You're Doing It Wrong

View Out Front This Morning
It’s supposed to get in the 50s today. I have a million errands and chores to do including some quality time in the backyard cleaning up hedge debris. I actually woke up in the middle of the night last week and realized that hedge debris is heaped on top of a bunch of new bulbs. I need to give them room to grow.

We’re Celebrating Valentine’s Day with Hummus

Here’s a photo of the baked treats. Looking at that makes me want to make them again, but spring is coming and we have to fit into our pants. Also, this week I discovered the existence of something called a pepperoni roll and I’m going to have to make a pan of that instead. We can always get bigger pants.

We’re not big on Valentine’s Day in our house but I do a little something at the office.

The first year I brought Star Wars valentines (the kind that cost $2 for a box of 36 at Target) and left one on everyone’s desk.

Last year I got Pirates of the Caribbean valentines with tattoos and got heart pencils at Target and put Devil Duckies on them. (Example of last year’s in photo)

This year I got Scoobie Doo valentines and gave Marie Antoinette head pops. (also in photo) It was between that and Unicorn Power Gum but I hate grape flavor. Bob had a great idea that I could bake cupcakes and stick the Marie pops in them. And that would have been funny but a logistical nightmare since I would have had to make them on Wednesday night and then carry them all to work on the bus.

As it was I had to keep telling people, “It’s Marie Antoinette’s head.”

Land of the Lost
I’m big on putting things away in their proper place. It’s not a system or belief, it’s how I maintain my sanity. I can’t stand not knowing where things are.

Last night the soy sauce was sitting next to the stove and since I didn’t know how it figured into the dinner plan, I stuck it back in the cupboard.

Then we sat down to eat and apparently it fit into Bob’s dinner plan.

B: Where’s the soy sauce? I wanted to use it.

Me: It was by the stove so I put it away. If you wanted to use it you should have put it on the table.

I know. I was feeling a bit testy. Bob got up from the table and opened the cupboard. After one second:

B: I can’t find it.

Me: Don’t make me go over there.

Then he made a production of turning on the big overhead light, like it was too dark to see properly. I looked over my shoulder and could see the soy sauce in the cupboard from where I was sitting.

Me: It’s next to the olive oil. Looking for something means looking in places other than where you expect it to be.

Bob: Did you learn that since you married me?

Me: No, I work for [names of attorneys redacted].

I’m not even sure that was the right response because the attorneys don’t look for things at all. They ask me to find something and I spend a half hour looking high and low and pulling my hair out and then in despair, going into their office and moving a few papers around and finding it on their desk.

Some time ago a friend of mine sent me some information on a baking contest. The grand prize was an insane amount of money, I can’t remember how much. Maybe $5,000. It was one of those where you had to use the sponsor’s product in your recipe.

I had an idea for recipe that would be a variation on cinnamon rolls and involve almond paste.

Like many of my brilliant cooking project ideas, I never got around to making it and this stupid box of almond paste has been staring at me ever since.

This is one of my current on-going missions: I’m trying to clear out my cupboards of the random stuff that gets shoved to the back that you never end up using. Like when you buy a weird vinegar for a particular recipe or you know how you sometimes get a gift basket and it has a jar of kiwi-cumin spread? And every time you open your cupboard you see this jar of kiwi-cumin spread and you feel personally responsible to Aunt Phyllis who so thoughtfully sent you that basket that you can’t get rid of it?

I’m trying to figure out how to use all those things.

I thought I’d throw together some cinnamon rolls this weekend. The dough (which I think of as d’oh!) didn’t look too impressive on the first rise and I was sort-of concerned this was going to be another disaster. Also, I’m not so good at volume estimates. They always say “until roughly doubled in volume.” Whatever genes or brain matter you need to figure that out, I am woefully lacking.

See those droplets on photo #2? I’m just a hair this side of sane when it comes to kitchen cleanliness and I wash my hands a lot, like if run in the laundry room to transfer clothes to the dryer when I get back to the kitchen I wash again. That’s my dripping hands over the d’oh! reaching for a paper towel.

Look how nicely the second rise went except you can see where they want to unroll. There was this I Love Lucy cakes on a conveyor belt moment when I couldn’t get the dang thing to roll up right and I was rolling and unrolling and trying to tighten up the roll like a sleeping bag.

After I started making them I realized that almond paste is among the bottom 10 flavors Bob likes to enjoy and he would be really sad if came home to a wonderful tray of cinnamon rolls and then had blucky almond paste flavor.

So I left it out and now that stupid box is back in the cupboard.

I didn’t remember to take a photo of the final baked product until after we’d eaten half of them. The photo is still in the camera. They were really delicious as they should be since they had over a half stick of butter and a cup of half-n-half in them. I have the last one left for after lunch.

Sunshine and 55 degrees of rain-free goodness. We went for a walk.

Crying Gets the Sad Out of You

I’m a crier.

I cry when I’m sad, mad, frustrated, over-tired, sick, angry, my feelings are hurt, any remotely heart-wrenching moment of a book, TV or movie and probably some times I can’t think of right now.

When I was younger I would sometimes curse myself for being “too sensitive” because people sometimes told me that: I was too sensitive.

Who even says that? Compared to what? Maybe they weren’t sensitive enough. Why isn’t that considered a negative quality? All those people should be rounded up and publicly flogged. Then we’ll see who cries.

You can sense that not only am I over it, I now feel it is my lifelong mission to help individuals who are uncomfortable around crying people experience a moment of personal growth by having me cry in front of them.

It helps that I live with a man who doesn’t blink twice when I cry. If my feelings are hurt he gives me a hug and says nice things about me and if it’s because of a hurt puppy or that scene in The Whale Rider where Paikea does her speech for her Grandfather about how it’s nobody’s fault that she’s a girl that makes me cry even thinking about it, he gives me a hug and says nice things about me.

Sprout from the Fall Bulb-Tacular

I also come from a family of criers. My cousins are the best. We sit around when we’re all together and try to outdo each other on the most humiliating public crying experience:

“I cried at the DMV.”

“Oh yeah? I cried at my parent-teacher conference.”

Then we all laugh and argue about who had to be carried out on a stretcher after Steel Magnolias.

With books and movies I usually sniffle a bit but don’t really fall apart. About once a year I am majorly undone by a show or movie and most recently this was with Dr. Who at the end of season two when (spoiler alert for a show that originally aired in 2006) we lost Rose Tyler. Wah, Rose Tyler. What’s the Doctor going to do without Rose Tyler? He’s already started his 2nd season without her so I’m guessing just fine. But still.

Other books and movies that particularly undid me that I can think of right now: A Prayer for Owen Meany, Pan’s Labyrinth and that episode of Angel where Angel turned human and spent the day with Buffy all happy and doing human things but then had to be turned back into a vampire and Buffy wouldn’t remember their day together.

I talked to one of my weepy cousins the other day, the one that cried at the DMV, and she told me she was getting ready to watch a movie with her daughter, Finding Neverland. Even though I was really pissed that no one warned me how sad that movie is, I didn’t let on. I just said, “Oh, it’s really good.”

The Secret Emissions Test

Yesterday the Jezebels had an item about women and crying. I’ve been working on a post about crying but I accidentally deleted my notes and I’ve reconstructed them but haven’t gotten around to writing the thing out. I’m not in the mood today so maybe later this weekend.

I had to get my car smogged this morning. I wanted to take a photo but it’s not allowed so instead, a photo of rusty saw blades in Grandma’s shed. I’m almost chuffed enough to write a letter to the state and accuse the contractors who do the emissions inspections of having something to hide. Seriously, what harm could possible come of a person taking a few photos of her car at the stupid emissions station? It wasn’t like I wanted a tour.

I always leave that place with a bad attitude. There was no line and I drove right up and within 30 seconds, seriously, I didn’t even have the window rolled down all the way or even say hello, the lady grabs the ticket out of my hand, (you take a ticket when you drive in for no discernible reason) and bombards me with a series of questions and instructions without waiting for a response: I need your registration or emissions test notice, and $15, what year is the car? what make? how many cylinders? I need to open the car door. It’s locked. Ma’am, can you unlock this please? Ma’am?

Maybe I’m talking myself up, but I don’t think I’m a complete idiot and I was totally discombobulated. What happens when an elder person comes in?

I passed my test and don’t have to go back for 2 years. Yay.

Here’s our back hedge where tree pruner guy whacked it back. You can see at the top how out of control it is. He only pruned as far as he could reach on the ladder. I contacted the home owner that owns the house next door. He doesn’t live up here. I didn’t want him to think I was complaining, just letting him know that this might be something he wanted to take care of and we had a person who could do it. He said it sounded great and he’d get back to me and I haven’t heard. I’m afraid if I mention it again he’ll think I’m a pain in the ass.

You can see on the ground all the clippings. We need to rake that all up and I need to have the yard debris service started back up. Except it’s been 40 degrees and raining since August. (Slight exaggeration.) When am I ever going get out there to clean up?

Here’s the great hook project of 2008. I had a bunch of hooks so I got out my drill and put them on the side of the entertainment center and turned it into an organizational area for spare keys and cellphone charging cords. And Bob’s school ID. We used to have a single hook right by the door and it kept falling off because there were too many things hanging on it.

Guess who was back last week? Window washer guy. This time he had a partner and they used a whole rig to go up and down. Not just a sling and a rope. It seemed a lot faster with this method. I knew he was coming and had my camera out and as I snapped photos I was yelling at him and telling what a popular feature he was on my blog. He kept saying, “What?”

I can hear the guy with the rainbow suspenders who plays the Star Wars theme on the trumpet at the bank building 4 blocks away, but window washing guy can’t hear me on the other side of the glass? I don’t get it.

Emergency Outfit
We moved to the new office three years ago. If interested, you can read about it: Part 1, Part 2 and the final wrap up. I had completely blocked out how horrible that was.

For some reason, it seemed plogical to keep a spare change of clothes at the office in case I got stuck in a downpour and didn’t want to sit around in wet clothes. I guess my thought was that I had just started the public transportation thing and had to walk and wait in places with minimal shelter so it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.

Three years later, I have never used it. It wasn’t my finest outfit in the first place and it looks especially dingy now. But I’m afraid that the minute I take it home (and immediately burn it) a plate of lasagna will fall on me or I’ll sit in dog poop or some other catastrophe and I’ll have no spare clothes to save me.

There’s A Party in My Precinct
I’m in the middle of an epic week. This is the third of a series of extra long days. I’m starting to get a wee bit raggedy around the edges.

I don’t like to talk about politics here, but I will mention that this Saturday both parties are having their precinct caucuses. I participated for the first time 4 years ago and was completely enraptured with the political process: all these people who got up early on a Saturday morning and went to the meeting spot – we had such a big turnout they had to move us to a larger room and it was still really crowded. Some people brought their kids and we stood around with our neighbors talking about candidates. Wow, here we are, regular people and we’re gathering in a safe and sane environment to choose our leader. Isn’t America great?

Shortly after this amazing opportunity to participate in the process, I realized that it was like putting our name and phone number on a billboard. During election season we get endless phone calls. And we have different last names so times it by two.

And these aren’t just the recorded calls that you can hang up on and not feel bad. Actual people call us and then want us to donate money, put a sign in our yard, pass around fliers and join them in calling people at home who were stupid enough to put their name and phone number on a piece of paper at a precinct caucus.

It made me mad so now I don’t want to do it again. I don’t even know what the point is because we have a ballot primary as well. Nice to know at least our state has money to burn.

Bob says he’s going and every half hour I remind him: Don’t give them our phone number.

Many years ago William Shatner was on Saturday Night Live and there was a skit that was set at a Star Trek convention and all these slathering fans were out geeking each other with arcane Shatner trivia while he was trying to give a speech.

Finally, Shatner says, “What’s the matter with you people?” Then he gestures to one pointy eared fan and says, “You. Yes, you. Have you ever touched a girl?”

That line is what was going through my head as I watched a documentary called King of Kong with Bob yesterday.

In case you haven’t heard of it, it’s a documentary about the world of competitive arcade gaming. No, I’m not making this up. There is a World of Competitive Arcade Gaming. They have world records and competitions and some men, who were socially arrested somewhere around age 7, now as grown men, are still pushing each other on the playground and vying for the title of best video arcade game player, ever.

The movie played like a SNL skit. It was hard to believe and also a little sad, to see these grown people with their entire identity tied up in this “major accomplishment” of having the highest score at an arcade game.

It’s worth watching purely as an anthropological exercise.