Dad's Commercial Credit buddy, Joe, called again yesterday afternoon. His wife, bless her soul, had told him that it would be more considerate if they let me know what their plans were prior to 4 PM ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON! Gee, do ya think?!!! It's not like I'm Samantha on Bewitched or Jeannie from I Dream of Jeannie and can just wiggle my nose or nod my head and things magically happen, although that's apparently the image that men still have firmly imprinted in their little brains.
They are coming to dinner. So now I have to clean and shop and cook. But at least I do have advance notice. Only men would think that you can wait until the absolute last minute to let someone know you're accepting their dinner invitation. When I threatened Dad with a menu of stuffed hot dogs and baked beans, he just laughed and said that would have been okay. Yeah, right. Men are such idiots. If I could wiggle my nose and makes things magically happen, things would be so much different. Of course I'd only use my power for good, my own good!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Of course, it's no trouble at all!!!
One of Dad’s old Commercial Credit buddies called this morning. He and his wife are driving down 95 on Sunday on their way to somewhere and want to have supper with us. They don’t know exactly when they’ll be here. Dad apparently offered to have them come to our house for supper. Then he thought that maybe he should run it by me. Of course, I said yes. What other answer could I give? But not only don’t they know when they’ll arrive, Joe also isn’t sure whether they’ll eat at our house or meet us at a restaurant. “That isn’t a problem, is it?” Dad asked, “I told him to just call us a couple of hours before they’ll be here to let us know what they want to do.”
Great. You can tell that Dad neither cleans, grocery shops, or cooks. Otherwise, he would realize that it’s much more convenient if you know whether guests are coming to dinner or not and approximately when they’ll arrive. I prefer more than a couple of hours notice. If company’s coming, that means more than the usual lick and a promise cleaning. It means eating in the dining room, which requires polishing the silver tea service, putting the pad on the dining room table, and ironing the tablecloth. I don’t normally do any of those things and I don’t particularly want to do them now unless it’s absolutely necessary. Which it’s not if we’re going to a restaurant.
And cooking dinner for guests is not as simple as feeding the two of us. I wonder how they feel about stuffed hot dogs and baked beans? That menu definitely doesn’t require any advance notice. Of course, it’s also not something I’m going to feed guests that we only see once a year. Too bad they aren’t aware of my policy of letting Dillon lick the dishes. That little piece of information usually scares off potential dinner guests. Then I wouldn’t have to sit here until Sunday afternoon wondering if I’m going to be fixing supper or not. Men are such idiots.
Great. You can tell that Dad neither cleans, grocery shops, or cooks. Otherwise, he would realize that it’s much more convenient if you know whether guests are coming to dinner or not and approximately when they’ll arrive. I prefer more than a couple of hours notice. If company’s coming, that means more than the usual lick and a promise cleaning. It means eating in the dining room, which requires polishing the silver tea service, putting the pad on the dining room table, and ironing the tablecloth. I don’t normally do any of those things and I don’t particularly want to do them now unless it’s absolutely necessary. Which it’s not if we’re going to a restaurant.
And cooking dinner for guests is not as simple as feeding the two of us. I wonder how they feel about stuffed hot dogs and baked beans? That menu definitely doesn’t require any advance notice. Of course, it’s also not something I’m going to feed guests that we only see once a year. Too bad they aren’t aware of my policy of letting Dillon lick the dishes. That little piece of information usually scares off potential dinner guests. Then I wouldn’t have to sit here until Sunday afternoon wondering if I’m going to be fixing supper or not. Men are such idiots.
More thoughts on an old chicken
Hint-read the post below, An old chicken, before reading this post.
Ever heard of the phrase, "a tough old bird"? It occurs to me that perhaps the reason the recipe for Stuffed Chicken with Rice calls for an old bird is because the cooks thought that was the best way to use a chicken that was too tough for dishes that required shorter cooking times. In the days when the recipe was developed, I'm sure they either raised their own chickens or bought them from a local farmer who knew exactly how old each of their chickens were. Today, with huge farming operations raising chickens on a strict schedule, I'm not sure you can even find an "old" chicken in the grocery store unless your store happens to carry organic foods or free range chickens.
Frankly, I don't want to know how old my chicken was. I prefer not to even have to think about its living conditions or life span. If I dwelled on those subjects, I'd probably become a vegan. Then cooking, and feeding Dad, would become incredibly complicated. So let me just go on being intentionally unaware of the lives my poultry, beef, and pork lived before arriving in my kitchen. Another old phrase comes to mind, "ignorance is bliss".
Ever heard of the phrase, "a tough old bird"? It occurs to me that perhaps the reason the recipe for Stuffed Chicken with Rice calls for an old bird is because the cooks thought that was the best way to use a chicken that was too tough for dishes that required shorter cooking times. In the days when the recipe was developed, I'm sure they either raised their own chickens or bought them from a local farmer who knew exactly how old each of their chickens were. Today, with huge farming operations raising chickens on a strict schedule, I'm not sure you can even find an "old" chicken in the grocery store unless your store happens to carry organic foods or free range chickens.
Frankly, I don't want to know how old my chicken was. I prefer not to even have to think about its living conditions or life span. If I dwelled on those subjects, I'd probably become a vegan. Then cooking, and feeding Dad, would become incredibly complicated. So let me just go on being intentionally unaware of the lives my poultry, beef, and pork lived before arriving in my kitchen. Another old phrase comes to mind, "ignorance is bliss".
An old chicken
There's an article in today's Washington Post, Pulling an all-nighter, about the best dishes to cook during long, cold winter nights; dishes that take slow cooking to the max. You set the oven as low as it will go and let the food cook for 10-12 hours. Since I'm always looking for new recipes, I checked it out. One of the recipes is for Stuffed Chicken with Rice. It's an old Iraqi Jewish recipe. Jewish tradition forbids cooking on the Sabbath, so they have lots of traditional recipes that can be prepared in advance and cook overnight.
The recipe sounds good and fairly easy, although I'm not thrilled about the part that instructs you to chop the livers and heart. But it calls for an "old bird" in the original recipe or "preferably not a young bird" in the updated version printed in the paper. "Perhaps because the bones would break down a bit for added flavor." So, apparently you want a chicken with osteoporosis. How exactly am I supposed to know the age of the chicken? It's not like they print that in the nutrition information section on the wrapper.
The recipe sounds good and fairly easy, although I'm not thrilled about the part that instructs you to chop the livers and heart. But it calls for an "old bird" in the original recipe or "preferably not a young bird" in the updated version printed in the paper. "Perhaps because the bones would break down a bit for added flavor." So, apparently you want a chicken with osteoporosis. How exactly am I supposed to know the age of the chicken? It's not like they print that in the nutrition information section on the wrapper.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Better With You There
Be patient, it takes a minute or two for the video to load.
Brace yourself for beauty, tears, and laughter, just like life with a dog. Enjoy...
Katie's been gone almost a year now. I adore Dillon, but I sure do miss Katie and Holly. A new dog fills the void and earns a new place in your heart, but they don't replace the one you lost.
The artist whose work is featured is Nancy Schutt. She does custom pet portraits. You can check out more of her work here.
The top picture is Katie. The bottom picture is Holly. For some reason, I couldn't get the names to post properly beside their photos.
Brace yourself for beauty, tears, and laughter, just like life with a dog. Enjoy...
Katie's been gone almost a year now. I adore Dillon, but I sure do miss Katie and Holly. A new dog fills the void and earns a new place in your heart, but they don't replace the one you lost.
The artist whose work is featured is Nancy Schutt. She does custom pet portraits. You can check out more of her work here.
The top picture is Katie. The bottom picture is Holly. For some reason, I couldn't get the names to post properly beside their photos.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Unstuffed Cabbage
"I know I haven't had this before," Dad informed me at lunch casting a dubious look at the main course. He was right. I found the recipe for Unstuffed Cabbage in the January 10 issue of Family Circle magazine. It definitely looks more elementary school cafeteria than fine dining, picture sloppy joes or spaghetti sauce with cabbage, but we both agreed it was good. Dad even said so twice.
Unstuffed Cabbage
Makes 6 servings
1 pound ground beef
1 medium-size onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1 can (29 ounces) stewed tomatoes
1 can (6 ounces) tomato paste
1½ tsp. dried parsley
1¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. sugar
¼ tsp. black pepper
1 small head cabbage, shredded, about 8 cups
Heat a large nonstick saucepan over medium heat. Add beef and cook for 6 minutes, until no longer pink, stirring occasionally. Drain fat. Stir in onion and cook 4 minutes. Add garlic; cook 1 minute.
Add tomatoes and paste. Break up tomatoes with potato masher. Stir in 1¼ cups water, parsley, salt, oregano, sugar and black pepper. Simmer 5 minutes.
Add half the cabbage and cook, covered, for 5 minutes. Add the remaining cabbage and simmer, covered, for 90 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Unstuffed Cabbage
Makes 6 servings
1 pound ground beef
1 medium-size onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1 can (29 ounces) stewed tomatoes
1 can (6 ounces) tomato paste
1½ tsp. dried parsley
1¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. sugar
¼ tsp. black pepper
1 small head cabbage, shredded, about 8 cups
Heat a large nonstick saucepan over medium heat. Add beef and cook for 6 minutes, until no longer pink, stirring occasionally. Drain fat. Stir in onion and cook 4 minutes. Add garlic; cook 1 minute.
Add tomatoes and paste. Break up tomatoes with potato masher. Stir in 1¼ cups water, parsley, salt, oregano, sugar and black pepper. Simmer 5 minutes.
Add half the cabbage and cook, covered, for 5 minutes. Add the remaining cabbage and simmer, covered, for 90 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
There ought to be a law
We've had 2 beautiful days in a row. I put the time to good use and raked up hundreds of the gumballs that were covering the ground in the backyard. I think sweetgum trees should be declared a public nuisance and it should be against the law to plant them within dropping distance of a neighbor's property. That wouldn't completely rid my yard of the gumballs since we have one sweetgum tree near the shed, but the neighbor's tree also drops the damn things in my yard. They make walking very unpleasant and potentially dangerous if, like Dad, you're already a bit unsteady on your feet. If I had kids, I'd offer a bounty for every gumball they picked up, like Dad used to do with dandelions when we were little.
This is the same neighbor that has a row of pin needle oaks on the property line between her driveway and my yard. Those are the meanest leaves to rake up that I've ever come across. I swear if she did her own yard work, she wouldn't be so fond of those trees. Her husband wanted to cut them down once and she threatened to chain herself to the trees in protest. Since he was the one that did the raking, I guess he shared my opinion. Don't get me wrong, I like the neighbor and I like trees; I just find these trees incredibly annoying when it's time to rake.
Tomorrow it's supposed to rain and then turn cold again. It's beginning to feel like spring will never get here. Of course inside we're celebrating a number of different holidays. A poinsettia arrangement is still on the dining room table flanked by 2 gold deer, a snowman cookie jar is sitting on the kitchen table while a string of shamrock lights is hung over the pass-through, and a Luck O' the Irish St. Patrick's Day wreath is hanging on the den door. I still have a string of red heart lights on the bookshelves in my study. We're festive if schizophrenic. I did take the snowman garden flag down and remove the snowflake wreath from the front door. I wouldn't want Frosty to think I was lobbying for a repeat performance.
This is the same neighbor that has a row of pin needle oaks on the property line between her driveway and my yard. Those are the meanest leaves to rake up that I've ever come across. I swear if she did her own yard work, she wouldn't be so fond of those trees. Her husband wanted to cut them down once and she threatened to chain herself to the trees in protest. Since he was the one that did the raking, I guess he shared my opinion. Don't get me wrong, I like the neighbor and I like trees; I just find these trees incredibly annoying when it's time to rake.
Tomorrow it's supposed to rain and then turn cold again. It's beginning to feel like spring will never get here. Of course inside we're celebrating a number of different holidays. A poinsettia arrangement is still on the dining room table flanked by 2 gold deer, a snowman cookie jar is sitting on the kitchen table while a string of shamrock lights is hung over the pass-through, and a Luck O' the Irish St. Patrick's Day wreath is hanging on the den door. I still have a string of red heart lights on the bookshelves in my study. We're festive if schizophrenic. I did take the snowman garden flag down and remove the snowflake wreath from the front door. I wouldn't want Frosty to think I was lobbying for a repeat performance.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Waiting for number 3
It’s probably safer to stay far, far away from me right now. I’m waiting for my 3rd disaster.
Tuesday evening I decided to do a load of laundry. Now sometimes I start the machine and then go on my merry way and disappear to the other end of the house or even take Dillon for a walk. This time, as luck would have it, I was pulling kitchen duty at the same time the machine was running. I was just finishing the dishes, and had let Dillon outside, when I heard a strange sound coming from the direction of the washing machine. It sounded like splashing water, sort of like a fountain. Only this sound was definitely not soothing, it set off alarm bells in my head. I went to investigate and discovered water underneath the machine and on the wall behind the machine.
I quickly stopped the washer, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed on top of the machine to see if I could discover the source. My first thought was a busted hose. Nope, they were all intact. It looked like the water had come out around the pipes in the wall. About this time, Dad came ambling through the kitchen. “There’s something wrong with the washing machine,” I informed him. Why I thought it was a good idea to share the news, I don’t know. By the time we finish misunderstanding each other and discussing possibilities, I’m usually better off if I try to solve things without his help. We pulled the machine away from the wall and didn’t know any more than we did before.
“Call the plumber,” was Dad’s solution. “I’ll call the plumber, but the real test is going to be if you hear him when he comes,” I replied. “Well tell him someone will be here all day and to keep ringing the bell until I come to the door.” That could be never. When I’m expecting a repairman, I listen out for them. Not only is Dad hard of hearing, he doesn’t think he should have to change his routine. Forget sitting in the living room where you’re closer to the door and can see the driveway. He’s still going to sit in the den, nose in a book, completely oblivious to what’s going on around him. Katie would have alerted him by charging to the door, barking wildly at the top of her lungs. Dillon is more likely to just keep snoozing or walk quietly away from the door. Maybe we do need a second dog just for these type of situations.
Luckily the plumber came first thing the next morning when I was there to hear the bell. Turns out we had a clogged drain pipe. Probably full of dog hair accumulated over the years, but I didn’t ask. That was disaster number 1. More an inconvenience really, since the laundry room didn’t flood and the plumber came quickly so we didn’t have to resort to turning our underwear inside out to get 2 days wear out of it. That suggestion comes courtesy of my Uncle Bud.
Disaster number 2 rates much higher on the scale. I was putting lunch on the table yesterday. We were having leftover Tuscan pork loin. The casserole dish was full of piping hot pork loin and cannellini beans in a hearty tomato sauce. Somehow I lost my grip on the dish as I was lowering it to the table. It fell out of my hands, bounced and skidded across the table, knocking Dad’s full water glass over in the process, and finally came to a stop at the table’s edge. Pork loin, beans, and tomato sauce had sprayed in one direction and the water had flooded the table in the other. Dad and I both stood there in shock for a couple of seconds, staring at the mess. Then I started running for a towel, cussing my head off, while Dad still stood there dumbstruck. Dillon was ahead of us. He was already licking up chunks of pork loin and beans off the carpet as fast as he could. He went back for the tomato sauce later. It sort of reminded me of that movie title, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
I handed Dad the towel to start sopping up the water. I grabbed paper towels and tried to work around Dillon to start blotting up the tomato sauce. Dillon had already consumed all of the pork and beans. He’s better than a vacuum cleaner. There was tomato sauce all over the carpet and even worse, it had sprayed onto the back of my couch. Dad and I worked in silence, blotting, sopping, and trying to straighten up the mess. When we’d done all we could, I reset the table and we sat down to eat the remaining portion of Tuscan pork loin. Dad added special thanks in the blessing that there was some left for us. At this point, I was wondering why something clear couldn’t have been on the menu, like chicken noodle soup, or solid like baked chicken; anything that wouldn’t have splattered and stained like tomato sauce.
We agreed that at times like that, it was good that we haven’t yet replaced the carpet. My dogs had long ago added a beige patina to the upholstery when they used it for a good back rub. Still, tomato sauce? I was not happy. “The important thing is that nothing broke and no one got hurt. What if you’d had to pick up broken glass too?” Dad asked. So, brownie points to Corning Ware for making tough casserole dishes. I don’t know who manufactured the water goblets, they came from the Dollar Tree, but they didn’t shatter either. Still, the only one really happy about the sequence of events was Dillon, who had an unexpected feast.
I went to work hoping the third disaster wouldn’t befall me there. I was relieved when 4:30 arrived and all of the office machines were still working. I stopped at Food Lion on the way home in search of upholstery cleaner. They don’t carry it. I bought a red velvet cake instead. I needed cake. Comfort food is important, especially when you’re waiting for disaster number 3.
Tuesday evening I decided to do a load of laundry. Now sometimes I start the machine and then go on my merry way and disappear to the other end of the house or even take Dillon for a walk. This time, as luck would have it, I was pulling kitchen duty at the same time the machine was running. I was just finishing the dishes, and had let Dillon outside, when I heard a strange sound coming from the direction of the washing machine. It sounded like splashing water, sort of like a fountain. Only this sound was definitely not soothing, it set off alarm bells in my head. I went to investigate and discovered water underneath the machine and on the wall behind the machine.
I quickly stopped the washer, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed on top of the machine to see if I could discover the source. My first thought was a busted hose. Nope, they were all intact. It looked like the water had come out around the pipes in the wall. About this time, Dad came ambling through the kitchen. “There’s something wrong with the washing machine,” I informed him. Why I thought it was a good idea to share the news, I don’t know. By the time we finish misunderstanding each other and discussing possibilities, I’m usually better off if I try to solve things without his help. We pulled the machine away from the wall and didn’t know any more than we did before.
“Call the plumber,” was Dad’s solution. “I’ll call the plumber, but the real test is going to be if you hear him when he comes,” I replied. “Well tell him someone will be here all day and to keep ringing the bell until I come to the door.” That could be never. When I’m expecting a repairman, I listen out for them. Not only is Dad hard of hearing, he doesn’t think he should have to change his routine. Forget sitting in the living room where you’re closer to the door and can see the driveway. He’s still going to sit in the den, nose in a book, completely oblivious to what’s going on around him. Katie would have alerted him by charging to the door, barking wildly at the top of her lungs. Dillon is more likely to just keep snoozing or walk quietly away from the door. Maybe we do need a second dog just for these type of situations.
Luckily the plumber came first thing the next morning when I was there to hear the bell. Turns out we had a clogged drain pipe. Probably full of dog hair accumulated over the years, but I didn’t ask. That was disaster number 1. More an inconvenience really, since the laundry room didn’t flood and the plumber came quickly so we didn’t have to resort to turning our underwear inside out to get 2 days wear out of it. That suggestion comes courtesy of my Uncle Bud.
Disaster number 2 rates much higher on the scale. I was putting lunch on the table yesterday. We were having leftover Tuscan pork loin. The casserole dish was full of piping hot pork loin and cannellini beans in a hearty tomato sauce. Somehow I lost my grip on the dish as I was lowering it to the table. It fell out of my hands, bounced and skidded across the table, knocking Dad’s full water glass over in the process, and finally came to a stop at the table’s edge. Pork loin, beans, and tomato sauce had sprayed in one direction and the water had flooded the table in the other. Dad and I both stood there in shock for a couple of seconds, staring at the mess. Then I started running for a towel, cussing my head off, while Dad still stood there dumbstruck. Dillon was ahead of us. He was already licking up chunks of pork loin and beans off the carpet as fast as he could. He went back for the tomato sauce later. It sort of reminded me of that movie title, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
I handed Dad the towel to start sopping up the water. I grabbed paper towels and tried to work around Dillon to start blotting up the tomato sauce. Dillon had already consumed all of the pork and beans. He’s better than a vacuum cleaner. There was tomato sauce all over the carpet and even worse, it had sprayed onto the back of my couch. Dad and I worked in silence, blotting, sopping, and trying to straighten up the mess. When we’d done all we could, I reset the table and we sat down to eat the remaining portion of Tuscan pork loin. Dad added special thanks in the blessing that there was some left for us. At this point, I was wondering why something clear couldn’t have been on the menu, like chicken noodle soup, or solid like baked chicken; anything that wouldn’t have splattered and stained like tomato sauce.
We agreed that at times like that, it was good that we haven’t yet replaced the carpet. My dogs had long ago added a beige patina to the upholstery when they used it for a good back rub. Still, tomato sauce? I was not happy. “The important thing is that nothing broke and no one got hurt. What if you’d had to pick up broken glass too?” Dad asked. So, brownie points to Corning Ware for making tough casserole dishes. I don’t know who manufactured the water goblets, they came from the Dollar Tree, but they didn’t shatter either. Still, the only one really happy about the sequence of events was Dillon, who had an unexpected feast.
I went to work hoping the third disaster wouldn’t befall me there. I was relieved when 4:30 arrived and all of the office machines were still working. I stopped at Food Lion on the way home in search of upholstery cleaner. They don’t carry it. I bought a red velvet cake instead. I needed cake. Comfort food is important, especially when you’re waiting for disaster number 3.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
He looks different
I took Dillon to the vet for a routine visit yesterday. Michelle, the vet tech, asked why he looked different. He doesn’t look different to me, but then I see him every day and it's been several months since Michelle saw him. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but kept insisting that he looked different. I finally asked if we could put him on the scale. Turns out, he’s lost another 4 lbs. Now this is not a bad thing since he was overweight when I brought him home. He’s happy and energetic and looks good.
We let Dillon lick the plates when we finish eating. Although they overfed him at his previous home that was something they’d obviously never done because he used to just lay on the floor with his head on his paws calmly waiting for us to finish eating. Now he lays on the floor staring up at me while I eat or sometimes comes to sit silently by the table to stare at me more forcefully when it’s something that smells particularly enticing.
As he was licking the plate to get the last toast crumb this morning, I told Dad that Dillon probably misses his old home where they didn’t try to starve him and force him to scrounge for sustenance by licking the dregs off their discarded dinner plates. Dad assured me that we’d probably extended his life through diet and exercise. I still wonder what goes through Dillon’s mind. Despite the stingy rations, he is a happy boy.
We let Dillon lick the plates when we finish eating. Although they overfed him at his previous home that was something they’d obviously never done because he used to just lay on the floor with his head on his paws calmly waiting for us to finish eating. Now he lays on the floor staring up at me while I eat or sometimes comes to sit silently by the table to stare at me more forcefully when it’s something that smells particularly enticing.
As he was licking the plate to get the last toast crumb this morning, I told Dad that Dillon probably misses his old home where they didn’t try to starve him and force him to scrounge for sustenance by licking the dregs off their discarded dinner plates. Dad assured me that we’d probably extended his life through diet and exercise. I still wonder what goes through Dillon’s mind. Despite the stingy rations, he is a happy boy.
Olympic hits and misses
I am loving the Olympics. Although I must admit to being seriously annoyed with NBC for not airing the final pairs of figure skaters until after 11 p.m. Now figure skating is not my favorite competition, way too much soap opera type drama for me, but NBC’s timing struck me as a naked ratings grab and lousy thing to do. There are plenty of school kids and people who actually have to get up in the morning and go to work that either had to miss the final 4 couples or stay up way past their bedtimes. Maybe they could have rescheduled Mary Carrillo’s polar bear feature for late night?
I felt really badly for the Canadian couple. It must be heartbreaking to spend so many hours working and practicing and then not perform your best at the Olympics, especially when it’s being held in your home country. The music they chose only made the mistakes and entire program more poignant. I loved their costumes, so understated and yet glamorous, but I must admit to wondering if UPS was one of their sponsors. Still, it was refreshing to see her wearing something more reminiscent of Grace Kelly than a pole dancer or Las Vegas showgirl.
Of course, today my problem is too many choices. The biathlon, curling, and ice hockey are all getting extended coverage today. The US and Canadians both play their first men’s ice hockey games. That’s must see tv for me. And as I stated below, I’m a huge curling fan. I also find the biathlon oddly fascinating. I’ll be taping everything, but how on earth am I going to find time to watch it?
I felt really badly for the Canadian couple. It must be heartbreaking to spend so many hours working and practicing and then not perform your best at the Olympics, especially when it’s being held in your home country. The music they chose only made the mistakes and entire program more poignant. I loved their costumes, so understated and yet glamorous, but I must admit to wondering if UPS was one of their sponsors. Still, it was refreshing to see her wearing something more reminiscent of Grace Kelly than a pole dancer or Las Vegas showgirl.
Of course, today my problem is too many choices. The biathlon, curling, and ice hockey are all getting extended coverage today. The US and Canadians both play their first men’s ice hockey games. That’s must see tv for me. And as I stated below, I’m a huge curling fan. I also find the biathlon oddly fascinating. I’ll be taping everything, but how on earth am I going to find time to watch it?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Winter games
Yesterday was the perfect snow. There was a light covering on the ground, none on the street or walk, but the bushes and tree branches were draped in a robe of white. It was beautiful. Then it warmed up and the sun came out and it all disappeared. Well, almost all. There are still patches here and there. People keep quoting that old wives tale about how those little patches of snow are hanging around waiting for more. I think we all need to go out with blow torches, hairdryers, pots of boiling water, and anything else we can get our hands on that's hot enough to melt snow and get rid of all those lonely piles. I've had enough now.
Although I must admit that between the snow and the cold, I'm definitely psyched for the Winter Olympics. I'm particularly looking forward to the hockey, the ski jumping, and of course the curling. I became obsessed with the sport of curling during the last Winter games. I don't understand the rules, but that's part of the fascination. Dad couldn't stop laughing when I told him that I planned to tape the curling coverage that will air in the afternoons while I'm at the office. It's not like curling is a sport that has a television deal. You can only see it every 4 years. Not that I'd want to watch it more often than that. The novelty would probably wear off. But I do enjoy watching men wield brooms.
Although I must admit that between the snow and the cold, I'm definitely psyched for the Winter Olympics. I'm particularly looking forward to the hockey, the ski jumping, and of course the curling. I became obsessed with the sport of curling during the last Winter games. I don't understand the rules, but that's part of the fascination. Dad couldn't stop laughing when I told him that I planned to tape the curling coverage that will air in the afternoons while I'm at the office. It's not like curling is a sport that has a television deal. You can only see it every 4 years. Not that I'd want to watch it more often than that. The novelty would probably wear off. But I do enjoy watching men wield brooms.
Happy Hearts Day!
Isn't this the cutest card? The dogs are made of fabric with little button eyes. The colors are so fresh and unexpected. I just love it. My friend, Sudie always sends the best greeting cards.
Dad earned huge brownie points for the box of heart-shaped chocolates with a picture of a basset hound on it. I baked Dillon heart-shaped dog biscuits. Dad got a cherry pie topped with cut-out pie crust hearts. So everybody's happy.
To be honest, when given a choice Dad usually opts for apple pie. But I told him when I baked the pie on Saturday that this time he was getting cherry in honor of Valentine's Day and Presidents Day. It's important to stick with a theme on holidays. He agreed that it looked very festive and he does like cherry pie. I wouldn't force him to eat cherry pie just because it fit the theme even if he did make multiple disparaging comments about my twinkling pink lights.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Where in the world?
I enjoyed the Opening Ceremonies for the Olympics last night. It's always refreshing to see the joyful, excited faces of the athletes when they march in. Of course last night the ceremony was overshadowed by the tragedy of the death of the Georgian luger.
During the parade of nations, a country marched in that I'd never heard of before, Andorra. It's a principality, located between Spain and France, that is approximately the size of New York City with a population of 84,500. Dad didn't watch the event, so I was telling him about it this morning.
I couldn't remember the name of the country, only that it began with an "A". He tried guessing. Aruba? Now given that I had told him that the country was located between Spain and France, I didn't think that was a very good guess. I was also rather insulted that he thought I'd never heard of Aruba. His next guess was Liechtenstein. Number one, that doesn't begin with an "A". Number two, how dumb does he think I am that I'd never have heard of Liechtenstein?
My geography skills are unquestionably poor. I need a map or a globe and plenty of time to find the location of most countries, but I've usually at least heard the names before. You'd be amazed at the names of countries you can learn simply from reading romance novels. A lot of the 80's and 90's era authors were big on featuring princes and sheiks as the heroes. Then of course the spy/thriller/military romance books are set in all sorts of exotic locales. And I do read the newspaper and keep up with current events.
Obviously Andorra has maintained a pretty low profile, no wars, civil unrest, catastrophic weather events, etc. They have 6 athletes in the games, mostly skiers. I wonder if any of them will get any airtime or if their one claim to fame will be marching in the Opening Ceremonies? I wonder if the exposure will increase their tourism, which is a big part of their economy? I wonder if Dad will buy me a globe for my birthday since that's as close as I'm ever likely to come to physically touching the principality of Andorra?
During the parade of nations, a country marched in that I'd never heard of before, Andorra. It's a principality, located between Spain and France, that is approximately the size of New York City with a population of 84,500. Dad didn't watch the event, so I was telling him about it this morning.
I couldn't remember the name of the country, only that it began with an "A". He tried guessing. Aruba? Now given that I had told him that the country was located between Spain and France, I didn't think that was a very good guess. I was also rather insulted that he thought I'd never heard of Aruba. His next guess was Liechtenstein. Number one, that doesn't begin with an "A". Number two, how dumb does he think I am that I'd never have heard of Liechtenstein?
My geography skills are unquestionably poor. I need a map or a globe and plenty of time to find the location of most countries, but I've usually at least heard the names before. You'd be amazed at the names of countries you can learn simply from reading romance novels. A lot of the 80's and 90's era authors were big on featuring princes and sheiks as the heroes. Then of course the spy/thriller/military romance books are set in all sorts of exotic locales. And I do read the newspaper and keep up with current events.
Obviously Andorra has maintained a pretty low profile, no wars, civil unrest, catastrophic weather events, etc. They have 6 athletes in the games, mostly skiers. I wonder if any of them will get any airtime or if their one claim to fame will be marching in the Opening Ceremonies? I wonder if the exposure will increase their tourism, which is a big part of their economy? I wonder if Dad will buy me a globe for my birthday since that's as close as I'm ever likely to come to physically touching the principality of Andorra?
In the pink
I stopped at Walgreen’s yesterday to pick up a few last minute Valentine’s supplies. They had advertised a sale on Dove dark chocolate hearts, but the milk chocolate variety were the only choice left. I picked up a Valentine’s card for Dad. There are very few choices for fathers, but I found one with a cute dog on the front. Standing in line to checkout, I saw the display of twinkling pink lights they’d also advertised that I hadn’t been able to find on the shelf. I like lights so I picked up a box of those too.
I plugged them in this morning to see what they look like. They shine a nice bright fuchsia pink color and random bulbs twinkle. Even the cords are pink. They’d be great in a little girl’s room in a jar as a nightlight or wrapped around a curtain rod or branch. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do with them, but as I told Dad, you don’t see pink twinkling lights very often, so you have to grab them when you do. Dad’s response was that perhaps there was a reason for that.
After the first look of horrified shock when he saw my prize, he broke into hysterical laughter and wound up having to take off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Pink lights,” he kept repeating in amazement. “You’re not going to put them out front. Maybe you could put them out back somewhere that the neighbors won’t see them,” he said with concern. “I didn’t get them to put outside for the neighbors. I got them to use inside for me to enjoy.” “Thank goodness,” came the swift reply. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them yet, but I’m thinking they’d look nice in a jar.” “An opec one I hope,” he said. “What?” “An opec jar.” I still looked confused. “You know the kind that’s solid and you can’t see what’s inside.” “Opaque,” I said, suddenly understanding the insult.
“I never thought about putting them outside. Maybe after Valentine’s I’ll see if they put them on half-price. I could buy enough to wrap the step railings.” My neighbor, who’s on the city council, would probably have an ordinance passed banning pink twinkling lights. The thought sent Dad into another round of hysterical laughter. “They’ll be nice for spring,” I continued. “They’ll probably set spring back,” he said. “If Big Lots still has any of the pink metallic hearts left, I could fill a jar with those and the pink lights. It would be very festive.” He gave a shudder.
He still can’t grasp why anyone would manufacture, much less purchase, pink twinkling lights. “You have no sense of style,” I informed him. “Well, if you like pink twinkling lights, I’m worried about yours,” he said. Maybe the twinkling is a little over the top, but I like my lights. They’re fun. If I never take them out of the box, I more than got my money’s worth from the enjoyment that Dad got out of sparring with me over them.
I plugged them in this morning to see what they look like. They shine a nice bright fuchsia pink color and random bulbs twinkle. Even the cords are pink. They’d be great in a little girl’s room in a jar as a nightlight or wrapped around a curtain rod or branch. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do with them, but as I told Dad, you don’t see pink twinkling lights very often, so you have to grab them when you do. Dad’s response was that perhaps there was a reason for that.
After the first look of horrified shock when he saw my prize, he broke into hysterical laughter and wound up having to take off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Pink lights,” he kept repeating in amazement. “You’re not going to put them out front. Maybe you could put them out back somewhere that the neighbors won’t see them,” he said with concern. “I didn’t get them to put outside for the neighbors. I got them to use inside for me to enjoy.” “Thank goodness,” came the swift reply. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them yet, but I’m thinking they’d look nice in a jar.” “An opec one I hope,” he said. “What?” “An opec jar.” I still looked confused. “You know the kind that’s solid and you can’t see what’s inside.” “Opaque,” I said, suddenly understanding the insult.
“I never thought about putting them outside. Maybe after Valentine’s I’ll see if they put them on half-price. I could buy enough to wrap the step railings.” My neighbor, who’s on the city council, would probably have an ordinance passed banning pink twinkling lights. The thought sent Dad into another round of hysterical laughter. “They’ll be nice for spring,” I continued. “They’ll probably set spring back,” he said. “If Big Lots still has any of the pink metallic hearts left, I could fill a jar with those and the pink lights. It would be very festive.” He gave a shudder.
He still can’t grasp why anyone would manufacture, much less purchase, pink twinkling lights. “You have no sense of style,” I informed him. “Well, if you like pink twinkling lights, I’m worried about yours,” he said. Maybe the twinkling is a little over the top, but I like my lights. They’re fun. If I never take them out of the box, I more than got my money’s worth from the enjoyment that Dad got out of sparring with me over them.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Cute hats!
I've got the Olympic Opening Ceremonies on. I love the toboggan caps that Team USA is wearing. They're knit with a design featuring trees and moose.
They showed a preview of the ski jumping, which I always enjoy. Remember Eddie the Eagle? I found myself wondering what the first person was thinking when they invented that sport. Who in their right minds would think that flying through the air with a pair of sticks on your feet was a good idea? I bet it is an amazing rush. Not that I'll ever know. I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground.
They showed a preview of the ski jumping, which I always enjoy. Remember Eddie the Eagle? I found myself wondering what the first person was thinking when they invented that sport. Who in their right minds would think that flying through the air with a pair of sticks on your feet was a good idea? I bet it is an amazing rush. Not that I'll ever know. I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground.
Yum!
It’s Girl Scout cookie time. I love the peanut butter patties. I stock up every year and then ration them out a box at a time. I heard on the news that cookies had arrived, so it was time to start searching for a source.
When I was at the mall, it was easy. The Scouts were there every weekend selling cookies. Since I left, it’s been harder to find them. Our local Scouts aren’t real good about advertising where they’ll be. You sort of have to stumble across them. Apparently they set up out at Walmart sometimes, but I never shop there.
The office manager has 2 granddaughters. Just taking a stab in the dark, I asked her today if either of them happened to be Scouts. I was delighted to learn that they both are and they’ll be stopping by the office on Monday with cookies. I plan to have my money ready.
When I was at the mall, it was easy. The Scouts were there every weekend selling cookies. Since I left, it’s been harder to find them. Our local Scouts aren’t real good about advertising where they’ll be. You sort of have to stumble across them. Apparently they set up out at Walmart sometimes, but I never shop there.
The office manager has 2 granddaughters. Just taking a stab in the dark, I asked her today if either of them happened to be Scouts. I was delighted to learn that they both are and they’ll be stopping by the office on Monday with cookies. I plan to have my money ready.
Misery
It’s funny how all of the people who were so excited before the first snow have now joined my camp and groan when the forecasters announce the newest storm. For the third Saturday in a row, we’re supposed to have snow. I suggested that Dad might want to turn his car around so that it’s backed into the driveway. “I’m not going anywhere.” “I know that. But if it snows and then gets cold on Saturday night like they’re predicting the windshield will be easier to clean off Sunday morning if the car is backed in.” Of course, I realize that will take all the challenge out of turning around the car, blind, in the driveway after the fact. Since it was my suggestion, of course he sat right there and refused to even consider it. I’m not scraping his windshield.
I really feel for the florists in the Baltimore/DC area. Valentine’s Day is the equivalent of Christmas for them. It’s going to be a challenge delivering all those bouquets in the mess they still have up there. When I mentioned to Dad that I felt sorry for the florists, he asked why. He was completely oblivious to the fact that Valentine’s Day is this weekend.
The entire dinnertime conversation last night revolved around the Carolina-Duke game and the importance of the point guard in basketball. I don’t care why we’re losing, it looks to me like there’s plenty of blame to go around. At lunchtime when I heard the report that Davis will be out for the rest of the season with a broken wrist, Dad’s response was, “Remember the conversation we had last night about how important the point guard is?” “I’m tired of talking about point guards,” I said. In fact, I’m tired of listening to him dissect Carolina’s game. “I think you should start supporting your own team. Pull for Wake Forest for a change.” “But they’re not a very good team,” he replied. “Then start looking forward to baseball season or develop an interest in the Winter Olympic games,” I suggested.
Thank heavens he's not a hockey fan. Last night he informed me, "I just can't get into hockey. I've tried, but I just can't get interested." "Good. I'm not interested in hearing you tell me what the Hurricanes are doing wrong. I'm much happier with you not being a fan." He just laughed and walked off.
I really feel for the florists in the Baltimore/DC area. Valentine’s Day is the equivalent of Christmas for them. It’s going to be a challenge delivering all those bouquets in the mess they still have up there. When I mentioned to Dad that I felt sorry for the florists, he asked why. He was completely oblivious to the fact that Valentine’s Day is this weekend.
The entire dinnertime conversation last night revolved around the Carolina-Duke game and the importance of the point guard in basketball. I don’t care why we’re losing, it looks to me like there’s plenty of blame to go around. At lunchtime when I heard the report that Davis will be out for the rest of the season with a broken wrist, Dad’s response was, “Remember the conversation we had last night about how important the point guard is?” “I’m tired of talking about point guards,” I said. In fact, I’m tired of listening to him dissect Carolina’s game. “I think you should start supporting your own team. Pull for Wake Forest for a change.” “But they’re not a very good team,” he replied. “Then start looking forward to baseball season or develop an interest in the Winter Olympic games,” I suggested.
Thank heavens he's not a hockey fan. Last night he informed me, "I just can't get into hockey. I've tried, but I just can't get interested." "Good. I'm not interested in hearing you tell me what the Hurricanes are doing wrong. I'm much happier with you not being a fan." He just laughed and walked off.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Saints Marched In
We all know that I'm not a football fan, but I must admit to enjoying the game. I was pulling for the Saints. As someone who grew up in Baltimore, I just can't pull for the INDIANAPOLIS Colts, ever. I also have to admit to feeling like the city of New Orleans deserved a win after everything they've been through.
I didn't find the commercials as entertaining as in past years. All of the Bud Light commercials bored me except for the one at the end with the Clydesdales and the bull. I thought the Dorita commercials were very clever. Loved the one with the dog and the shock collar although I have to admit to some concerns that it will give children the incentive to use the collars improperly. The Letterman and Google ads are getting lots of favorable press and they were very clever. I also kind of liked the one for Intel where the robot's feelings are hurt. And the Denny's commercials with the screaming chickens grew on me.
Did Carrie Underwood think she was auditioning for a part on the Jetsons? What was with that outfit she wore? The Who were pathetic. If I got invited to perform at halftime at the Super Bowl, I'd view it as a sign that as a performer, I was completely washed up and definitely a has-been. They looked old and their voices just weren't up to recreating the vocals of their long-ago hits. They should stick to licensing their songs for commercial use. Better to be remembered in your prime, not as old men trying, and failing, to recapture your glory days.
I didn't find the commercials as entertaining as in past years. All of the Bud Light commercials bored me except for the one at the end with the Clydesdales and the bull. I thought the Dorita commercials were very clever. Loved the one with the dog and the shock collar although I have to admit to some concerns that it will give children the incentive to use the collars improperly. The Letterman and Google ads are getting lots of favorable press and they were very clever. I also kind of liked the one for Intel where the robot's feelings are hurt. And the Denny's commercials with the screaming chickens grew on me.
Did Carrie Underwood think she was auditioning for a part on the Jetsons? What was with that outfit she wore? The Who were pathetic. If I got invited to perform at halftime at the Super Bowl, I'd view it as a sign that as a performer, I was completely washed up and definitely a has-been. They looked old and their voices just weren't up to recreating the vocals of their long-ago hits. They should stick to licensing their songs for commercial use. Better to be remembered in your prime, not as old men trying, and failing, to recapture your glory days.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Work smarter, not harder
When Dad and I went out to get in the car to go to breakfast, he discovered that the windows were covered with frost and needed to be scraped before we could go anywhere. Usually he warms the car up while he’s waiting for me to get ready. I keep telling him he’s going to look out there one day and the car’s going to be gone, but that hasn’t stopped him in the past. I guess he just wasn’t thinking this morning. I’ve also tried to tell him that if he’d back the car into the driveway, the sun would help melt the frost on the windshield so he’d have less scraping to do. That advice also went in one ear and out the other.
When I got to the car, he had already started it up and was fiddling with the knobs to get the heater and defroster going. I tried to open the passenger door and it wouldn’t move. I waited for him to notice me standing there. He doesn’t always hit the remote enough times to unlock all the doors. He started climbing over the gearshift and pushing on the passenger door from the inside. There was a thin glaze of ice, so the doors had apparently frozen shut. I pulled, he pushed, and we still got nowhere. He finally looked at the lock and realized he had only unlocked his door. Once he took care of that little oversight, we got the door open.
I sat in the car and waited for him to clear the windows. He scraped the side windows and then got back behind the wheel and started to put the car in gear. “What are you doing?” I demanded. He hadn’t made any effort to scrape the windshield and there wasn’t a single clear space you could see through. “Relax. I’m just going to turn the car around in the driveway so the sun can shine on the front windshield and help me get the frost off.” “How are you going to do that when you can’t see where you’re going?” I asked incredulously. “I can see well enough to turn the car around.” I held my breath and wondered if we were going to need a tow truck and/or an ambulance before he was finished, but he did manage to do it.
Of course given that the sun was only going to be striking the windshield for a couple of minutes, it seemed like a lot of wasted effort to me, but what do I know. When he finished one side of the windshield, he walked around the back of the station wagon to get to the other side. The distance would have been shorter if he’d gone around the hood. I suppose he didn’t want his body to block the sun’s rays?
I couldn’t help noticing that he was using the long-armed scraper with attached brush that I’d given him last winter. When I originally gave it to him, he didn’t want it, saying disparagingly that the long-armed ones didn’t scrape as well. Maybe you can’t put quite as much downward pressure on them, but they’re nice for short people who can’t reach as far. It seemed to work just fine this morning and he even used the brush to wipe away some of the frost he’d scraped loose.
When he finished and got into the car, he informed me that he’d had quite a workout. He only gave me 2 of his fried potatoes this morning claiming he needed an extra helping after all that exercise. Before you think I’m too hardhearted, I did shovel his car out and clean it off when it was covered with snow last week, but I let him take care of normal scraping himself. I wouldn’t want him to get the idea that I think he’s too decrepit.
When I got to the car, he had already started it up and was fiddling with the knobs to get the heater and defroster going. I tried to open the passenger door and it wouldn’t move. I waited for him to notice me standing there. He doesn’t always hit the remote enough times to unlock all the doors. He started climbing over the gearshift and pushing on the passenger door from the inside. There was a thin glaze of ice, so the doors had apparently frozen shut. I pulled, he pushed, and we still got nowhere. He finally looked at the lock and realized he had only unlocked his door. Once he took care of that little oversight, we got the door open.
I sat in the car and waited for him to clear the windows. He scraped the side windows and then got back behind the wheel and started to put the car in gear. “What are you doing?” I demanded. He hadn’t made any effort to scrape the windshield and there wasn’t a single clear space you could see through. “Relax. I’m just going to turn the car around in the driveway so the sun can shine on the front windshield and help me get the frost off.” “How are you going to do that when you can’t see where you’re going?” I asked incredulously. “I can see well enough to turn the car around.” I held my breath and wondered if we were going to need a tow truck and/or an ambulance before he was finished, but he did manage to do it.
Of course given that the sun was only going to be striking the windshield for a couple of minutes, it seemed like a lot of wasted effort to me, but what do I know. When he finished one side of the windshield, he walked around the back of the station wagon to get to the other side. The distance would have been shorter if he’d gone around the hood. I suppose he didn’t want his body to block the sun’s rays?
I couldn’t help noticing that he was using the long-armed scraper with attached brush that I’d given him last winter. When I originally gave it to him, he didn’t want it, saying disparagingly that the long-armed ones didn’t scrape as well. Maybe you can’t put quite as much downward pressure on them, but they’re nice for short people who can’t reach as far. It seemed to work just fine this morning and he even used the brush to wipe away some of the frost he’d scraped loose.
When he finished and got into the car, he informed me that he’d had quite a workout. He only gave me 2 of his fried potatoes this morning claiming he needed an extra helping after all that exercise. Before you think I’m too hardhearted, I did shovel his car out and clean it off when it was covered with snow last week, but I let him take care of normal scraping himself. I wouldn’t want him to get the idea that I think he’s too decrepit.
All the hype
I'm convinced that if the Super Bowl was played in any other month it wouldn't garner nearly the same amount of attention. I attribute the frenzy to the lack of other alternatives. The exciting Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's holiday season is over. Valentine's Day hasn't yet arrived. It's cold and dreary and we're all in sort of a blah period. That's why the entire country gets so excited about 1 football game. If it was played in March and had to compete with the NCAA tournament, or anytime in the spring/summer when the weather is beautiful and we could all be playing outside, we'd hardly notice it. That's my theory anyway.
That said, it's the one football game I always turn on just so I'll know what everyone's talking about the next day. I put down my book or magazine and look up during the commercials and read and take bathroom breaks during the game. I don't even know who's singing the National Anthem this year, but my vote for best celebrity rendition ever at a Super Bowl goes to Cher. She was terrific. I do know The Who is performing at halftime. I was a Who fan in college, but I find the spectacle of a bunch of 60 year old men rocking on stage a bit bizarre and bordering on distasteful. Yeah, mentally I'm still guilty of thinking I'm in my 20's or 30's too, but I try to behave a little more befitting my age in public.
I do plan to catch some of the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet this afternoon. Maybe between the Penguins/Capitals hockey game and the actual Super Bowl. I hope the Penguins and Capitals are able to make it to the arena to play. The game is in DC which could make things interesting.
Speaking of Winter Sports, anyone looking forward to the Olympics? I get so frustrated with the way the networks cover the games that's it's hard to get too excited. Last time I remember becoming totally obsessed with the sport of curling. Probably because it was mainly shown on the cable networks so they let you see the entire competition as opposed to all the stupid warm and fuzzy People magazine type profiles of the athletes. I tune in to the Olympics to see the competition, not a Lifetime movie short. I hope they show the ice hockey on a network that I get given that league play will be suspended while all the best players are competing at the Olympics.
For heaven's sake, Face the Nation just came on and Bob Schieffer is broadcasting from the stadium where the Super Bowl will be played later today. CBS has jumped the shark. It's just a football game!
That said, it's the one football game I always turn on just so I'll know what everyone's talking about the next day. I put down my book or magazine and look up during the commercials and read and take bathroom breaks during the game. I don't even know who's singing the National Anthem this year, but my vote for best celebrity rendition ever at a Super Bowl goes to Cher. She was terrific. I do know The Who is performing at halftime. I was a Who fan in college, but I find the spectacle of a bunch of 60 year old men rocking on stage a bit bizarre and bordering on distasteful. Yeah, mentally I'm still guilty of thinking I'm in my 20's or 30's too, but I try to behave a little more befitting my age in public.
I do plan to catch some of the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet this afternoon. Maybe between the Penguins/Capitals hockey game and the actual Super Bowl. I hope the Penguins and Capitals are able to make it to the arena to play. The game is in DC which could make things interesting.
Speaking of Winter Sports, anyone looking forward to the Olympics? I get so frustrated with the way the networks cover the games that's it's hard to get too excited. Last time I remember becoming totally obsessed with the sport of curling. Probably because it was mainly shown on the cable networks so they let you see the entire competition as opposed to all the stupid warm and fuzzy People magazine type profiles of the athletes. I tune in to the Olympics to see the competition, not a Lifetime movie short. I hope they show the ice hockey on a network that I get given that league play will be suspended while all the best players are competing at the Olympics.
For heaven's sake, Face the Nation just came on and Bob Schieffer is broadcasting from the stadium where the Super Bowl will be played later today. CBS has jumped the shark. It's just a football game!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Mud pies, anyone?
If you're looking for a tasty recipe or just want to gaze at some wonderful food photos, check out The Pioneer Woman's blog. I keep reading those wonderful recipes and wishing our local grocery stores stocked Gruyere cheese. When you want anything more exotic than Swiss, you're pretty much out of luck around here. I must remember to check out Harris Teeter next time I'm in Rocky Mount.
I was really pressed for time on Thursday and settled for making one of my desperation menus: corned beef hash, cabbage, black-eyed peas, and baked cornbread. The corned beef, diced potatoes, and black-eyed peas all came out of a can. You should have seen Dad's eyes light up when I called him to the table. "Nancy, this all looks really good." You would have thought I was serving him a gourmet meal. He had a second helping of everything and complained that he ate too much.
I think he was just really grateful to see things he recognized. I've been trying out some new recipes recently and he hasn't always been a fan. He does admit the cauliflower salad recipe is a keeper. And although he looked quite dubious when he peered into the pot, he agreed that the stove-top rice pudding I whipped up the other day was really good on a cold night. Unlike the baked kind I've made in the past, it was super creamy.
Yesterday it rained so hard that our backyard turned into one big puddle. The basement floor was covered in water, but not deep enough to threaten the hot water heater or furnace. It snowed big beautiful flakes for about an hour, but nothing stuck. It just started snowing again a few minutes ago. According to the weatherman, we may get an inch or two, but it's not supposed to stick around.
Thank goodness I have some LLBean duck shoes because the Canal Trail is rapidly turning to mud. Dillon and I passed one man walking a white German Shepherd the other day. The dog was rapidly turning red from the mud.
I was really pressed for time on Thursday and settled for making one of my desperation menus: corned beef hash, cabbage, black-eyed peas, and baked cornbread. The corned beef, diced potatoes, and black-eyed peas all came out of a can. You should have seen Dad's eyes light up when I called him to the table. "Nancy, this all looks really good." You would have thought I was serving him a gourmet meal. He had a second helping of everything and complained that he ate too much.
I think he was just really grateful to see things he recognized. I've been trying out some new recipes recently and he hasn't always been a fan. He does admit the cauliflower salad recipe is a keeper. And although he looked quite dubious when he peered into the pot, he agreed that the stove-top rice pudding I whipped up the other day was really good on a cold night. Unlike the baked kind I've made in the past, it was super creamy.
Yesterday it rained so hard that our backyard turned into one big puddle. The basement floor was covered in water, but not deep enough to threaten the hot water heater or furnace. It snowed big beautiful flakes for about an hour, but nothing stuck. It just started snowing again a few minutes ago. According to the weatherman, we may get an inch or two, but it's not supposed to stick around.
Thank goodness I have some LLBean duck shoes because the Canal Trail is rapidly turning to mud. Dillon and I passed one man walking a white German Shepherd the other day. The dog was rapidly turning red from the mud.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Excellent
“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”
--Aristotle
I like that thought. I’m using it to encourage myself that I am making progress at work and I will become an excellent paralegal.
A light bulb went off the other day when I was working on something that I hadn’t previously understood intellectually, but was simply filling in the blanks as instructed. I suddenly made the connection between the information I was inputting and the way it was going to be used in the final document. Don’t you love it when that moment of understanding finally arrives?
Now if I could just arrive at that aha moment with my noisy computer. I finally steeled my nerves and removed the cover last night. That was a big step for me because the connecting cables to all of the peripherals are so short that just pulling the tower out of the cabinet far enough to be able to remove the cover is nerve-wracking. I had to disconnect the monitor, which was annoying. I went through all of that only to discover that the 2 fans I could see were not the source of the noise. They were dirt-free and functioning properly. The noise is coming from what I think is the power supply.
I made the mistake of putting everything back together before I e-mailed one of my cousins, who is good with computers, for help. He suggested something else I should look at. Of course, his comment began with, “While you already have the cover off.” Now I’ve got to go through the whole process again. I’m thinking about taking a picture to point out where the noise is coming from. For all I know, it’s not even the power supply.
Up until now I’ve been sort of like that really annoying man in a tv commercial that ran a year or so ago. The family was riding in the car and the wife complained about a noise. He turned up the volume on the radio and started singing loudly, claiming problem solved. I haven’t been turning up the volume, but I have been trying to ignore the problem hoping it would resolve itself. That plan isn’t working so far. I’m afraid if I don’t do something, silence is going to arrive when the computer stops working. In which case, silence will definitely not be golden.
--Aristotle
I like that thought. I’m using it to encourage myself that I am making progress at work and I will become an excellent paralegal.
A light bulb went off the other day when I was working on something that I hadn’t previously understood intellectually, but was simply filling in the blanks as instructed. I suddenly made the connection between the information I was inputting and the way it was going to be used in the final document. Don’t you love it when that moment of understanding finally arrives?
Now if I could just arrive at that aha moment with my noisy computer. I finally steeled my nerves and removed the cover last night. That was a big step for me because the connecting cables to all of the peripherals are so short that just pulling the tower out of the cabinet far enough to be able to remove the cover is nerve-wracking. I had to disconnect the monitor, which was annoying. I went through all of that only to discover that the 2 fans I could see were not the source of the noise. They were dirt-free and functioning properly. The noise is coming from what I think is the power supply.
I made the mistake of putting everything back together before I e-mailed one of my cousins, who is good with computers, for help. He suggested something else I should look at. Of course, his comment began with, “While you already have the cover off.” Now I’ve got to go through the whole process again. I’m thinking about taking a picture to point out where the noise is coming from. For all I know, it’s not even the power supply.
Up until now I’ve been sort of like that really annoying man in a tv commercial that ran a year or so ago. The family was riding in the car and the wife complained about a noise. He turned up the volume on the radio and started singing loudly, claiming problem solved. I haven’t been turning up the volume, but I have been trying to ignore the problem hoping it would resolve itself. That plan isn’t working so far. I’m afraid if I don’t do something, silence is going to arrive when the computer stops working. In which case, silence will definitely not be golden.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tar Heel Blues
Dad informed me Sunday night that the only thing you could say about Carolina’s loss to Virginia was that it was embarrassing. Naturally, by Monday he’d thought of much more to say on the subject. He expounded at length about Carolina’s problems. My response was that at least we hadn’t humiliated ourselves in front of the President of the United States like Duke did Saturday. He thought that was going pretty far in search of a silver lining. “Well, at least the whole ACC Conference sucks this year,” was my next offering. He didn’t think being the worst of a bad conference was any consolation either. I assured him that it would be far worse being the only team that sucked.
“It’s going to be a long season,” he mourned. “I don’t know, it looks like it’s going to be a pretty short season to me,” I said. I think Roy Williams is going to have a lot of time to spend on the golf course if his heart can stand the stress of the remaining games left before the NCAA Tournament begins. Because at this point, I don’t see an NCAA Tournament bid in our future.
“It’s going to be a long season,” he mourned. “I don’t know, it looks like it’s going to be a pretty short season to me,” I said. I think Roy Williams is going to have a lot of time to spend on the golf course if his heart can stand the stress of the remaining games left before the NCAA Tournament begins. Because at this point, I don’t see an NCAA Tournament bid in our future.
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