Does anyone have Brendan Fraser’s phone number? Because the cat is away and this mouse feels like having some play.
Oh not really. Relax. But I do feel a bit as though my parents are gone for the weekend and left me the keys to the nice car. Like, now I kind of want to have a kegger.
Esteban is off on one of his business excursions, to a place called ‘Las Vegas’ where he will do ‘computer things’ with ‘computer geeks’.
It’s been awhile since he has had a business trip, but now summer will be fraught with them, I guess. He’s going to Ottawa in July. I had the opportunity to go to that one but I piked. First it was supposed to be Toronto, which I would have tagged along, but then it got changed to Ottawa and I’m just not willing to bring myself to pay airfare to godforsaken OTTAWA. I don’t know. Forgive me, Ottawanians, but it just doesn’t sound all that exciting. Maybe if I were a big hockey fan or something, I don’t know.
Oh, and newsflash:
Houston, we have clean dishes.
Because I told him that last year when he went to Vegas for this computer thingy, he left me with a huge moldering pile and pulled this mock distress thing that I wrote about. (I just spent like seven minutes searching for that link. Grrrr. ) And while he is a dish-avoider, he is very conscious about not repeating past mistakes. Or maybe he knew that I’d use it as an entire wifely tirade about how he continually repeats bad behavior. It must suck to be married to a psychology major. Seriously.
To Whatawoman who asked why we don’t get a built in dishwasher with our kitchen remodel, we will be. The kitchen remodel is happening in stages. We are currently on stage 2, which involves putting in a floor. Then, due to our cat and her incontinence, we’ll be concentrating on ripping out the carpeting in various rooms of our house and replacing with hard wood. THEN we’ll be putting in more cupboards, which will include a dishwasher. And then I forsee that Esteban will do one less thing in his life because while I will NOT attack a dirty dish pile for the simple reason that I’m sick of looking at it, I WILL put my dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And I’m currently the only person who puts the dishes away right now, so there it is.
I must be cranky from waking up at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning to take Esteban to the airport.
And I think I’ve sold my soul to the Jam Devil. You see, last weekend, Esteban and I trekked up to Door County in effort to ignore cleaning the house. And way up at the tippy tip point of the Door (if you’ve ever seen a picture of Wisconsin, you’ll notice that it looks a bit like a hand waving and saying ‘Nice ta meetcha!’, which is very appropriate because we are a very friendly state indeed. Door County is the thumb on that hand.) there is a place called Bea’s Homemade, which basically specializes in canning things. Any kind of thing. Mostly jellies and preserves and pickles but there are other things as well. Garlic jelly comes to mind. Like what kind of fucked up peanut butter and jelly sammich that must be, but I digress.
So I got me a pint of chopped cherry jam, a half-pint of bing cherry jam (two different things, honest), a half-pint of strawberry rhubarb jam, a thing of their homemade fudge topping, and a quart of Garlic Mini Dills.
For the past seven days, I have primarily lived on chopped cherry jam. This stuff is so good you could honestly eat it out of the jar with a spoon. I profusely thanked the person who recommended that we stop there and she said ‘You think that’s good’ eat it with toasted sourdough bread.’
You should know now that I love a good sourdough and there is a very good European bakery near work, so I stopped there on Wednesday and picked up a loaf. Good lord. You cannot imagine the toasty dense sweet but sour goodness that is this culinary delight. It is quite possibly the world’s best food. I have been living on it.
A few days ago when I asked Esteban what he wanted for dinner, he said “Why? I know you just want to eat jam and toast anyway.” And he was right. I even did a little dance, knowing that I got to eat jam for dinner.
The loaf is now gone. The pint of jam is mostly gone. I may be making a 120 mile (round trip) jam quest sometime this week.
I’m thinking normal people don’t have these emotional attachments to such things as jam. This explains a lot, actually. But to eschew the jam’. No, it would take a far stronger woman than I care to be.
And the sad thing is that part of me wants to go up and change the name of the place so that no one else will go and buy this jam.
Pity me, people. Pity me’ but send jam.
Drunken Slut Thumbs I got Googled for Drunken Slut Thumbs. Which is more disturbing, that someone was searching for that or that there are 9 websites which are more specific to that search than this page? Huh???