I Regret

We grew jalapeno peppers in the greenhouse this year and knew we would never make enough curries and salsa to use them up fresh, so Steve found a way to preserve them with this recipe for Cowboy Candy (candied jalapenos).  The recipe indicated that I should wear gloves when slicing up the jalapenos but that would have involved a bus trip and I didn't feel like spending an hour with the unwashed, so I just skipped that measure (oh, Health and Safety!).

Fortunately, my hands only burned for the one day.

Special Songs

Friday morning Steve was singing 'That's Amore' while he prepared breakfast.

MBC: What did you just say?
Steve: When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie, that's amore!
MBC: Like a big piece of pie?
Steve: Yeah!
MBC: No, the song says, 'like a big pizza pie'
Steve: What?! Who's ever heard of a pizza pie?

And it went on for a bit while I asserted that everyone knows you can get a 'pie' and be referring to a pizza and Steve informed me that perhaps I'd never properly been in love because the song very clearly states that it feels like being hit in the eye with a piece of pie.

A few weeks ago I was singing about Puff the Magic Dragon and Steve commented that he would like some wax with which to seal his letters. Right in that very second (and not a moment before) I realized that Jackie Paper didn't bring Puff cleaning supplies (ceiling wax) but rather sealing wax. How curious.

It also took me years to understand that the song by The Bangles is about a manic Monday and not a man NAMED Monday. I always wondered why it would be better for him to be named Sunday.

Job Hazard

Last night at the book store I needed a stack of books that were currently part of a window display. I gingerly stepped into the window and gingerly bent to retrieve the books from the floor. An old woman was watching me from the street and I thought, "Yes, I work here. That's why I get to be in the giant display window." Then I straightened up and one of the displays signs wobbled and fell off the wall. The display sign is metal and quite heavy, which is how, even with the support of my knee, which I thrust under it, it managed to knock down the stack of books below it, crush a large decorative box, send several more display items further down the line flying, and pin me to the spot. The old woman was still watching and I eventually realized there was no way to escape. I couldn't move and more and more items were falling to the ground. I finally had to cry out for help and a co-worker released me from the sign, all under the watchful eye of the elderly.

Self Awareness

You know how there are things about yourself that you never notice? You do them and you don't think anything about them? Until you live with someone new? And he notices? And points it out? And you think, Oh, yeah, I guess I do do that. Steve recently brought something about me to my attention.

I sit on things.

When we're driving and I can't find the map and I'm digging through the glove compartment and pawing around in my bag trying to find it, Steve asks, Are you sitting on it? And I am. I always am.

On our trip to Ireland last weekend, I sat (on different occasions) on the map, Steve's hat, and the GPS device. I just get in the car and make myself comfortable with no notice of what's on the seat.

This probably explains that one time when my sister picked me up to drive me to work early in the morning. And she set her toast on the passenger's seat before she came to get me. And the toast was spread with honey. And I sat on it. And I went to work with sweet and sticky trousers.

Mishaps, Part 2

On Thursdays Steve works out of town, leaving around 7:00 am and returning around 9:00 pm, so yesterday I was home alone. We have some German bread mix and a bread machine, so it seemed like it would be an easy task to whip up a loaf of bread while I had the flat to myself.

I successfully pulled out the bread machine.
I successfully filled the bread machine with mix and water (measured in mL and grams!).
I looked at the many, unfamiliar bread machine buttons.
I picked some.
I pushed start.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I became resourceful.
I dumped the bread machine contents into a mixing bowl and stirred them up and left the dough to rise.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
The bread eventually rose in our cold kitchen and I couldn't find a bread pan.
I rummaged through the cupboards and found a square pan.
I decided that I would make German, whole wheat bread after the manner of cornbread, long and flat.
I let the bread rise in the square pan.
I looked at the many, unfamiliar buttons on the oven.
I picked one.
I shoved the bread in the oven and anticipated a 60 minute wait (the recommended cooking time on the bread bag).
I smelled baking bread.
Within 10 minutes the bread was firm and looked on its way to being overdone, and that, I discovered when Steve came home and I forced him to give me a tutorial of the oven and bread machine, is because I BROILED the bread. Yes, the fan symbol means convection, but the fan symbol with the wavy line means convection broiler.

The broiled bread was surprisingly delicious. Steve made a mega omelet and I made home fries and we slathered the bread in butter and it was delightful.

Why is my life still like chick lit?

Steve and I flew to Scotland on Monday. On separate flights. Six hours apart.

I left in the morning and flew to Minneapolis and then to Amsterdam, where I was informed that my final flight to Edinburgh was canceled. Not to worry, though, I was booked on a later flight, bought myself a baguette, and hung out in a waiting area with some confused travelers from India.

It was after, I arrived in Scotland that I had my little mishap. I was wearing my 35-lb backpack and pulling a 45-lb suitcase, with my elephant bag and my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. The bags were so heavy, and I was so tired. So heavy! So tired!

I bought my bus voucher to the train station and I hauled my heavy (heavy!) bags to the bus stop and wrangled the backpack and the giant suitcase onto the luggage racks. And that is the moment in which I realized that I no longer had my laptop bag (with my passport and cell phone inside). Fortunately, in that same moment, the woman who'd sold me my ticket at the information desk in the airport came to tell me she'd found my bag. Unfortunately, the bus driver didn't listen to my explanation of the situation and, while I ran back into the airport to pick up my laptop bag, the driver DROVE AWAY with my bags.

Oh, it's fun to explain to the punk, British kid at the bus ticket office that you're an idiot and have managed to send your bags to Waverley Station without you.

But it was fine, and I got the luggage back and successfully dragged it up the six flights of stairs to our flat with only a tiny bit of muttering (and maybe a teeeeeny bit of murmuring) about the arduousness of dragging heavy (heavy!) bags up so many, many stairs.

The End.

Miscommunications

Sometimes I'm not good at listening or hearing or understanding. Recently my friend's wife was in the library. Someone else was helping her at the reference desk, but as she was leaving we were doing the hey, how are you thing.

MBC: Hey, how are you?

Friend's Wife: I was playing softball last night and I missed a throw.

MBC (in head): That's really weird information to be giving me. Do you mean that it's been a long time since you've played? Because I used to go to your games and you never missed the ball.

MBC (out loud, working with what I'm given): Heh, you'll have to play some more.

Then she turned to walk away and I saw her huge black eye and the conversation suddenly made sense. And I realized that she'd just told me she had a black eye and I'd told her she's a bad softball player.

It was not unlike a conversation I had with E and her friend Heather the first week we were roommates when I asked E what she'd studied as an undergrad.

E: Communications (is that right? it suddenly seems wrong)

Heather: And men . . .

MBC (in head): Neither E nor Heather seem like the kind of people who would say that they majored in men, even if they dated every single hour of the day in college, but OK . . .

MBC (out loud): Oh, were you a big dater in college?

E: No.

Because Heather didn't say and men she said and THEN, as in E completed her bachelor's degree and then went onto get her master's and was now beginning her law degree.

Stuff I Don't Know

1. I used the word askance in staff meeting on Saturday and my co-worker commented that she'd never known how to pronounce that word before. I didn't either, but it didn't keep me from using it. I looked it up later and I totally pronounce it wrong.

2. It was more recently that I'd like to admit that I put it together that dachshunds are those little dogs. I assumed the name of those little dogs was spelled with an x (doxon?) and that it was just a strange thing that I never saw the name written anywhere. They are not a dog that appear frequently in literature.

3. I recently asked Marmot Dad to explain when it's appropriate to use a while and when it's appropriate to use awhile. Apparently, I didn't REALLY want to learn, though, because now all I can remember is parts of speech, something, something, didn't you learn this stuff when you studied Russian, something, something. My instruction didn't take. And, no, I didn't master parts of speak (although I have strong feelings about certain aspects of grammar) when I studied foreign languages. I was busy inventing ways to toss the word crocodile into my dialogue exercises. It's fun to say. Krokodil.

4. Geography

Constant Vigilance

This evening, in a restaurant, I reached for my wallet to pay my bill, and it was not there. Fortunately, it was on the car seat, where I had tossed it earlier in the evening, because I am a paranoid, paranoid, paranoid girl. I had been filling up my car with gas in a dark and lonely Sam's Club parking lot immediately before meeting friends for dinner, when I suddenly noticed that both the other cars filling up had pulled away and the only living soul around was a scary looking guy, leaning against his car and smoking. I naturally assumed that he was leaning against his car, smoking, and plotting how to (a) kidnap me (b) mug me or (c) hijack my car. Sooo, I tossed my wallet (which I was holding in my hand), into the car, onto the car seat, to minimize the likelihood that I'd be held at knifepoint by the parking lot man. Fortunately, he was just a smoker, not a hijacker.

Last week, I suspected one of our library patrons of having a bomb. He looked nervous and kept glancing at me when he got off the elevator (probably because I was sizing him up so I would have a good description to give to the police when I reported him for bringing a bomb into the library). I also thought I heard a metallic clanking coming from his bag. So, I called another librarian and made her promise to keep an eye on him. Just in case.

Once when I arrived at work early in the morning, there was an elevator repair truck in the parking lot. I IMMEDIATELY thought, That's the way the members of Tom Cruise's team infiltrated the FBI in Mission Impossible. Except with fire trucks. Same principle. I wonder if this truck is legit or if I should go ahead and call dispatch right now.

And there was that time I was on the metro in Russia late at night by myself. The only other person in my car was a middle-aged man. Part way through our ride, he reached inside his jacket. I was CERTAIN he was reaching for a gun and I was furiously plotting my escape and searching my brain for the appropriate Russian phrasing of Help! This man has a gun. It was actually cigarettes he was after, but you just never know.

Constant vigilance.

The Shame Channel

So, if you're a regular reader of my blog, you'll be familiar with the many things I do that make me wonder how I've made it to the age of 30 without setting myself on fire. I'm just not so bright sometimes and my not-so-brightness often leads me into embarrassing situations. Fortunately, the embarrassment tends to be brief. Like tonight. I was going to dinner. My friend picked me up. As we were walking across the parking lot, my friend told me that he'd parked next to me. So I walked over to the truck in the parking space next to my car. My friend was following me and he watched me walk over to the passenger door, but he wasn't opening the truck door for me, which I thought was odd, because he's the kind of fellow who usually opens doors. I pulled the door handle to let myself in, but it was locked, and my friend was still not making any moves to let me into the truck. I stepped back and waited. Which is when he told me that his vehicle was the car parked on the OTHER side of my car. Good thing the truck wasn't unlocked, eh?

Sometimes I Struggle

I forgot to bring my keys to work today. I don't know how. There are many things I cannot do without my keys. Many doors I cannot open. Many assignments I cannot fulfill. Someone from Tech Services let me into the library. Someone from Circulation let me into the workroom. Someone from Facilities opened the computer lab for me. Someone in my department let me borrow her keys to open the bathrooms. I managed that way for about 3 hours until it was finally brought to my attention that I could steal the storage key and use it for the day.

I also forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I just completely forgot that I do the eating in the morning, which is bad for so many reasons, starting with the fact that I get hungry around 10 am even if I DO eat breakfast and hungry librarian + annoying library patrons = rage. Forgetting breakfast this morning was especially sad, because I was planning on a SPECIAL breakfast today. And it's not even like I was rushed this morning. No, I was just lounging on the couch reading Breaking Dawn before I left for work.

AND I left my lunch at home in my refrigerator.

Sometimes I'm a real winner.

City Girl on the Farm

This weekend I visited Moo on her family's farm.



I collected eggs for our breakfast.



Real eggs from real chickens. Some of them were still warm.



I washed our eggs. I washed and washed and washed one egg. And then I said to Moo, "Um, is it supposed to have this, uh, woodgrain pattern on it?"



NO, it was not. It was a wooden decoy egg. I. am. smart.

Moo's brother pointed out that the woodgrain pattern and the flat bottoms should have been pretty obvious signs that the decoys (there were four) were wooden, but I was very busy keeping one eye on the chickens while collecting eggs. I don't have much experience with chickens (when my family lived in the country and my brother had chickens they were eaten almost immediately by dogs or foxes, as was our rabbit and the neighbor's goat, which, I believe, was eaten by OUR dogs), but I've had enough encounters with geese and emus to know that many feathered animals are wicked creatures with desires to attack me. You gotta be on high alert around them.


Once I stopped trying to prepare wooden eggs for us, we cooked up the actual eggs produced by the actual chickens.


Delightful.

Gracious Living

I started reading Sloane Crosley's book I was Told There'd Be Cake, which I really want to love but don't think that I do. I liked the first essay, though. The author discusses her worries about what will happen if she dies and people have to come into her apartment, which I worry about frequently, because sometimes I just don't get around to cleaning the bathroom for a while or there's too much chick lit on the shelves and I don't want people to get the wrong idea. Sloane specifically mentions the hazard of beginning a big reorganization project that doesn't get finished because of the need to stop and watch old sitcoms in a prom dress, which I also completely understand.

There was this one day when I'd recently moved into a new apartment in the ghetto. I was going through some of my things, when I decided that I needed to wear one of my old college formals, because it has a swishy skirt. I put it on and decided that I also needed to wear my boots, because when is it not a good time to wear boots? They always make me happy. And this was the year that I had a roommate who owned these goblets that made me extremely pleased. I drank all of my beverages out of a goblet that year. Orange juice from a goblet is just divine. AND if you're living in a ghetto, it's much easier to pretend that you live somewhere gracious if there's a goblet in your hand. So I was sitting in the living room, watching a talk show at 4:00 in the afternoon in a floor-length gown and boots, sipping a goblet of juice, when there was a knock at the door. I hesitated for only a moment before deciding that I wouldn't look like a crazy person by answering the door in my dress. How many people come to the door who don't know me anyway, right? Yeah. It was a man questioning everyone in the building about a recent theft. Did I mention how I was living somewhere a little bit dodgy? The police were there every few days and there was at least one big bust at the abandoned building across the street with 9 police vehicles including the k9 unit. And there I was living graciously in my formal wear on a Thursday afternoon.

Because I'm Smart (Again)

We have a new Italian restaurant in the area and it is delightful. I like Italian food but I don't usually like Italian restaurants. They tend toward bland, plastic-y pasta and a gimmicky atmosphere. This new restaurant, though, is an independent place owned and operated by a family from Florence. I love their homemade gnocchi. It is so soft. I think it's made by little Italian fairies and elves in some back room. Who sing songs while they work. And fill every bit of pasta goodness with LOVE. Kind of a magical Santa's workshop for Italian food.

Saturday night I had dinner with friends from work at this restaurant. When our food arrived, one of my co-workers ate a few bites and commented that this was the kind of food to savor and enjoy slowly. I nodded in agreement as I shoveled heaping forkfuls of gnocchi into my face. We waited half an hour to be seated and I was meeting someone to see a movie at 8:30 in the next town over. By the time we got our food, it was nearly 8:00. I wolfed down my pillowy soft pasta, made arrangements for someone else to pay my bill so I could leave quickly, and dashed out of the restaurant. As I was driving to my meeting place and wondering why I'd agreed to see a movie so soon after dinner, I suddenly realized that I had not. I realized that my movie didn't start at 8:30. It started at 9:30. Oops. I should have savored.

Because I'm Smart

Tomorrow is tax day, and I almost forgot to file my state taxes. I forgot even though I've been daily telling the public about why they do. not. need. the stimulus packet, if they're filing federal taxes and that no, they cannot have fifty-two copies of the state tax forms (in case they make mistakes) but they can have ONE and they'd better say Thank You for it (and mean it) because nowhere else in town has the forms, including the IRS office.

I forgot my own state taxes, because I filed my federal taxes in January. January was the Month of Financial Responsibility, so I read (part of) a Suze Orman book on finances and opened up a special investment account (with which I do not invest) and filed my federal taxes. And then it was February and all thoughts of tax preparation left my head. Fortunately, I remembered about the state taxes this weekend and completed and submitted them, even though this is the Month of Laziness and Illness. Now I'm eagerly awaiting my big state tax refund of, no joke, $3.00. Yay.