Drive-by observations

Whew! Welcome to Monday! Let’s see, 9:15 p.m. and I have just now stopped long enough to read my favorite blogs and otherwise catch up with the rest of the world.

Geesh. What a day. So much went down at work today that I didn’t have time to do much more than check my email and wish I had more time to write long-winded responses to friends and family who made mistakes like asking me if I hadn’t seen something in The Economist about the potential global impact of Prop 87 on oil prices…?

We have $500 in beer and spirits ready for pickup Saturday. We have three vegetarian lasagnas and the biggest vat of vegetarian chili ever attempted in this Den safely in the freezer, to be baked / reheated on Saturday. We have four full trays of BBQ being catered. Eight dozen petit fours. A large Costco trip for sodas and whatnot planned for Thursday. Which is, I note, a work day for yours truly. Twelve pies to be baked. On Friday. Which is also, for those keeping track at home, a work day for yours truly. And, all the fresh breads to be put together Saturday morning.

Mother in Law, Best Friend and Child™ and Other Best Friend and Child© are arriving on Friday. Two entities are staying here, third is staying at a local hotel.

Oh yeah. I need to make those arrangements.

But I am not anxious.

I am not anxious.

I am not anxious.

Election day is tomorrow. May $DEITY be praised for all eternity, hallelujah, amen. I don’t care who or what wins at this point, as long as it means They stop calling me. I have hung up on five different callers tonight, before they got more than a breathless “Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Concerned Citizens {For, Against} Prop-” CLICK!!!!!

How I long for the days when instead of merely pushing a button to hang up, you had the option to !!SLAM!! the receiver down to punctuate how annoyed you were.

Boo Bug has been crying for three weeks straight. This is apparently a phase she has gotten stuck in. She cries because…she is being ignored. Or because we’re looking at her. Or because she wanted a bag of M&Ms. Because the chicken is brown. Because the rice is white. Because she wanted to wear the blue pajamas and instead had to wear the purple ones.

Mommy is about two seconds from giving her something to cry about, which is how her own mommy used to handle such episodes.

I broke a nail today. A thumbnail. And it hurt. And it pisses me off, because now it is catching on the wool. This is not acceptable. We are irked, and also we are too busy to get to the nail salon tomorrow – so irked that we are referring to ourselves with the Royal We. We may decide that work can wait and that anyone who disagrees may be beheaded as a traitor to our crown. See ‘catches on wool’ comment, above.

Also, while making snack for the Denizens, I managed to peel not the apple, but my right index finger knuckle. Took a fair-sized chunk of flesh right off of there. One of those chunks that is large enough that at first, it doesn’t hurt or bleed. And then, as you’re setting down the peeler (because for some reason, it is easier to look at the injury with the other hand free of the tool), does both in great quantity. There I am, yelping, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, oh {beep, honk!} OW OW!", racing through the house trying to keep it from bleeding on the carpet (tile yes, carpet no) and then standing over the sink trying to fumble a bandaid out of the box.

Go ahead. Ask me why I didn't ask my husband, who was sitting RIGHT THERE, to help me. Watch in amazement as I sit here and go, "Duuuuuuuuh...because...I'm...tough?"

Sure. That's why I whimper like that, and then inspect the peeler for rust to prove that obviously I don't need a tetanus shot, not after having been cut by that gloriously clean blade. (That isn't rust, it's just...brownish...apple bits...)

It smarts. Like billy-oh. And I feel so incredibly stupid for having done this that I had to rush out tonight and tell the Entire Internet that hey – I’m so inept with basic kitchen appliances that I scalped my own knuckle with an apple peeler specifically designed to be ergonomic and easy-to-use.

I took out and played around with my hammered dulcimer, and my bowed psaltery over the weekend. It was fun. Eldest began playing tunes on the bowed psaltery right away, and Captain Adventure is very, very good at BANGING LIKE THE DICKENS on the hammered dulcimer.

Talk about having a blast from your past. I can almost play Banish Misfortune on the hammered dulcimer. Almost. And I suspect with a little practice (snort), I could be fairly good at the psaltery again. I’ll go ahead and add that to the list, right under learning to scuba dive and before taking up sky diving, shall I?

AND.

Eldest and Danger Mouse are going back into daycare, because…well. Let’s play “good news, bad news”!!

Good news! I had a very nice review and raise a couple weeks ago!

Bad news! This is because I am amazing and obviously – I can do more!

Good news! I’m going to be heading up some new projects, getting my fingers in a lot more pies, and otherwise Taking Over The World!

Bad news! I’m going to be in more meetings, with more people, and having to put in “face time”

Good news! The daycare they loved is delighted to take them back.

Of course, now I have to find time to fill out the forms and whatnot required to put them back in.

It'll be good for us all around, though. My husband and I have been working late into the night and over the weekend, trying to make up hours we didn't get during the week due to having to pick them up at 12:00 for National Margarine Appreciation Half Day or something. Also, they really do have trouble with the concept that we're working. We can't stop every eight minutes to settle disputes about who had what toy when, or whether or not they can have a(nother) bag of chips or to beat their little hands away from the sugar dish.

So there you are. The news, in (not a bit) brief. Knitting happened, but I'm too tired and disorganized to find the digital camera and take a picture right this minute. The star in the center of the front/back gave me *major* trouble, because I, like my beloved Harlot, cannot count to seven (or any other number) reliably. As in, "Do five repeats of this pattern, THEN do this other thing once, then five repeats of the pattern again."

One...two...three...something...was that a puppy?...six...ten...

...wait...