(R.H. Herron)
How flippin’ exciting is THIS? I mean, really. Go see Lala for the proof of what this album will do for you, but I’ve lost weight. That’s all I know. Makin’ no promises here, people, but there’ve been rumors that the pesky leprosy you’ve been worried about? It might help. Just a rumor.
Seriously. It’s great. Get it.
I’m all packed up to go to work:
Dayquil, check. (how does spellcheck recognize Nyquil and not Dayquil?)
Tissues with lotion, check.
Throat lozenges, check.
Tylenol, check.
Ginger tea and cold-care tea, check.
Bleargh.
BUT. I’m
now finally answering phones at work, having finally gotten the
requisite certs from the state, and I almost had my first baby last
night! Emergency medical dispatch is so different from all the cop
dispatching I’ve done, and so crazy-scary. I haven’t given unsuccessful
CPR yet, but I’m sure that’ll happen this week. Happens all the time.
But a baby! They award "storks" for births facilitated by dispatchers,
and I desperately want one. This lady last night, she was SO close,
pushing hard and steady, and she kept talking to me. I think I actually
did a little tiny bit of good calming her down (although a coworker
passed me a note that said "breathe." So I told her to breathe. He
points at me, no, you breathe!). Darn firefighters got there
just in time to pull the baby out, a little girl named Christine. So I
didn’t get to hear her first lungful of air, but I can’t wait until I
do get to hear that on the phone (I heard a coworker’s baby last week
— so little! I thought the caller had given birth to a mad cat!)
All right. Off to work. At least I can’t give my cold to the callers.
Which is a word, you know. About a million years ago, I think I typo-ed it to Lala, and now we actually say it. "Bleee-hah." Bleha. Worse than bleah.
Don’t feel well — I’d been fighting a turned ankle and a sore neck and a chipped tooth followed by novocaine ache, and now I’ve got a terribly sore throat with cold symptoms thrown in for fun. First noticed it when I got Bounced this morning at Mom’s house by two sisters eager to wake me up to go shopping. Usually I shout and bounce back at them, at least roar some rage, but this morning I just felt like weeping into my pillow while I rummaged underneath me for the earplugs I’d ripped out in sleepy terror.
But we did have a very nice turkey day — Mom and the sisters made an amazing meal, as usual. As usual, I’d had little to no sleep and ended up napping, which was for the best, since I’m never useful in the kitchen until the dishes are ready (although I managed to slice up my thumb while doing them this year — it’s been a rough couple of days).
Mom and Cromarty:
Due to my desire to get home before I totally got sick and to my own poor planning, I ended up renting a car this afternoon to come back to the bay area, not something that’s usually that much fun.
But dude, when they give you the Mustang convertible for no extra, because they’re out of the economy cars, you get home QUICK. I mean, of course I’d never speed. You know that. Of course not.
Also, this was taken while standing still. Sure it was.
As was this:
And this was how it felt to drive a Mustang:
It did not, however, detract from my Mini Cooper lust, which will not be fulfilled for a while, much as I would like it to be. Wonder if you can rent one?
Now, to the couch to Be Sick for a little while. Just made some veggies and I’m also breaking out the brie, because it will help. This I know.
So sleepy, got off work this morning, slept for two hours, made noises like a dying fish when the alarm clock went off at 10:15am, and got myself to the dentist for emergency re-filling. (I heart my dentist. I’m phobic, didn’t go for ten years, but Bruce got me back into dental health. Plus, he always has all the latest gadgets, computerized teeth imaging, DVD-on-demand, today it was a new little camera on a toothbrush-looking thing, which took an instant image that they showed me on a screen in front of my chest — look, we’re going to fix this here and here, and OH MY GOD, no, I guess that’s okay, we’ll leave that alone.)
So little-to-no sleep. This to say: I am woefully remiss in emails — there are about twenty in my inbox of the Reply variety. You know the kind. There are emails that you can dash out and clear from your inbox in about thirty-two seconds, and then there are those lovely ones that you want to take your time with…. I’ve had no time. Slap-dashing this post together is all I’ve got today. If I owe you an email, please know it’ll be coming. Soon. Ish.
Tonight I’ll be seeing my girl, for the second time in almost a month, literally, and tomorrow I’ll be headed south for turkey. Hope yours is nice, loving, and yarnful.
Too busy for more than this:
Look, Ma, I’m blocking!
Boy, do I hate blocking. I’m no good at it, I don’t have a blocking board, nor do I have enough pins. I used the shower curtain, woefully inadequate. Then I did a little blocking on the bed, then I gave up.
I’ll show you a real picture of it later this week, when I have time to eat and not drive at the same time….
Also, flowers smell nice. (That was printed on a pillowcase when I was teeny — it was the first sentence I ever read all by myself, I think.)
God bless Trader Joe’s. Five bucks for flowers that will last two weeks. Love ’em.
[quick] mwah!I made chicken on Friday night. Is there anything as nice as the smell of roast chicken filling a house? When the light falls faster, and the cars on the freeway look like a string of holiday lights, and it’s crisp outside, and all you can think of is knitting in front of the TV, cats on your lap, dogs on your feet?
I can’t even really brag about my chicken-cooking abilities, since this is what I do: Roughly chop one lemon into big chunks, chop a head of garlic into big chunks (don’t even worry about peeling the cloves), scissor up a bunch of rosemary, shove all of it into the chicken (thanking that nice free-range kosher chicken and wishing it well in the next life), then stick it in the oven, an hour and a half at 350. Forget about it. Basting, what’s basting? Doesn’t need it.
However. I got cocky. (Get it? Cocky? Chicken? Heh.) While chicken and some frozen veggies are fine for me for dinner, sister Bethany was coming over and I decided to show off. Surely you could cook veggies with a chicken like people do with a roast, right? (Not like I’ve ever done that, but still. How hard could it be?) So I cut up some potatoes, added a bunch of carrots and mushrooms, then threw some chopped shallots on top. Left it all to cook next to Mr. Chicken.
Yeah. Perfect chicken. That part come guaranteed like that. But guess what happens if you cook veggies like that? Yes. You get little potato rocks and hard small carrots that are all wrinkly and pathetic. It was to weep. Only a few of the mushrooms made it, and only those that were sitting in the chicken juice actually had a chance.
So I cooked up some zucchini with shallots, added the mushrooms and pretended that’s what I meant to do. And garlic bread. That always fixes everything, doesn’t it?
Still haven’t seen Lala. She’s back tonight from being a rockstar, but I’ll be at work. We’ll be ships in the Oakland night until Wednesday, and then I leave on Thursday for the holiday. Bah. But she doesn’t like chicken, so it worked out well for Friday night, I suppose.
Also: Saw Good Night, Good Luck. I can certainly see why people liked it. It did take me forty-five minutes to realize that it was in black and white. I loved the aesthetic. And the hair. But dude, I fell asleep like four times, and so did another guy. I never do that. So I suppose that’s a less-than-glowing review.
Okay. Off to work. Happy week, all. Oh! I finished a shawl thingie yesterday – remind me to show you!