sueeeus

I like Show and Tell. It’s a fun diversion. Today’s topic is “something in your kitchen that you cannot live without”. So here it is. The Classic Checkerboard Cake Pan Set. In its original box. Okay, kidding. It’s never been used. I’m waiting for my little boy to be big enough to be thrilled by a checkerboard cake. Assuming he doesn’t wind up with diabetes problems that tend to run in the family. Having had gestational diabetes, I’m told that he will be more susceptible to the disease. And since two of my siblings and both parents have it, the odds increase. So. There’s always Splenda.

I love kitchen gadgets and whatnot. But what can I not live without Hmmm. I almost posted my coffee mill, as that is extremely important, but I go in and out of coffee drinking phases. That left me with two possibilities of those things that are used most.

Here we have the Cutco Hardy Slicer. If I could have only one knife, this would be it. It has a serrated edge and cuts through meat, tough items, veggies, tomatoes (very important to be able to slice a tomato without destroying it), cheese, whatever. An all around good knife. Nice and heavy. I don’t so much like the plasticy handle, but what can you do. Yes, I tend to cave when the peddler’s give impressive sales demonstrations. At least I didn’t give in and buy the whole set.
And here we have the asparagus pot. I know, what’s so great about an asparagus pot Well, see, it is tall and narrow and has a basket and a lid with a steam hole and a heavy base. All good attributes. I use it for pasta with the basket, and it doesn’t take donkey’s years and forever to boil the water. I use it for popcorn, sans basket, because I love stove top popcorn, and again, it pops up and fluffy and there’s less burnage with the smaller surface area, allowing for a nice big batch of fluffy hot popcorn. YUM! One of my favorite things. And it works great for steaming veggies – using the basket again. Easter time Boil up a bundle of eggs and fish ’em out with no problem with a slick lift of the basket. It’s good for soups. It would probably be good for deep frying if I were into that. So you see, it’s an all-around good pot.

October Challenge – Self documentary series

A new challenge for Self Portrait Tuesday. The self documentary. My first is blue, parce que je suis malade.

The better part of my life is spent at my desk, which is littered with a cacophany of papers, post-it notes, lists, pens, medicine bottles, two computers, a mouse, a mousepad, a coaster, coffee cup, cell phones and their accompanying power cords, camera interface cable and power cord, a calculator, mail, notepads, reports, receipts, coupons, various and sundry other objects, and, buried somewhere beneath it all, a large desk calendar. That is just the desk surface. Beneath the desk is a jumble of electric cords, a kicked off pair of shoes that I will have trouble finding later, the ever-present Lactina to which I am attached by two long plastic tubes. Pan upper right, where the chaos encroaches other parts of my home. The Sunday paper on the entry floor, still in its wrapper. A floor littered with toys, diaper bags, baby paraphernalia. Lower right. Me. Aching head. Aching body. Raw throat. Disgusting wretched phlegm clinging to my bronchi. Burning cough deep in my chest. Misery.

*Revision Note: I can usually spell reasonably well in English. Any other language is hit or miss. Thanks Suse!

I’m so tired of junk mail. I wouldn’t care so much if the whole identity fraud thing hadn’t reared its ugly head in this generation. Why is it some people’s nature to try to get something for nothing, or to find fortune at someone else’s expense Today I received a platinum equity card with the promise of bazillions of dollars. The card enclosed looks like a credit card. It’s plastic, has my name and a number stamped on it, and an 800 number to call for activation. I cut it up, but this looks dangerous to me, should it fall into the wrong hands. How easy would it be It’s sickening. I get these almost every day.

[Rambling, possibly or probably selfish and very lengthy whine deleted, but off the chest now, after an hour of writing. Phew.] Suffice it to say that I just think people need to understand there are consequences for choices made in life, and they should be responsible for those consequences, whether they’re seven or seventy. [The selfish part: it shouldn’t be my burden, to shoulder the damage control. Like that guy on Survivor said, Sometimes you just have to man up. I man up (when needed).]

I’m going to scream! I have a pet peeve. (One of many.) That text message shorthand crap annoys the hell out of me. I’m guilty of some, like the smiley faces. I can live with those. But the LOLs are driving me nuts. Like fingernails on a chalkboard. Those and the URs. Those are the worst. And anything that uses a numeral for phonetic equivalence. GR8. H8. B4. U2. (Okay, as a band, Yeah Baby! In lieu of ‘you too’, no thanks.)

LOL is the absolute worst. Laugh out loud or lots of laughs or something like that. The first thing I notice is that almost everywhere I’ve seen it used, the preceding expression wasn’t funny enough to warrant a chuckle, let alone a laugh. NOT FUNNY.

OK is okay. It’s been around a long time. SOS is OK too, but I wouldn’t use it unless stranded on a desert island, and that’s not likely to happen any time soon. SOL. Now that one is fine. As with CYA, they come up frequently, especially at work. I’m actually tempted to use BTW and WRT, although I always reconsider and type the full phrases out, just in case the recipient isn’t prepared to translate.

Phonetic equivalence in other use is often annoying to me as well. Karpet King. Kwik Kleen. What is UP with that Not clever. Not clever at all.

Okay, the root of the problem is that I’m sleep deprived, as usual, and today have junk in my throat that’s making me cough. It won’t come up, it won’t go down. I hate that. My throat is raw and my bottle of Robitussin has an expiration date of 12/03 stamped on the label. I took a double dose, but I don’t think it did anything.

Today’s theme – What you’re wearing

I was going to cheat and wear something reasonably nice today, but I was actually called in to the office, so I donned something other than the stay-home-sloppy clothes that I usually end up in. I planned on a nice combo with a silk blouse and a skirt — even costume jewelery. But I decided that I’d get too many questions at work about who I’m interviewing with and when I’m planning to leave. Fridays are casual at the office. So I went with the old standby that I usually wear when I go to the office, as every office day is casual for me. Things have slid in the last several years, and we can get away with much with regard to wardrobe. Shall we begin
My wardrobe consists of black basics and a colorful coverup of some sort. Here we have the turquoise microsuede jacket. I love microsuede because it has a nice suede-like texture, comes in vibrant colors and can be thrown in the wash with no special handling or ironing. Hooray, no ironing!

I wear black boots almost every day. My last pair were Redbacks from Australia. Not the best looking, but very comfortable and very durable. I wore them every day for three years, and now the sole is compromised. I just got these, and they’re a bit clunky. I clod along in them. They’re alright. Not optimal, but they’ll do.

This is the fall lineup. On the left are several black turtlenecks. On the right are microsuede shirts in a variety of colors. Most are plain shirt style and I wear them like jackets. They cover my many lumps nicely. Only a couple are more fitted, like the turquoise one featured today. I was feeling bold.

This is more realistic to my present lifestyle, working from my home office. I was wearing this until I got the call that my attendance was needed in person.

And of course the comfy fuzzy fucschia socks. They’re sort of like a chenille. Very soft. Very comfy. But they attract fuzzballs.

This is what I wish I were wearing. I kiped this from my sister’s giveaway stash. I am two of her, so this is a fantasy skirt. Pleats! I envision myself wearing a form fitting black turtleneck with this skirt, along with black tights and some funky black ankle boots or shoes.

I have these shoes, and they would work. They used to fit, before I got pregnant. They might fit again, in the unlikely event that I can fit the rest of me into that skirt.

The doorbell just rang. It’s not UPS delivery time. The Jehova’s Witness ladies and the Mormon boys haven’t been around in a while. But I don’t see two forms through the blinds (they usually come in pairs). Who could it be My sweet neighbor L, bearing a plate filled with bounty from her garden. Not too long ago she appeared with a freshly baked cobbler made with more bounty from her garden. I returned her dish with a pumpkin loaf (from a mix, how lame of me, but my garden is not bountiful, and I probably wouldn’t grow pumpkins anyway, and it’s all I had on hand). It was a yummy pumpkin loaf, though! This is so wonderfully June Cleaver! In all the years I’ve lived in Suburbia, I’ve had very little to do with my neighbors. It’s a sad thing, the neighborhood dynamic in much of this area. How refreshing to be neighborly! I put the beautiful vegetables on a cobalt blue plate, and decided to break out the rattan chargers that I’d gotten years ago while dreaming of entertaining and how nice they would look with my blue plates and colorful food. Alas, most of my family members moved away, the cool one’s family doesn’t live in convenient driving range, and we have no friends. (Okay, we have a few, but none live nearby.) Pathetic. So we don’t entertain. So the chargers have been in their boxes, sealed until this moment.

Isn’t that a unique finish on my dining table I nearly sold the set this summer, while I was on a simplify-my-house rampage. I’m glad I didn’t though. I’m not ready to part with it. It is spawned from an attempted tortoise shell faux finish, and it’s quite stunning. My sister, who had much to do with its final appearance, affectionally calls the finish malignant barnacle. She, I, a niece, and a nephew wrought this masterpiece several summers ago. Same nephew has since destroyed one of the chairs, leaning back, leaning back, leaning back, Crack! Irreparable damage.

My neighoborhood consists of a handful of houses on a culdesac adjacent to a busy street. On the corner lives a registered sex offender, level 2. Yesterday I saw him. He’s a very good looking young man. A charmer. He looks harmless. He looks friendly. He might well be. He might not be. Children were riding bikes in the culdesac. He was sitting on the edge of his retaining wall, watching them. It creeped me out. I hope, I hope, I pray, that all the parents in our neighborhood have had a talk with their children about him. Stranger Danger. That’s what one of the mothers in my daycare has taught her child. She uses the phrase and her child instantly attaches close to her mother’s side. We will move before my child can play in the culdesac. And I will teach him Stranger Danger.

In another house lives an Indian family. They are very nice. Hello, hello, we exchange friendly hellos. They have nice cars. The old man, the grandfather I presume, told me he works at McDonald’s, not because he needs the job, but to improve his English and get him out of the house. It’s an interesting picture – old Indian man with a turban driving a new Lexus SUV to work at McDonald’s for minimum wage. I recently learned that the family owns a couple or a few of the local Indian restaurants. I was also recently lamenting to the cool one that we never get to have Indian food. Would you like some cheese with that whine, he says. He only wants to have Mexican food or American food if we go out. I miss Indian food! Some things I miss about being single… But since our neighbors own these restaurants, maybe we can go. It would be very neighborly of us, after all.

Next door is a Chinese family. Grandma speaks no English. Papa sometimes mows our front lawn. Once the cool one mowed his front lawn – our lawns are so small, it’s no trouble at all. Since then, the neighbor gets to his lawn more often than we get to ours, so he has mown (is that even a word ) our lawn a couple of times. I baked some banana walnut bread – from scratch! – and wrapped it up nicely with foil and ribbons, and presented it to them with a thank you card. They don’t like nuts, it turns out. Or banana bread. But it turned out delish! I made a double batch, which is how I know it turned out well. Yogurt is the trick. They appreciated the gesture, though.

L had a yard sale the other day. I took Boo over and chatted for a couple of hours. I bought him a giant floppy stuffed horse and dog. Children played in the culdesac. It was a beautiful day. L knows all the kids, and they all like her. I envy this. Prolonged neighborly interaction. It was a first. I like this neighborly stuff.

Kipe
\Kipe\, n. [Cf. OE. kipen to catch, Icel. kippa to pull, snatch. Cf. Kipper.] An osier basket used for catching fish. [Prov. Eng.]

I was just pondering what I plan to post when I show and tell what I’m wearing tomorrow, when the word kipe surfaced. I had no idea how to spell it. Or where it came from. All I knew was that I grew up with this word as a part of my family’s common vocabulary. It stands to reason that we learned this word from my eccentric anglophile dad. Kippers, are, after all, very Brit. And delish. I have a vague recollection of kippers wrapped in newspaper, piping hot and tasting very good. That was a very long time ago. I was eight. We lived in Cambridge. What a glorious place! But that’s another story.

Usage: Mo-ommmmmm, he kiped my _________. Didchu kipe my __________ Who kiped my ________

From kipper to snatch to take to steal. Mystery solved. I think.

He didn’t wake up at 4! He slept until 7. SIX HOURS! (I still had to get up at 6, but that’s beside the point.) I was alarmed to see him sleeping on his belly with his face nearly flattened into the mattress. He had a little bit of nostril exposed, through which he was breathing. He insists on sleeping on his side or his belly. This distresses me. I keep a night light on so that I can look at him during the night to see if his face is buried. His mattress is a firm foam, and it is directly on the floor next to mine. He can see me so he feels safe. If he rolls off the mattress, since he is now such a squirmer, he may startle himself, but he won’t hurt himself. Last night was his first night on this new mattress. When we tried the crib, he couldn’t see over the bumpers so I removed them. He likes to be able to see me, and I’m okay with that. Then he got his feet stuck between the rails, and could have hurt himself trying to get unstuck, so I decided I don’t want him sleeping in the crib. It’s baby jail anyway. The feng shui of those vertical bars can’t be good. We have a play pen cot that we used for a little while, but he is so long that he barely has any room to maneuver. Sometimes he feels cold when I pick him up, too, and I can’t put him into snuggly blankets for the suffocation hazard. I think the thin mattress and airspace beneath it contribute to the cold. I know that when I’ve been camping and slept on a raised cot with a thin mattress, I got too cold myself. We also tried the crib mattress on the floor, but it isn’t much surface area and he rolled off and scared himself. It’s also slippery since it’s vinyl covered, and with all his squirming, the mattress can move and open up a gap for him to get wedged in, potentially. All these sleep hazards. I gave up on the Amby hammock when he started squirming so much. He would roll nearly over and wedge his face into the hammock sides, which alarmed me. I emailed Amby about this and they assured me he would be fine and able to breathe, and they’ve never had a baby suffocate in their hammock. Even so, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea, and he is so long that he nearly pokes out the end of the hammock anyway. My Boo is a supersized baby. He is off the charts in length and weight. He’s more the size of a normal two year old; not an 8 month old. He’s spent many nights in between us, since he’s been demanding food at 1 and 4 for so long. Sometimes I’m too exhausted to put him back in his own bed-space. He likes sleeping with us. But he’s a bed hog! He kicks and pokes and seems to jab my aching boobs with such precision as to inflict the most discomfort, like an expert marksman. How he manages this, I do not know. I love snuggling with him, I admit. But I think that it will be good for him to become accustomed to sleeping on his own mattress. This new arrangement may work. Hopefully, once I’m through the paranoia of him suffocating in the night, which may be when he’s mastered rolling over and back again and sitting himself up and possibly crawling, and when I’ve gotten him to sleep consistently without needing to be fed at 1 a.m., then I will gently encourage him to learn to sleep in his own room. I want him to learn independence, but I also want him to know that he can trust me completely for all things at all times. This will be very important later in his life, when he’s a teenager or preteen and faced with making some choices that might not be in his best interest. I want him to know that I am here for him, no matter what. I would have liked to have had that trust in and with my parents.

Boo has a schedule. He wakes up around 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. every night. Give or take half an hour. Every night. I’ve read that babies will do this for attention more than for hunger, at this stage. So I’ve tried to let him cry it out. But I think he is genuinely hungry, because it’s a different cry and squirm. He squirms and writhes and twists and cries in a semi-sleep state, like he’s so uncomfortable. When I finally cave and give him the bottle, he latches right onto it, sucks it down, and settles back to sleep.

He usually falls asleep for the night around 8 p.m. Tonight he woke up around 9 because we were out and about and we disrupted him. So I decided to seize the moment and try feeding him some solid food, to fill his tummy and see if it would keep him from waking up hungry at 1 a.m. He ate all the food, which actually surprised me. I sort of expected him to purse his lips and shake his head, which he has recently learned to do when he doesn’t want to have any more. Off to bed, but he went into his writhing contorting squirm and wouldn’t settle into sleep. So I gave him the remains of a bottle, thinking he couldn’t possibly want it for anything but comfort. He drained it and wanted more. He had a couple more ounces and then settled down to sleep. It was 11 p.m. Great, I can sleep one hour before I have to get back to the milking station.

I overslept and was wakened at 1 a.m. by the sound of my baby crying. There he was, squirming, writhing, crying. I gave him the pacifier. No luck. So I snuggled him into my lap and fed him a bottle, which he proceeded to drain. He seemed genuinely hungry. Again. Already. He finished feeding and went back to sleep. When I put him down on his mattress, I realized that I was (and still am) soaking wet, as I’m way overdue at the milking station. It’s not a pleasant sensation, and my mood is sour. I stumble downstairs to gather up my milking supplies and fumble around in the dark, getting myself locked and loaded. It’s 1:38 a.m. I am so hoping that he doesn’t wake up hungry at 4. All that extra food at 9 didn’t seem to make a difference at all. So much for that bright idea.

The boys enjoyed the game. They were boisterous with enthusiasm. The seats were good, in the sense that they were close to the action, but directly behind the camera crews, so details were sometimes blocked. They were especially pleased with the proximity to the cheerleading constituent, however, and immensely enjoyed the scenery. A good time was had by all, and as an added benefit, the home team trounced the opponent. It was nice to see such happy smiles on my brothers’ faces.

Sports spectatorship is not for me. Shopping used to be my sport, back in the day. These days I’m much more focused on building my nest (and wishfully the nestegg to go with it). But I decided to treat myself to a little sumpin-sumpin, in lieu of the pro sports outing(s). I did tell the cool one that I bought a bracelet, and I showed it to him. I just didn’t tell him it was in lieu of the game or how much it cost. Shhhhh! It cost more than his ticket. He is going to another game in the near future, however, so the two combined probably come out about the same.
It’s a simple little bracelet, with a puffy heart charm. I’ve been sort of thinking I might like to have a charm bracelet for a little while.
Isn’t this the cutest clasp And clever too. Now I can plant seeds in the cool one’s mind that describe the kinds of charms I might like to add in future. Like a diamond encrusted initial. Right. Like he’d ever find one that meets with my approval. I would like to find some picture frames that I can fill with tiny photos of my Boo. I’ve seen some on eBay, but only made of sterling silver or unnamed metal. I’d like to have white gold so it won’t tarnish or flake or turn green. I’d like a puffy cross too, but I’ve never seen one that I like.