiefer’s foreplay would consist of ripping a lamp cord from its base and shouting, “WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!!!!!”

Take My Neighbors, Please.

When we moved into this house nearly 7 years ago, I chirped constantly about how our neighborhood is ‘such a mix!’ because, well, it was. And still is. There are people who’ve lived their entire lives in the same house, back before there was a shopping center at 99th & Holmes, there are people who’ve just moved in, renting a house, there’s a gorgeous mansion-like home sitting on four acres of land, and then? Then there’s the batshit-crazy cat lady across the street, and now – with glitter! – another relative of some sort living next door, in the house on the corner that used to be owned by the bank and now enjoys a driveway full of cars, parts, crap and then some more crap.  This would be the same family who hung outdoor Christmas light netting haphazardly around the top of their living room ceiling. And the same family that post-Thanksgiving, had about 6 bottles of Seven whiskey in the recycling. And the same spot where I happened upon the Crazy Drunk Guy (who is the primary resident, I believe) in handcuffs on the side of the road when I came home one night. (with two cop cars and plenty o’ po-lice.)  There is a third character in this motley crew, and he has been on crutches for about two years. Damn leg must keep breaking? I dunno. I may also have already mentioned the main form of entertainment for these fantastic contributing members of society is to sit in a lawn chair in their driveway & drink beer, while listening to classic rock coming out of the speaker in the trunk of a car.

The good news – besides our home value declining while city property taxes went up – is that these folks mostly swirl in their own toilet bowl, and keep their festivities contained to the two residences. Until last week.

Last Friday night, I was getting dinner ready & the doorbell rang. James had just come in the back door from the garden, and I asked him if he’d go take care of it, as the doorbell rang again. The half of the conversation I could hear was…. odd and interesting at best, and then I could tell it was ratcheting up a notch. The fact it ended with “If you don’t get off my property, I’m calling the police,” wraps it all up.

So, Crazy Drunk Guy (from the corner house, handcuffs, shit everywhere) comes to the door with a kitten on his shoulder. Like some sort of wackadoodle white trash pirate, I guess. And a broken broom handle stick that’s been out by the street by the road where the garbage is picked up, like, forever. (that’d be our contribution to the neighborhood trash. a broken stick.) And this motherfucker, in his drunken slurred state, accuses my husband of beating a kitten to death in the street. (I’m sorry. I have to stop and laugh. Again. Preposterous and crazy all at once.) With what, you ask? An 18″ stick.  How do we know this was the weapon? Because CDG asserts that it had blood and fur ALL over it. James asks him if that’s the case, where is all this blood and fur now (as the stick has nothing on it.) “It fell off,” CDG replies.

Ahhhh. All that time spent in the driveway drinking beer does NOT sharpen one’s CSI skills. James tries to jog the alcohol-deadened logic button, that a dead animal found in the street was probably hit by a car. To no avail. CDG is lookin’ for a fight. James tells him he doesn’t appreciate all these cats running around OUR yard, when we’ve put in the time and money to build a fence to keep our dogs IN and even more money to vaccinate and keep our dogs healthy, which is something they obviously do not do, as they don’t even put a collar on ‘their’ cats.

Now Crazy Cat Lady decides she needs to get on the action. She’s halfway across the street and yelling about how she only has ONE cat.  James points out that it’s bullshit, because she has a swarm of them around her house at all times and she feeds all of them. (Hearing CCL start to scream, Crazy Drunk Gimp (CDG 2.0)  grabs his crutches and starts making his way from the corner house – oh yes, he’s a regular white knight. Of course it’ll take him half an hour to roll up on our asses, and the fact we can see him coming does nothing to create more intimidation, just comedy.)

“Do you want them to starve?” she brays, an unhinged skeleton trapped by demons, and he, of course, says, “YES.” Because at this point, there is no logic, there is no even playing field here, it’s like trying to play tennis when half the court is a swimming pool. At this point, they are ordered off our lawn under threat of police intervention,  back to their never-ending life cycle of bottled beer, flea-laden feral cats, and classic rock enjoyed in a lawn chair.

Wisteria Lane, we ain’t. Such a mix.

New Ways To Piss Me Off

Boy, I’ve been having a doozy of it. Between workload & being sick (hey! I think I’ve recovered – last night was the first night of sleeping all the way through the night without coughing!) – I’ve just been an extra bit stressy. Which makes my temper a bit shorter, and it makes me move into blunt whack-a-mole mode.  When there’s a ton to do, and other people are dilly-dallying or unclear about their direction, I find myself leaning more towards R. Lee Ermey. So far, nobody’s decided to off themselves in the latrine, so that’s good.  (this would be me making a reference to Full Metal Jacket, btw. I’m sure my husband will chuckle, knowing I just finally saw that movie in the past year.  And he did just remind me this week that I am no Stanley Kubrick.)

SO, even though there are plenty of things that stress me out & piss me off, let’s talk about the latest new thing that happened today. Some douchebag decided to put THEIR extra trash bag in OUR driveway. We already had two bags out, and since we didn’t plan for Douchebag Drop-Off Day, we didn’t put a trash sticker on the third bag because IT WASN’T THERE. But now we had to haul it back from the curb and wait until next week.

Oh. Yeah. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  I looked at the bag. If there was any indication that there was something in that trash bag to indicate who tossed it there, I would have been in it in two seconds flat.  Not sure what would have happened after that, if I’d have actually taken my R. Lee Ermey act all the way up to someone’s front door, but I sure enjoyed thinking about it.  At the very least, I’d have returned it to them. The nerve!

Tomorrow is a big meeting-day, and then I should get a bit of a reprieve. There’s still plenty of work, but we should get a little breathing room on these high-pressure, hulking huge deadlines. It’s nice to be busy, as long as it stays below the panic line. Spring Break is next week, we’ll be getting some fishing in, I’ll still be working, but there are all sorts of demarcations in time that remind me things are shifting – the time change, the daffodils in the front yard, just waiting to explode, the seedlings under the grow lights winding and waving in nature’s destined journey towards the light, roots expanding and threading into the soil below.

Oh, and if you want to weep from laughter, and you didn’t see Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks last night, it was utterly priceless. Bailey, Play Dead. (I hope this works – couldn’t get it to embed.)

I could hardly catch my breath, I was laughing so hard. (I think it was the :second: playing dead that was so funny, like, OH!oh, hell, no treat yet? OK, I’ll play dead again real quick, mister.) I also really like it when it’s apparent that Dave is genuinely amused. Almost as much as I love  hearing my husband and I laughing uproariously, together. By golly, I almost forgot about that damned bag of trash. ;)

Walking On Broken Glass

Wow, two days back into the work routine and it’s Hello Stress! Good thing I didn’t resolve to give that up….

Anyway, last night, I was downstairs & had opened the pantry door where we have stored an interesting mix of sundry appliances, canned goods, annnnd the paint that came with the house. The  items are grouped by shelves, at least. Anyway, an empty mason jar fell, and instead of hitting the carpet, it hit the inside edge of the wood cabinet, and shattered. Lovely.

You know how sometimes your brain is just set to “Ricochet”? Well, mine was, as I was picking up shards of glass and thinking about how I really should bring the vacuum down and yet I knew I wasn’t going to, and the rest of the process went something like this:

So, this obviously isn’t tempered glass. Or whatever sort of glass they make that isn’t supposed to shatter into really sharp pieces.

I wonder who invented tempered glass. I wonder who invented GLASS?

Probably some pyromaniac motherfucker, since don’t you have to melt things to make glass in the first place?

So, hell. Is that all of it? I think so. Huh. Well, let’s see. Would I walk on this strip of carpet barefoot?

Yes.

That’s not a good answer, Jennifer. You grew up walking on glass shards.

Hell. I did.

Well, I’ve gotten nearly all of it, and the only way anyone’s going to step on it is if they shimmy alongside the cupboard here, clinging to it like those Indiana Jones Lego characters do on that Wii game. Which would actually be pretty funny.

/end brain ricochet

After that, I went off and did some laundry, and forgot completely to tell the Wo about the breakage. (In fact, he’s learning about it through the blog.  Now he’ll go and shimmy alongside the cupboard, just to prove I missed a piece.)  And yes, I did grow up picking glass out of the bottoms of my feet – my father’s glass studio was just off the kitchen/dining room, and I would often walk in there barefoot, and pieces of glass often made their way out into the house. I still recall being about ten, dancing wildly to a Beatles album and landing hard on a large piece of glass, way out in the living room. Oof.  That’s the only memorable gouging I recall, in fact, but the sudden sharpness cut me to the quick.  And I did learn how to walk into a room with broken glass on the floor. You step carefully, you disperse your weight consciously, and if a piece of glass pressed against your skin, you instantly recoiled, to minimize the depth it would penetrate.

Sure, I could’ve put on shoes. But I didn’t. Some things I just liked to experience the hard way, I guess. It was kind of a personal challenge, to be tough, to not bleed or cut myself. I guess I still do this brevity thing, just not always with broken glass….

Pardon My Twang….

…But I keep hearing an old-timey version of a Ralph Stanley song running through my head, specifically the refrain, “The darkest hour is just before dawn”.

Now, those who know me, and even those who don’t, yet come here for all the sparkling Grief Blogging might worry that I’m in a depression. Fear not. Well, I am, a little, but really, anyone over the age of 14 is bound to get the blues this time of year, what with all the manufactured joy and pre-packaged expectations that come with “The Holidays”. Nope. I’m in the darkest hour because I am cleaning and reorganizing all the kitchen accoutrements. Holy shitballs, Mabel, this is a Task and A Half! And basically, with most un-cluttering and organizational projects, you have to explode the whole thing before you can put it in order. Right now, Houston, we have esplosions.

This morning, I moseyed down to Index, a restaurant supply store in the River Market, and boy, it’s easy to drop your whole wallet there. It gets hypnotizing, as you walk around looking at all these…things… you start to think, “Well of COURSE I could use a dozen of those little stainless cups they serve ketchup in at McCoy’s,” and you catch yourself mentally visualizing and measuring your oven, just in case this enormous cookie sheet could fit in it. And of course you’d need the matching Silpat. I caught myself eyeballing a sugar pourer. It was only $1.50. I was certain that would be useful. I could throw the old one away. Update the sugar pouring aspect of my life.  You wouldn’t believe the siren songs I hear in my head in that store.  Anyhoo, I did NOT buy anything off my list, my goal was to get some large foodservice-grade containers to put baking supplies in (flour, sugar) and then at least one more big one for rice. This is the downside of the CostCo shopping – enormous bags of flour and rice, and where in the hell do you put them? Shove ’em in the back room off the kitchen, that’s where. Alongside last winter’s birdseed, which, upon unearthing, I later caught Tripper EATING. He is such a motherfucking black lab it makes me crazy. Birdseed. To him, it must have been some gourmet trail mix. (That is going out to the greenhouse. I did not buy a tub for it.)

So now my fantastic birthday-present-to-myself from this summer, the KitchenAid 6, sits on top of a chrome cart, and stacked in glorious organization under it are the flour, sugar, powdered sugar and on the bottom shelf, rice. I will be able to just pull the cart in to the main kitchen area & use the mixer on the cart, instead of having to lift and move the beast onto the countertop (because it’s so tall, it blocks the cabinet doors. Yep.)  And this one beacon of organization and containment is in the middle of the dining room, and its strangeness is making Suzy crazy, so she’s been lying here GROWLING at it the whole time I’ve been typing. Dogs. Thank god they can’t drive, they’d lose their minds.

OH, but see, there’s more. There’s a huge big ol’ reason all of this is happening, besides the fact I’m on vacation, and alternating between lolling about & knitting and being productive. I got a really kickass Christmas present. Two, in fact. One from my MIL (Momma Linda) and one from my husband. We draw names in his family, and she got mine. And she has heard me bitch and pick fights with said husband over …wait for it…. a french fry cutter. He has refused to buy it for me because it is…impractical. A unitasker. No. I am not married to Alton Brown, but sometimes it sounds that way! I wanted one because the cheapy one I  had broke, and I wanted a solid, restaurant-quality, never-gonna-break sort of french fry cutter. DO NOT ASK ME how many times a year I make french fries. Because that is not the point. Here was something I genuinely wanted. For years. It started to take on a lifeblood all its own.  James would complain about how hard I am to buy for, and I would always look at him and say, “French fry cutter.” Yet he refused to get it. (There were arguments made about our walls and the fact it has to be mounted to one, blah blah blah DETAILS, people. Trivial details.) So, since my MIL and I are not unlike each other, she went and ordered me the mac-daddy french-fry cutter to beat the band. Doesn’t have to be mounted on a wall, either. And when she informed my husband of this gift, he knew his goose was cooked. Or tater was sizzlin’, whichever metaphor you prefer. Because in the past – and as recently as last week – others had offered to pool resources, to go around him, to buy it for me. I refused. I purposefully never told my father, because he would have had it shipped express the next day to make a point.  This was my lynchpin. My sand in his Vaseline.  So the Wo knew he had to do something. And he ordered a twin deep-fat fryer from CostCo. Yes. That clanging noise was everyone’s arteries slamming the doors on crazy. CRAZY. But he had to get with the program or have it forever held against him, and it has made me laugh repeatedly since Christmas day, because it’s partly an O’Henry short story, partly a clash of personalities and priorities, and through it all, completely filled with love.

Anyway, now, all this stuff has to go somewhere, and some things need to be removed, since they are ever-so-rarely used. And I’m taking FULL advantage of the no-limit-on-trash-bags opportunity this week, going a little crazy with the tossing, but it feels good.  With the bonus that now I can have my very own State Fair in the kitchen anytime I want.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun is slowly sinkin’
The day’s almost gone
Still darkness falls around us
And we must journey on
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul at jesus’ feet
The darkest hour is just before dawn

Like a shepherd out on the mountain
A-watchin’ the sheep down below
He’s coming back to claim us
Will you be ready to go
The darkest hour is just before dawn

The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul
Let jesus in
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The darkest hour is just before dawn

For everyone who found their heart aching over the holidays, just remember…. you are not alone.

Yarn Deal & Teh Gout

I met a fellow Ravelry knitter this morning in the parking lot next to Gomer’s (which has been remodeled, btw, and I was a little sad to see the old-timey charm go). She had seen my Rowan Linen Drape listed as for sale or trade, and after a few emails conversing, we agreed on a price, place and time. It seemed kind of funny, like a wacky drug deal, and there we were, in the blustery gray morning, handing over yarn for cash. She was very nice, and said her husband had asked her if she felt safe, going off to meet a stranger in a parking lot. She told him she was going to meet a KNITTER. There is a difference, usually. And frankly, if I were ever going to have a business nearby at my beck and call for help, it would be Gomer’s. Those fellas that work in there look like they could take down an angry rhino, with their bare hands.
She also told me she reads my blog (Hi Joyce!), and it will never cease to amaze me just how much I panic for a minute, when I meet people who say that. Because I simply assume I offend at least 75% of the universe in some way, shape or form, with my beliefs, my politics, and let’s face it, my potty mouth. It’s super bad. Way fuckin’ bad, in fact. I love to swear! So I always worry for a split second, until I remember, it’s a choice. Just like my little brandishing yesterday – you choose what you do or don’t want to see, read, think, acknowledge, and no, turning away from it doesn’t mean it goes away, but that’s the beauty of all these options. You can look at fuzzy wuzzy kitties or you can read some really frightening shit and wonder how the world continues to rotate with such stupidity or evil residing inside it.

I have no idea where that was going.

Yesterday, I had a vacation day, of sorts. Poor Wo, he has Teh Gout. He’s had episodes before, but we both thought his toe was out of joint. Ya know, as you get older, things just don’t always snap right into place in the morning, there’s creaking and stiffness and a little popping noise here or there. But this time, it was excruciating. So I dropped him at work, and returned to get him at noon, so they had time to get him a sub. We then went to one of those Minute Clinic thingies, because the Urgent Care on his insurance? Is totally fucked up. Gah! I wanted to walk down there and have a chat, I got so pissed. I called before 8 am, and after a long conversation, it was determined that since he was not a PATIENT of one of the doctors at the Urgent Care, we needed to wait and call back after 8 a.m. Uh, ok. So I did that. And was told that Urgent Care did not begin until 5:30 p.m. I started to ask where they got their definition of the word URGENT but instead hung up in a fit of pique.
Have we met? Do you know me? Do you know how little patience I have for being dropped into an Escher staircase? I rip that shit up.
So off to the CVS we went. To discover they will not diagnose such things, no, no, no. Great concept, folks, not sure if we’ll ever false-start our way back there, though. Especially because this one is on Raytown Road, and I really, really hate Raytown Road. I’ve ended up on it, lost, more times than I can count, including late at night with my pal Liz, when we asked the Anthony Kiedis-look-alike how the hell to get OUT of Raytown, and he had no solid advice. I don’t like it. Negative associations stick with me.

We then headed off to the Emergent Care over in Lee’s Summit. Now, no offense to my pal Joyce, or anyone else who lives in any nice suburb, but GODDAMN I HATE THE SUBURBS. Specifically, I hate driving around in them trying to find things on newly constructed roads in subdivisions that house all sorts of odd businesses, like “Dental Studios” and businesses with names that mean absolutely nothing about what they do – “Ramaflam”. (I made that up, but you know what I’m talking about.)
By this time, we’re halfway around the metro, and that puts me right near a CostCo (one of my original destinations for the day), so James signs in, and I head off to shop.
I buy myself roses, and a space heater, among general necessities. Light my fire, babeh!
Retrieve the Wo, and drive to the closest CVS (I scoped it out on my way to CostCo). Get him major anti-inflammatories, and also major Vicodin. While scripts are being filled, we park at Sonic and get some ice cream treats, because really, it’s been a rather arduous, not-fun day, and the Wo feels bad for upturning my vacation day, and I feel bad because I’m grouchy, but then I also feel bad he’s in such crazy pain and there’s nothing I can do about it. So I do what I can, and drive him around and get him drugs and make sure they’ll treat him before I leave him to go shopping (because I LEARN). So he got that new “sticky bun dough Sonic Blast”? And I was all scoffy-scoffy, eewwww, I bet it’s gonna be bad, it sounds weird, Hello, My Name Is Negative Nelly, and then I had a bite of his and HOLY SHIT I WAS WRONG.
Y’all have to go try one of those things. Iff’n ya like cinnamon and pecans. And the dough is like cookie dough, in case you, like me, who have experience with these things and know, from previous experience as a baker, that a big ol’ bite of yeast dough, no matter how sweet, fucking sucks and sounds like a nightmare in an ice cream treat. And that is what I thought they meant by “sticky bun dough”, because I am literal and I think I know what’s what.
And sometimes, I am wrong.
But not about Palin.
Or Teh Gout. Or Gomer’s, or The CostCo, or the common thread that weaves 75% of us together, and there’s an even bigger binder thread that weaves us fiber-freaks together with our love of yarn.
Now, I have some mittens to knit, because it’s colder’n a witches titty in this house.

1,2,3,4,5….

annnnd 6.

I will admit, I had planned to get Mimi Murano’s official MO Safety Inspection earlier than today. It’s just been a bit… chaotic.  So after my morning of meetings, I took off about 2, and headed out to get the inspection, with plans to continue on to get new plates at the DMV, as well as exchange the faulty DVR remote at the cable store.

Stop #1. I am greeted by a hefty man who looks like he’s walked out of a small-town movie set, shot by Clint Eastwood. When I ask if they can fit an inspection in today, he sorrowfully shakes his head, adjusts his glasses, and prepares to write me in for tomorrow. Sorry, buddy. I’ve got a limited window here, so I’m going to try someplace else.

Stop #2. I am greeted by a burly man who looks like he could be cast as one of numerous State Troopers in a straight-to-DVD Dukes of Hazzard movie. I repeat my inquiry. He shakes his head. Tells me they’re scheduling inspections after Tuesday of next week. Obviously, that’s a bit too late for me. I am starting to worry a little bit about my afternoon’s plans.

Stop #3. I spy an inspection sign on a muffler and brake place, and veer into their parking lot, thinking they might be a little less busy. The waiting area is spartan, and I apparently startled a customer out a deep stupor. I am greeted by a skinny man who looks like he was an extra in Deliverance. It wasn’t so much his disheveled appearance – greasy, unkempt hair seemingly trying to escape its own destiny and owner by spiraling outward in various directions – nor was it the various-sized nodules studding his neck and face, but it was his eyes, vacant and staring, while he intoned they had no time, and astutely observed that this was the end of the month. I exited quickly.

Stop #4. Actually, it was a drive-by. I started noticing that all these places have their phone numbers on their signs, and as I passed another hole-in-the-wall, I shouted out the phone number to myself. No luck, they, too, were busy.

Stop #5. I pull into the parking lot, and immediately find myself in a sticky cluster fuck of cars, as suddenly three vehicles are trying to exit. I park. And call the number on the side of their building. No again. Their inspector hurt himself and is out for a week.

I am starting to get a little panicky at this point.

Stop #6. I pull into another little garage’s lot, and see a woman swiffering the floor to the waiting room. Having made eye contact, I think it will be a little odd for me to call from 5 feet away. I walk in, she gestures towards the back, and a man comes around to ask me what I need. I repeat my request for an inspection.  He tells me to come back tomorrow. I think my shoulders slumped a good four inches.  I started to succumb to what seemed to be the inevitable, and asked what time they opened. 8 a.m. How long will it take? The guy asks what kind of car I have. I start to flail. I’m feeling defeated, and frustrated, because I have a 2006 Murano that has just over 17,000 miles on it, for pete’s sake, and I can’t believe I even have to HAVE an inspection, and I’m saying all of this while flapping my arms like a flightless bird, spiraling on his freshly-swiffered floor. He pauses, and says, “Come here. Write down your name and address. I do it right now.”

At one point, while I waited, I’m pretty sure I uttered an audible, fervent blessing upon this man.  This wasn’t the most comprehensive inspection, I’d wager, but frankly, my car doesn’t warrant a fine-tooth comb. It’s still under warranty!!  The bill was $12? I gave him $20, with heartfelt thanks. And he blessed me, at that point! It was a win-win, in my book.

So, finally, I have new plates (that are grammatically incorrect, but yours truly & a Sharpie are gonna fix that), a new remote, and I dropped off a lemon-berry slush for my husband, who’s having parent-teacher conferences all day today. I’ve got to get my halloween costume pulled together tonight, and I must say, I’m ready for the weekend!  I’ll get some pics of the costume up tomorrow, and hopefully (fingers crossed!) get back to slightly more regular blogging! I’ve missed it – and while the blogs I write in my head are undeniably awesome, they’re also super-easy to forget.

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