Ding Ding!

I'm working on perfecting an apple crisp recipe which is only made with the good stuff and naturally, this means I must practice a whole lot.  Baked apple deliciousness frequently?  Yes please. 

 

Last night, I tried adding a slight drizzle of real maple syrup along with my other ingredients and then popped it in the oven. 

 

Set the timer. 

 

Timer beeped.  Went to check it and thought, hmmmm that's not done.

 

Put it back in and set the timer. 

 

Went and visited with Billy and our company. 

 

Timer beeped.  Went to check it and thought, hmmmm that's not done. 

 

I'll spare the repeating of that entire process one more time.  Which would make it three times total I did the same thing before I came back into the living room and sat on the couch and quietly whispered in Billy's ear, "I didn't have the oven on." 

 

He replied, "The whole time?"  Like he would expect a person to notice after the first or second time of opening the oven. 

 

"Yes the whole time."

 

"Is it on now?"

 

"Yes it is."

 

After turning the oven on, the apple crisp did indeed cook.  Funny how that works.

 

 

Today I was printing some data reports and the printer in the lab ran out of paper.  I opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.  No paper.  Opened the third drawer of the filing cabinet.  No paper.  Left the room with the click click of my heels and came back shortly after with a ream, put it in the printer, and turned to look at the filing cabinet's second drawer which was nicely labeled with "printer paper."

 

"Guess I missed that one."

 

The custodian was standing there as he had been through the process, "I was kind of wondering what you were doing over there not opening the drawer that was labeled but I figured I'd leave you to it." 

 

We laughed and before I left the room I looked at the custodian, "Let's not leave me to things when they are real obvious like that, help a girl out next time." 

 

Because it makes total sense to open the top drawer and the third drawer and skip the second drawer which is labeled in large letters with the supply you are looking for. 

 

It's a good thing I can make a mean pie crust.  Right? 

 

Because that really ties in to what I'm saying here but I felt like I needed an ending besides making some corny blonde joke or explaining I live most days highly coffee-d up.  Surely that doesn't have anything to do with it.     

 



Caramel Rolls and Chocolate Milk?

My little sister and her best friend Jordyn descended upon my house last night with overnight gear and shopping bags in tow.  First up was showing me their loot.  Complete with a pair of sunglasses I might be stealing from Sister Pister.  

Next up was me taking the two shirts I gave my sister for Christmas.  I figure she's had them for long enough; it's my turn to wear them.  What's that?  Usually you let people keep the gifts you give them?  I guess I should be thankful she is generous enough to share them with me for  awhile.  I promptly put the pearl snap denim on over my workout clothes and danced a jig.  Pearl snaps and sweaty sweats.  Oh yeah.   

Then while the girls were finishing trying on and examining their recent purchases, I was doing a little face timing on my couch.  Asking such questions as this, "Does my face look better like this (me doing a Who-ville Grinch style face) or this (me propping the phone up so I could use both hands to contort my face into a eyes pulled down pig snout look)?"  The two guys on the other end of the face time picked the Who-ville Grinch style face.  One of them also piped in with, "I think you could take this act on the road."  

And I often think if I could, I would.  

Anyways, while I was sitting on my sore rear (hello to Muscle Pump at the YMCA) doing some chit chatting, the girls went into my room.  When they came out, they declared they were going to the grocery store.  It was ten o'clock-ish in the evening so naturally I asked, "For what?"  

"Popsicles."  

Of course.  Popsicles.  

Then I said, "Are those my sweatshirts?"  

"Yes."  

My 80s San Diego and 70s local middle school sweatshirts are a hot ticket apparently.  Those two girls went into my room knowing they wanted them.  I told the thieves they could buy me grapes but they could not keep the sweatshirts.  

After they came back with popsicles, grapes, caramel rolls, and chocolate milk, they sat on my kitchen floor.  One propped against the fridge and one criss-crossed in the middle.  Pretty soon the hands were flying, the eyebrows were lifting, and they were giving me the latest.  While I stood there cutting a grapefruit in half and taking the grapes off their stems, I told them, "Girls.  Don't do drugs or be hussies.  Those are two things you can't ever reverse."  Yes I actually said that to them.  I'm all about honesty.  I'm also all about hearing the latest.  Makes me feel all with it and stuff.  Not like I usually feel, which is like an old nerd who roasts squash in her oven.  There really was squash roasting in my oven.  I do that kind of thing at ten thirty in the evening.   

I need to address the caramel rolls and chocolate milk breakfast plan before I go on.  Teenage food choices make me shake my head.  There I addressed it.  

Once I was filled in on the latest and greatest, I painted my nails.  Jordyn did her homework.  And Sister Pister ran the remote to fast forward the commercials on the DVRd episode of The Voice.  Here's how I know she is in fact my sister.  After we'd watch thirty-three seconds of each commercial, she kept saying, "Oh!!  I forget I can fast forward!"

Similar to my moment last week while watching the Bomber boys in the State Class B basketball tournament.  Real similar.  I'll give you the short version.  

"I don't think that's a foul.  I want to watch that again."  I hear him say this.  I see him pick up the remote.  I watch the TV do the rewind thing.  I see that he pushes play.     

Then this comes out of my mouth as the player from the other team is dribbling the ball and shooting the ball, "Oh!!  He's going to do it again!  He's going to make that exact same shot again!!  Why can't they stop him?"  As I very dramatically throw my hands to face.   

What the what is wrong with me sometimes?!  

Tear inducing laughter occurred next.  That's all I'm going to say about that nonsense.   

Back to last night.  Sister Pister is indeed my sister.  Nails were painted.  Homework was finished.  Popsicles were consumed by the two teenage poptarts.  Then I fell asleep on the couch.  And just like that, I reinstated my old nerd status.  

This morning, I put on one of the shirts I gave Sister Pister for Christmas.

And then my little sister did my hair and tied my friendship bracelets for me.  I hugged her and wished she could get me ready every morning.

Yes, friendship bracelets.  I'm doing it. 

You Call Me and I'm Way Back

Yesterday, I drove all the way across town in a race against my half an hour lunch break time frame.  Being full aware that lunch wasn't actually going to be lunch because there wouldn't be time to eat.  Knowing full well lunch was going to be a hot coffee from Big Apple Bagel.  Yes, I drove all the way across town for a coffee.  Yes, I didn't eat lunch.  Sometimes when you are happy and the sun is shining and the radio is beckoning and the solitude of your car calls and you are racing against thirty minutes...it doesn't matter.  Life's too short to eat lunch every single day.  Don't ever quote me on that one.  It's not something that needs to get around.  

Anyway, I drove and sang and let the sun shine through the windows.  When I arrived at the Big Apple, I walked right in to two men standing in line in front of me.  

Me:  "Well look what have we here?!  Are you two having the best day ever or what?" 

Chuckling.  Heads down.  Side glances at each other.

Me:  "I'm serious.  Is it the best?"  

Man 1:  "Yeah, it's shaping up to be a pretty good one I guess.  You obviously are having the best day ever."  

Me:  "I always try to.  I mean, really, why not make every day a best day?  I like to throw glitter around.  And...well...I shouldn't probably even ask you this because it's serious...but...do you believe in unicorns?"  

Chuckling.  Heads down.  Side glances at each other.  

Man 1:  "Well I guess.  Maybe.  Yeah.  I guess maybe I do believe in unicorns."

Man 2:  BLANK STARE AT MAN 1.

Me:  "So what are you two boys doing?  Big business meeting or what?"  (laptops...they had laptops)

Man 2:  "He is.  He is my boss."

Man 1:  "I'm doing interviews today."

Me:  "Interviews?!  I love interviews!  You probably want me to stay here and help huh?  What are we interviewing for?"

Man 1:  "Oil field.  We're in the oil business.  Baker Hughes.  We're putting up a big ol' place north of town."  

Me:  "Hmmmm, I see.  And you're the boss?  Well here's where I tell you that you are going to want to hire me.  And I'm okayyyyy with getting dirty, but I'd prefer not to.  Like maybe I could be in charge of company morale or something?"

Man 2:  IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING RIGHT NOW LOOK ON HIS FACE.

Man 1:  "Like you could keep coffee going and things neat and tidy and organized."  

Me:  "Oh could I ever.  And I'd throw little parties.  For birthdays and stuff.  And decorate.  I love a good theme."  

Man 2:  "I could see you being a company cheerleader."  

Me:  "I have my master's degree.  Which means, you must pay well for my cheerleading skills."  

Man 1:  "I'm sure we could work something out.  But I don't really need anyone to start until the end of May because that's when the building will be done."  

Me:  "Perfect.  I'm not available until the end of May."  

Man 2:  NO WAY IS THIS HAPPENING...NO WAY...HEAD DOWN...LITTLE SMILE SMIRK THING.

Man 1:  "I really do need a secretary.  A good one at that.  Can you organize and keep track of things?"  

Me:  "Do you know what it means when I say I have a Type A personality?  Don't even get me started."

Man 1:  "Obviously I don't need to ask if you are a people person."  

MAN 2:  SHAKES HIS HEAD.  OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  LAUGHING.  "She talked to us about glitter and unicorns.  While we were standing in line to get bagels.  I think she can talk to strangers."  

Man 1:  "Here's my business card.  You call me.  Baker Hughes.  We'll work out the details.  Don't you go working for anyone else."  

And I'm back.  And boy does it feel good. 

I just couldn't stop there though.  It's like my addiction to ridiculousness was being fed at a rapid rate and I needed just a little more.  One more hit.   

So I crossed my arms real serious like and said to the boss man, "But I have one question.  Do you think there's really oil out there?"

Laughter all around.

"I don't think there's oil there.  I know there's oil."

"But do you think it's going to last a long time?"

"I'm building a house here.  It's here for the long haul."

"So like you think...I mean...you think it will last...three whole months?"

Laughter all around. 

"You are something else."

"Yes.  Sometimes I am.  And just think...you could be around this every day."

"You have my card."

And I'm way back.  And it feels real good. 

Taking a picture of a picture?  Oh yeah, I'm way way back. 

And please, let's just have a moment for the pink and white striped OshKosh bibs.  Those are one fashion statement that came out of the 80s that should be repeated.    

Soup and Beer and Dates and Skirts

Here is where I give you some serious advice.    

Do not pack your lunch on a Thursday evening and then end up getting soup with your friend on Friday lunch instead of eating your packed lunch and then let that packed lunch sit in the fridge at work until Monday and then eat it on Monday.   

Just don't do it.  

I don't want to go into details. 

Trust me.  Just don't do it.  

But I will say this.  Soup Friday might become a tradition.  I just named it an official name.  Soup Friday.  So it must be on its way.  

Simply because I can't help it, here's one more piece of advice.  You can totally buy a quart of soup for real cheap and then split that quart with your friend.  What you get out of the deal is this.  Two bowls of soup.  Happy slurping.  

Oh shoot.  I have one more.  

Don't say things like this to people, "So...was that a dark beer or a light beer?"  After watching the person pour the beer into a clear glass.  It will make you look not smart to the people.  

Okay fine.  One more.  Then I'm done.  Cross my heart.

Don't go on an actual blind date.  The kind where you have never met or even seen a picture of or heard of or know someone who knows someone who knows the person to which you will sit across from and try to entertain for a chunk of your evening.  You should not do this because what will happen is you will end up huddled in the corner of a bathroom whispering into your phone.  And here's what you will whisper. 

"This is seriously the worst date ever.  I am waiting for the cameras to pop out.  The man is a high school drop out with frosted hair and bright white chunky tennies and he has a southern accent which is so strong I can't understand him sometimes and he has to repeat himself." 

Insert explanation so I do not look hoity-toity.  I am a teacher by trade.  Which means high school drop out who never went to get GED is not really acceptable in my book.  It has nothing to do with money or jay-oh-bee-sss...it has everything to do with the value of education to my teacher heart.  And if the whole not being alright with a man with frosted hair and bright white chunky tennies makes me sound hoity-toity, then so be it.  

My description of bad blind date man caused my phone-a-friend to laugh.  Then I continued with, "And when I say things, he doesn't get them.  I need someone who gets my things."

Really, this is the part that made the date the worst.  More than anything to do with hair styles or clothing choices or educational background, I am on the look out for someone who gets my things. 

It was the most hilarious and worst date ever.  So my new rule is this as far as dating.  I must at least do a little background check before.  Just a little one.  Not stalker style or anything because I do enjoy the shit out of meeting new people.  Usually. 

Now that I have changed your day with my advice giving, I leave you with this.

You can buy a skirt at Old Navy for two dollars and have it make your day.  Even though you had a bad run in with your lunch, it can still make your Monday the kind of day that makes your skirt fly up.

That was another piece of advice wasn't it?  Sorry.  I'm not good at following rules.  Apparently, even when I'm the one making them.    

Salt--aay

When we were driving back from St. Cloud last Thursday, before we crossed back over into the land of North Dakota - I believe it was close to mile marker 49, we saw a vehicle that had MN plates and was covered in a white salty residue.  I can say with fairly decent certainty that it was mile marker 49 because Karen was constantly texting people which mile marker we were at the whole trip; she figured people would want to know.
 

Right after mile marker 49, the one man that was along on the trip said to all of us about that salty vehicle...

Well wait for a second.

First of all, let's just have a moment of appreciation for a man that can travel with six ladies.  In a vehicle.  And then put up with all of us for three whole days.  While remaining sane.  That deserves a moment.        

Anyways, the man said, "Minnesota sure salts their roads a lot.  Look at that."  

Everyone replied with an agreeing murmur or a head bob or some other form of compliance but I laughed inside my head.  Not outside my head.  Inside.  Because I remembered a time when Momma D. and I were visiting a friend's house when I was a young grasshopper still living at home.  We pulled up to the friend's house and spotted a spiffy car.  I don't remember what kind or anything.  Just that it was fancy and that it had MN license plates.  And when I was a teenager, I was going to be a rich adult.  Really, there was no question in my mind I would be rich {hmmmm...turns out I was wrong} so I exclaimed to Momma D. that I wanted that car and that someday I would have it or at least something like it.  Then she told me, "You wouldn't want that exact car because it's from MN and their cars are always salty."  

This was my answer for that.  "I thought all of their lakes were freshwater?"

Uffda.  

Momma Debi gave me the -how are you my daughter- look and laughed.  After she had regained her composure, she explained to me that having freshwater lakes would have nothing to do with a salty car because it's not like you really drive a car in the lake anyway and that the salt comes from the road which would be a more appropriate place for a car to drive.

Then she laughed some more. 

Here's what I know.  I've done some odd things and said some pretty off the wall statements in my life.  Think car wash.  And I'm sure there have been times my parents really wondered where I came from being the intelligent people they are.  But, I don't think the reason my thinking is wonky during those times is rooted from the fact that this head is simply a hat rack.  My grad school diploma tells me I must have a few, or at least a couple, brain cells.  No instead, I think the source of these momentary lapses is from this brain of mine just getting going a way too fast and pingy for its own good.  Or something like that.
 

At least when riding in the back back seat of a Ford Expedition as a 27 year old adult, I can laugh inside my head from the remembrance of one brief moment in time when I might have said something that didn't quite make sense.  Then, I feel thankful for two things.  Number one being that I am completely comfortable laughing at myself.  Number two being that I have been called many things, but boring has never been one of them.  Those are worth something.  I hope. 

I do give myself one bonus point for knowing that Minnesota lakes are freshwater.       

Housing Trail

February. 
It's here and even though it is my least favorite month, I was excited to change my calendar.   

This year from Santa I received the 2011 Linnea Poster Calendar with the pop-out frame.  The designs for each month are so arty and fun that it took some serious self control to not just change it...oh...on the seventeenth of January or the twenty first of January.  The little heart on Valentine's Day.  You just can't get cuter than that in calendar land. 

Now I have to wait patiently through another entire month.  Except, I'm noticing that March is a cat and we all know how I feel about cats.  One letter away from being a rat people.  One letter.  So, maybe I'll jump right to April because jumping bunnies and carrots...they're alright.  I do believe my favorite is August or maybe it's July or it could even be October. 

When I put up the cute heart, I couldn't help but think of how crazy busy February was for me last year.  It will be the one year anniversary this coming weekend of me living in this house.  My house.  I love it more everyday.  It truly was made for me without the previous owners knowing they were making it for me.  Whenever I think of how much I love my house, I'm reminded of all of the other dwellings I have dwelt.  My housing trail so to speak. 

I'm all about lists right now so here goes.  

1.  Dorm rooms.  I need not say more about that.  Other than the time April and I came back to a rotten pumpkin and a dead fish all on the same Sunday.   

2.  College apartment.  I managed to live in the same apartment for all of the rest of the years of my college life.  Mostly with the same roommates too...a couple changes here and there.  I can't tell you how fun those years were.  I could write a million and two words and not even be close to bringing it justice.  

3.  However, I will say a few things.  There was the time in that college apartment when a crazed person ran into our garage door with their vehicle.  The wall ending up resting on my car like a little tent.  

4.  There was also the time someone in the garage next to us spray painted a motorcycle red.  The spray paint went through the cracks in the sheet rock and painted my car red too.  I did not want a red car.    

5.  There was also the time when I hid in a dumpster for a few hours in the parking lot of our building.  

6.  Enough about college.    

7.  After college, I moved back to the small town into a tiny little house that I rented from my friend.  The first morning, an electrician with a "hook" arm knocked on my door and a black dog came running in with him.  I thought maybe he needed that dog for help or something because he had a "hook" arm.  Kind of like a seeing eye dog or something but I realize now this logic is all off.  So, I let the dog run around that house making a mess because I thought he was a helper and finally said, "What is your dog's name?" trying to address the issue politely.  Hook replied, "My dog?!  I don't have a dog.  I thought it was your dog."  I yelled, "NOOOO...I don't have a dog either!!  Get the dog!  Get the dog!"  Turns out the whole time, it was the neighbor's dog.  

8.  That was a Welcome Back to Small Town moment.  

9.  The shower in that little house had a window in it.  Freaked me out every time.  Sometimes I felt I should shut the lights off to shower when it was dark out. 

10.  I moved out of that little house six months later into a different duplex/house thing in the same small town.  

11.  Landlord of that duplex/house thing called an electrician before I moved in and then told me, "DO NOT TOUCH THE LIGHTS UPSTAIRS.  They don't work and I don't want them to shock you."  I listened to him because I am not about being shocked.  

12.  Then, the first day I lived there, an electrician {not Hook this time} came and worked for a bit and said, "Ummmmmm.  The lights are fine.  The problem is.  Well.  The problem is.  Ummmm.  The light bulbs are burnt out."  I said with a snap, "I DID NOT CALL YOU.  It wasn't me!!  It was the landlord.  He just told me they would shock me.  Please believe me!  I know how to change a light bulb.  Please believe me!  Amen."  

13.  The second day I lived in that duplex/house thing, I made soup.  

14.  The third day I lived in that duplex/house thing, I came home from work to a HORRIBLE smell.  So horrible and rancid I figured it must be natural gas.  I called the natural gas company in a panic and they told me to get myself outside and wait for them.  

15.  Natural gas guy came.  He tested.  He said, "That smell is HORRIBLE, but it's not natural gas."

16.  Natural gas guy and I sniffed around and determined the smell was coming from the oven.  He was kind enough to pull the oven out and then he screamed like a baby.    

17.  He screamed like a baby because there was a village, I'm talking a village, of dead mice in the back of the oven.  Apparently I had cooked them when I made soup.  He screamed.  I screamed.  He ran around flapping like a chicken.  I ran around flapping like a chicken.  

18.  I sat down on the steps by the kitchen and said with my head in my hands, "I can not live here.  I can not live here.  I can not live here.  This does not go well with my personality.  I can not live here.  I have slight cleaning issues.  I can not live here."  As I rocked myself back and forth.

19.  Natural gas guy must have felt sorry for me consoling myself on the stairs about my living plight because he started picking the little dead mice out of the oven and disposing of them.  He took care of them all.  I'm sure that's not on the natural gas guy job list, but he did it.  Then, I called Landlord and said, "There was a village of mice in the oven and I cooked them when I made soup and I will not live here unless you buy a new oven and I have cleaning issues and I will not live here and I cooked them and there was a village."  He tried to tell me that he would just hire someone to clean the oven.  I kept arguing with him about the disgustingness of the situation and finally threw the phone to the natural gas guy and said in exasperation, "Here.  You tell him how gross it is."  Natural gas guy went on to explain to Landlord that yes indeed it was a.village.of.dead.mice.and.not.healthy.for.humans.to.be.around.

20.  I realized that Landlord was not bright.  Not bright at all.  But, he did buy a new oven. 

21.  So, I decided to still live there and invested in a lot of mouse traps.  I quickly learned there was a serious mice issue.  I became very skilled at the disposing of mice.  And, every time I had to rock myself back and forth a bit and tell myself it could be worse.  

22.  That spring, water came gushing into the basement of that duplex/house thing.  Gushing.  I called  Landlord and he was not worried about it all.  Said it happened every year.   

23.  I moved out.  I made it nine months in that duplex/house thing.    

24.  I decided it was time to quit renting because I was tired of mice, water, and landlords who were not bright.  So, I bought a cute little blue house across the same small town.   

25.  The house I bought did not have a garage, but it was spring and I am a right now kind of gal.  I lived in housing bliss the rest of that spring, summer, and fall.  Painting, weeding, updating, decorating...it was mine.  Then, it started to get cold and then it started to snow.      

26.  It turned into one of the worst winters we had had in ages.  I shoveled and I shoveled and I shoveled.  Then, the city maintenance lady would push it all back in with her snow plow.  One time, I chased her down the street swinging a shovel in the air like a lunatice while screaming things I should not repeat.  Let's just say I cracked.     

27.  I really did like that house in the spring, summer, and fall.  It was cute.  It was cute and it was blue and I grew lots of flowers there that next summer after surviving winter.  But just like it did before, it got cold again and it started to snow again.       

28.  I sold that house a year ago because it turned out that last winter was also on the horrible side.  One time, I came home and literally could not find the front door because the snow was that high.  Also, I was tired of driving to my job across the country side and calling my boss crying because of the roads.  No garage.  That was a kicker.

29.  I realize I was a winter wimp.  Twice.  I own that.     

30.  Facing homelessness, I went on a house hunt in the bigger town.  A house hunt that included approximately 73 different options.  I feel I should publicly apologize to my realtor.  Then, I walked into this one and as they say, the rest is history. 

31.  I bought it.  It's my house and I love it because there are no mice and I don't have a not so bright landlord and it has a garage and it was made for me.

32.  I can't end on an odd number so let's just have a moment for that lovely calendar again.  And please don't mind the ipod on the heat vent in the background.  It made a trip through my washing machine last weekend and I have faith it will miraculously dry out and play tunes again. 

       

P.S.
Those pocket doors that shut the kitchen off from the dining room still make my heart happy after this whole year.  Sometimes when I'm cooking, I like to shut them and pretend I'm southern. 

Relations

Last Saturday night, I drove out to the small town I'm from to make an appearance at the Sportsmen's Banquet.  I did not go for the wild game meal.  That is not my cup of tea.  But, I did go for the socializing because if you know anything about small towns, you know that something that involves the word banquet is probably going to draw a crowd.  Throw in some sportsmen and you have yourself a party.  

So, I show up to the banquet late and have been there literally five minutes when this guy comes up to me.  Now, this guy is not from the small town but I have visited with him once before...you need to know that right now. 

He says to me, "How does it feel to be the most beautiful girl here?"  

And, I say back to him, "Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...you've had a few huh?  I haven't seen you for a long time.  How are you doing?"

Then he says, "I'm serious." And, proceeded to put his arm around me. 

Then I say with my finger pointed in his face, "Hey.  Hey.  Remember.  We are related."

After I reminded this guy that we are related, I thought to myself, "That's an interesting way to start the evening."  Then I went about my socializing. 

 

Later on in the night, this guy comes up to me again and he starts to visit with the table I'm sitting at.  I happened to be chatting with a different person so my back was turned.  When I turned back, my friend says to me, "Ummm.  That guy thinks you are pretty fabulous but he thinks you are way out of his league."  

Then I proclaim, rather exasperatingly with my hands flying every direction,  "This has nothing to do with me being out of his league.  Because let's be real.  I'm not out of anyone's league.  This has everything to do with the fact that WE ARE RELATED!!  We are related and apparently he.cannot.get.that.through.his.head."  

Fast forward another hour or so and this guy comes up to me again.  Puts his arm around me and starts in on his spiel.  I remind him once again, "Remember, we are related.  I don't know exactly how, but we are."  

To which he replies, "It's a long ways down the line isn't it?"

I'm going to pause the story to explain a couple of key items.  I am indeed related to the world.  This is what happens when both sides of your family have many, many children.  It's also what happens when one side of your family is one hundred percent Norwegian and the other side is one hundred percent German and they were original immigrants to this part of North Dakota.  It's hard to explain, but I really am related to a lot of people from this area.  So many that my one friend says I just might have to travel abroad to find a husband.  Also, being related to this many people means that often times, the younger generations can be out in social situations and run into people they've seen at family reunions but they are not quite sure on the lineage.  Usually, we just know that somewhere down the line, a great uncle here or great aunt there once shook hands or both of our great grandmas were cousins twice removed or something like that.  This sounds a bit redneck and maybe it is, but there's no funny business involved.  Alright, back to my story.

At that point, I decided it was time to really lay down the --I will not date my relatives-- speech because apparently I hadn't been clear before and said to this guy, "Alright, here's the deal.  Let me explain this to you.  Let's just say that we did end up dating and then we eventually ended up getting married.  Here's what would happen.  People would come to the wedding and the ushers would say who are you here for?  The bride or the groom?  Here's the kicker, the people could then say BOTH.  Do you see now that this is a little bit of an issue?"  

To which he replies, "Alright, I got you.  That would be weird."   

Finally.  

So, last Saturday night, I had to explain to a guy three times that we could not date because we are related.  

Which really makes me wonder a few things...

1.  Does this kind of stuff happen to anyone else?

2.  Any ideas of which country I should visit to find a husband?    

3.  Was I on candid camera and he forgot to say the whole part about being on candid camera?

4.  How much of a redneck am I?  

5.  Should I memorize the family tree all the way back to 1848 so I can be prepared for situations like this?
6.  Does this kind of stuff happen to anyone else?
7.  Was this all because I attended something called a Sportsmen's Banquet? 

Squash and a White Sink

This squash has been sitting in my fridge for awhile now.  It’s from a garden.  Not my garden of course, you would have to have a garden for that to happen.  But, it’s from a garden none the less.  And, anything that is grown in the ground or that has a mother is good food in my book. 

I enjoy squash.  It’s actually one of my favorite vegetables.  I can even handle it without tons of butter and brown sugar.  So, one would think this squash would have not been sitting in my fridge for awhile.  One would think I would have cooked it up by now.  But, what one might not know is that I ended up with stitches the last time I attempted cutting a squash and I’m gun shy.  Every time I put that squash on a cutting board and grab the knife, I think back to {this is gross but it’s how I am} the blood and fat balls that I could see in my hand.  You know those little white ball things that you can see if you cut deep enough?  Well, I guess you would only know that if you have ended up with stitches at some point. 

Anyways, I just can’t get myself to actually cut into the bugger.  Every time I put that squash on the cutting board and grab the knife, I think back to Momma Debi saying to me, “Be careful, squash are tricky to cut.”  And, me replying, “Yeah, yeah, I got it under contro.....AWWWWW!!!!  I cut my hand!  I cut my hand!!”  And, then me running around the kitchen trying to catch the blood that was dripping because I would NOT put my cut hand over Momma Debi’s brand spankin’ new white solid Corian deep beautiful sink.  Yes, I had just sliced a serious cut in my hand and what was I worried about?  The white sink.

I really do need therapy.

I think I forgot to mention it was the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving.  I think I also forgot to mention that Momma Debi and Dad-o were just completing a major kitchen, flooring, wall ripping out, open staircase, painting, remodeling extravaganza at their house.  And, their kitchen was beautiful.  Well, it still is beautiful, but it was freaking new...white sink new...plastic on the appliances new.  Oh, and the carpet guy was installing carpet in the basement {nothing like bottom of the ninth}.  And, my parents were hosting Thanksgiving for a few of our closest family members.  Roughly thirty-seven of them.  Give or take a few.  

So, me running around the kitchen yelling frantically about the sink and the counters and the floor doesn’t seem quite so “I scream therapy” now.

Finally, Momma Debi told me to stop.  Just stop.  Then, she forced me to put my hand over the new white sink.  Just another moment in my life when I said to myself, “Self, your momma loves you.”  She didn’t blink an eye as she rinsed and rinsed and rinsed my squash cut hand.  I was blinking.  Blinking a lot.  Not from the pain, but from the mess.  I’m a little more high strung than her.

I guess the carpet guy couldn’t stand not knowing what the ridiculous ruckus was all about so he emerged up the newly opened stair case and asked to see my hand.  He said that he was a cut expert.  Apparently carpet guys have a tendency to get cuts or something.  So, the carpet guy came over to the new white sink that now did not look so hot and proclaimed after one quick peek at the white fat ball things, “You need stitches.”

It was perfect.  Perfect timing for the festivities coming ahead in the next few days.

Momma Debi drove me to the ER.  She has a frequent flier punch card at the ER; not for herself though, she’s always the driver.  Except the time her finger was smooshed off in the back of a trailer.  That time she did not drive.  On they way, we talked about what was left to do to finish the house in time for Thanksgiving.  The new furniture was being delivered the next morning, pictures needed to be hung, paint touch ups, decorating, cleaning, etc...  My hand actually didn’t hurt.  I think my brain was still on the white sink.

Once at the ER, a doctor came in and I made some wise remarks, he looked at the fat balls, and he said that stitches were in order.  Then, he walked out.

Then, another doctor walked in and I made some wise remarks and he came over to my hand with a little silver scissors and he proceeded to put the pointy part of the scissors all the way into the cut.

I yelled, “WHAT THE H***!!!!” right in his face.  

He jumped back and started waving his hands saying, “I thought it was numb!  I just wanted to see how deep it was!”

I yelled back, “NO!!  It’s not numb!  What the H***!!  Who just jams a scissor in a cut?  Who does that?!!”

He laughed.  He laughed and said, “At least I got a reaction out of you.  Sometimes we don’t get that in here.”

I did not laugh.  I said, “What the h***!” one more time.

Momma Debi stood off to the side the whole time just shaking her head.  I’m sure that there are times she wishes she could just have a fly on the wall daughter.

Then, after we established that no my hand was indeed not numb, the first doctor came back in the room and said to the scissor jamming doctor, “Ummm, what are you doing?  This is my patient.”

Scissor jamming doctor said, “No, she’s mine.”

First doctor said, “No.  I was here first.  I get the stitches.”

Scissor jamming doctor said, “C’mon.  I want this one.”

First doctor said, “Fine.  Fine.  You can have the easy one.” {apparently some stitches on a hand is an easy case...a wanted case in the ER...and here I thought they were fighting over me}

I said, because I felt it was time they heard from me, “How about someone just stitches this up?”

Scissor jamming doctor won.  He did the stitching.  While he was stitching, Momma Debi and I told him about the squash, the white sink, the carpet guy, the furniture coming, the pictures that needed to be hung, and I’m pretty sure by the end of it, he thought Momma Debi was a saint and I was a weirdo.  Why does that always happen?  She gets to be the saint and I’m forever the weirdo?  When he finished, he wrapped my hand really tight and sent us on our way.

The next morning, the furniture came and I’ll be darned if I was going to let a wrapped up, stitches hand stop me.  I arranged furniture like a mad woman, decorated, and hung pictures, cleaned...but, I did not do anymore cooking.  And, Thanksgiving was perfect.  The house was finished, the food was amazing, the family was superb, the sink was white again, and I had a good story to tell.  

Now, if I could just bring myself to cut that squash that’s in my fridge right now.  I’m not remodeling, the carpet guy is not in my basement, my sink is not white, it’s not the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, it’s been four years...I think I should just get over it.

Who am I kidding?  I’ll probably never cut a squash again.  Someone is going to have to do that for me.  Any takers?         

Wacey, A Mini Van, and Pixie Dust

Accomplishing these senior pictures was no small feat.  We rescheduled three times because of the rainy-ness and then the day it was finally sunny, I drove out to his farm only to have a construction worker tell me I couldn't cross the highway because they had just tarred it.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  No.  No you haven't because that is crazy.  So, then I drove all the way around like he told me to and started to drive on the wrong side of the highway {again, like the guy with the yellow vest and red beard told me to} only to have another construction guy come flying after me with the roof lights flashing on his blue pickup.  I got out and told him, with my hands flailing all over the place, before he could get a word in edgewise...

"That guy with the red beard up there told me I had to do this because he wouldn't let me cross the highway because he said it was freshly tarred and all I'm trying to do is take this kid's senior pictures and I need to get to his farm and we've rescheduled three times and now I'm going to be late and...and...and...the guy in the red beard told me to."  Then, the construction guy with not a red beard and a yellow vest said, "Well, who is cuter, me or him?" 

Say what now? 

In my head, I was thinking: I.do.not.have.time.for.this.hoopla.right.now.  But, here's what came out because I knew my fate of getting to the kid's farm was in this construction guy with not a red beard's hands: "Oh, you are.  By far.  You're much cuter.  And, I think your cool factor is way higher too." 

I made the right choice to play along for a bit because he kept his lights flashing and let me follow him so I didn't look like a total goof driving on the wrong side of the highway.  When we got back to the gravel road I was originally trying to get to, the construction guy with the red beard was all, "What?  He's cuter than me?  No way." 

In my head, I was thinking: I.do.not.have.time.for.this.hoopla.right.now.  And, here's what came out because I knew I was where I needed to be: "Yes.  Yes he is." 

Then, I drove off and finally made it to Wacey's farm.  Now, I probably should have mentioned at the very beginning of this tale, that I was driving a mini van. 

You heard me.  I was driving a rental mini van for this whole debacle.  A rental mini van that had cat hair on the seats and an old lip gloss kiss on the pull down visor mirror.  It couldn't have been more perfect for the way the evening started off. 

And, get this.  Once we started taking pictures, the beautiful sun that had been shining went away and it started to rain.  So, we rescheduled once again.  I told Wacey that the next time I would not be driving a mini van because he was seriously worried about my cool factor when I pulled up in that mini van...he was very relieved when I told him it was rental.  Also, when I went out to his farm the next time, I was able to just cross the highway without any construction worker shenanigans and the sun stayed out and Wacey thought I was still half cracked and his mom was fun and his pictures were taken.

Did you know that a teenage boy's whole demeanor changes when he is by his pickup?  If you didn't know that...well, now you do. 

Did you also know that when you tell a teenage boy that you are going to tap him on the head with your imaginary princess wand while you are saying, "All you need is pixie dust and trust" to him that he will laugh at you.  He will laugh no matter how much he thinks you are a total weirdo.  A weirdo that does star-jacks and says things like, "All you need is pixie dust and trust." 

So, Wacey's pictures were not boring.  The events leading up to Wacey's pictures were also not boring.  Let's just get that straight.  Wacey is also not boring.  And, he loves his pickups.  He loves them more than he loves a good star-jack.  In case you don't remember, a star-jack is like a jumping-jack only better. 

I Wonder

I often wonder just how strange I look when I'm taking pictures of odd things.  I wonder because sometimes I'll look up from having one eye all scrunched shut and notice I'm being stared at.  I would just like to say to those people, "Hi, my name is Amy and I have attention issues.  Therefore, this object right here caught my eye." 

And, since my name is Amy and I have attention issues saying "one eye all scrunched shut" above made me think of a story.  A story about a gopher hunt.  A gopher hunt might be a foreign thing to some, so I'll quickly explain before the story...teams of two, very small town, starts at noon and ends at six, the team with the most dead gophers in the back of their pickup at the end wins.  Sound a bit redneck?  Well, it is.  And, one year, I participated.  A couple of years ago, one of my friends actually convinced me it would be fun to shoot gophers all day and place them in a back of a pickup once they were dead.  So, in order to get ready for said gopher hunt, I figured I should practice up on my gopher hunting skills.  I asked Momma Debi to give me a refresher lesson on how to shoot the twenty-two.  She obliged.  We were at the farm and I was trying and trying and trying and trying and trying to hit a gopher we had drawn on a paper plate.  I kept failing and failing and failing and failing and failing.  Until finally, Momma Debi suddenly exclaimed, "YOU'RE CLOSING THE WRONG EYE!!!"  It was like she had unlocked the secret to aiming.  My whole life I had been closing the wrong eye.  I think this also explains why being a doctor didn't pan out for me...I was shutting the wrong eye looking into the microscope in high school and college as well.  Once I closed the correct eye, I was like a professional twenty-two gopher hunter.  Seriously, I could actually hit the little buggers.  But, then you have to run up as fast as you can to the gopher hole and dig them out before their little siblings pull them back down.  I realize this is totally and completely disgusting.  The first time I hit one, I jumped up and down and yelled, "I got it!  I got it!  I got it!"  And, then I ran to the hole, and jumped and down again.  Only this time I was flailing my arms all around and yelling, "I can't do it!  I CAN'T!!  Ewwww!!  I just can't grab it!"  But, then I did and my life has never been the same.  And, that's all I want to say about that.  

Anyways, back to being the girl taking pictures of odd things.  Last weekend was no exception.  I can't help but wonder what the vendors thought of me as I stood there taking pictures of their ropes.  As I previously mentioned, I would have liked to have said, "Hi my name is Amy and I have attention issues.  These colors caught my eye and therefore I need to stand here and take pictures of them.  Now."    

Then, in the middle of all the hustle and bustle and a crowd of people, I aimed my camera high in the sky because I think the American flag is as iconic to a rodeo as the Smurfs were to the 80s. 

Next, I became rather bored waiting for the boys to get on their saddle bronc horses.  I just don't understand why it would take them so long.  I mean it's not like they are getting on a wild bucking animal or anything.  So, I was bored and I decided this steer needed it's picture taken.  Now.  

Next, while I was waiting so patiently for it to be Sister Pister's turn to do the goat tying event, I actually spent time with my face pointed at this wood post.   "What did you do this weekend?"  "Oh, you know, just spent some time with my face pointed at a wood post, how about you?" 

Then, this little yellow patch of flowers caught my eye and the fun flags behind were just a bonus. 

And then, I swung around and saw Sister Pister sitting in a strange position on her horse.  Turns out I'm not the only odd one in the family.  I guess she was practicing for goat tying on her foot.  At least that what's she said. 

And, finally, who takes a picture of a book on their own lap while at a rodeo?   I do. 

I do because, "Hi my name is Amy and I have attention issues.  The sun reflecting off the book in my lap caught my eye and I had to take a picture of it.  Now." 

I'm sorry if now you think I am a gopher hunting redneck who has attention issues.  Only one part of that is true.  I'll let you figure it out. 

A Little Therapy

Last week, we {I say "we" loosely here} had a Showdeo at the farm for wee little kids.  Kids that aren't quite ready to handle barrels, poles, key hole, and the flag race by themselves, but that already have a love for all things horse.  It was a perfect morning and I took a million and one pictures that are on my list to get out to the world, but first, I need to address some issues. 

Issue number one.  After a hot day of Showdeoing and then shop cleaning and then redneck dumpster driving and loading, Momma Debi, Pic, and I cracked into some wine in the evening.  I've decided to call the person married to Cousin B, Pic.  I call her Pic because she and I seem to end up doing weird, hard work together that always ends up in both of us laughing hysterically {case in point...dumpster driving and loading}.  So, I feel like she is my farm work partner in crime.  Therefore, Pic suits her.      

I guess it was this Australian wine to start with.  I don't know my wine.  I do know that it did its job in relaxing us and making me down right goofy.  I was a story-telling machine.  You really should have been there. 

I even had new material to share from that day.  The redneck dumpster driving and loading was quite the scene.  Let's just say someone {she just might be married to Cousin B} tried to use a hole in the dash of the old tonner pickup as a cup holder for her Diet Dr. Pepper.  When the can kept dropping and never found bottom, I had to tell Pic the hole was indeed a hole that had been made my mice, not a hole to be used as a cup holder. 

Then, there was a moment in the drive, when I wanted some sunflower seeds so I grabbed the bag with one hand and proceeded to dump seeds into the other hand.  Well, the old tonner pickup started to go in the ditch and I said to Pic, "Oh!  I forgot  was driving!  Will you dump some seeds for me?"  She did.  She's good like that. 

Then, while trying to stop the old tonner pickup going down a fairly steep hill, I was stung by a horse fly.  Yeah, that was a great.  I started grabbing the inside of my thigh and yelling like a mad woman, while trying to keep my foot on the clutch because I was mid-shift while also trying to steer one handed while also trying to keep my other foot on the brake so we didn't die.  We barely made it.  It was close.

So, needless to say, during story-telling and wine drinking time, everyone was in stitches.

  

The second bottle we cracked into was this lovely number. 

And, after finishing that bottle, I made a decision.  The decision is my issue number one.  Aren't you glad I can just get to the point without telling a bunch of random things first?  Anyways, here's issue number one...I really only like the wine that comes with a screw top.  What that says about me, I'm not sure and I don't think I want to know.  No corks, screw top wine all they way.  I'm so classy...someone should take me to vineyard. 

And, here's issue number two.  Issue number two is odd.  Like odd enough it might require that I need a little therapy.  Odd enough that I'm not even sure I should share, but I'm going to because I really think there might be others out there that have issue number two also and I'm all about making people feel less weird. 

Alright, here goes, issue number two is that I've started this odd behavior of not wanting to go to bed at night because I don't want to "unmake" the bed. 

Insert cricket chirping silence here.   

Yes, you heard me.  I don't want to "unmake" the bed, so I prolong going to sleep as long as possible.  Now, I've always been an obsessive neat freak, but never have I ever not wanted to go to bed because I have to "unmake" the bed.  It's a whole new weirdo problem I've developed this summer.

If that's not bad enough, it gets worse and I really shouldn't even admit this part, but again, I'm all about sharing my weirdness in hopes that you won't feel so weird.  One night, I even slept on the couch because I would not and could not "unmake" the bed.

Insert cricket chirping silence here.

Yes, I slept on the couch so my bed would still be neatly made in the morning, BUT...I only did that one night because I realized that is grounds for real therapy.  See how normal I am...I realized that was completely bananas and didn't do it again.   

Until last night. 

What can I say?  I have issues.