Apr. 10, 2008 - New Home

I've moved!  Check out my new home at In The Pink.

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Aug. 28, 2007 - Just a Matter of Time

When I saw the following teaser this morning, my heart began to race:

Measuring America’s Waistline

Which state was ranked fattest in U.S., with more than 30 percent of its adult residents already considered obese?

I thought, “Finally!  We Hoosiers will be recognized for something besides basketball and monster truck rallies.  At last, we are ranked number one!  For too many years we’ve toiled at the Chinese buffet, struggling to balance half our weight in General Tso’s Chicken on one plate, while stacking Crab Rangoons like a house of deep fried cards on another.  For too many years we’ve ranked low in areas in which other states excel, and our collective self-esteem has wilted like so much iceberg lettuce, long abandoned on the salad bar of the local Pizza Shack. But no more!  Now we can puff out our chests---maybe even further than our bellies---with pride and say, “We’re number one!  Hey, you gonna eat that?”

Then I clicked on the link and what did I see?  Why, it’s not Indiana, but Mississippi that is the fattest state in the nation.  Curse you, Moon Pies!  If only we could have made ourselves eat those marshmallow hockey pucks!

There is hope for us yet, however, as Mississippi is instituting measures in its schools to stem the tide of rising obesity. One of the things they’re doing is dictating what items are allowed in vending machines.  Things like yogurt, sliced fruit and granola bars are okay, while fried pork rinds and Moon Pies are banned.  Yeah, that’s right Mississippi, keep looking over your shoulder, because we’re comin’ after you.  Without those Moon Pies, you’re doomed!

Of course, the State Superintendent laments that there’s only so much they can do, but he hopes students will take home the healthful habits they learn at school.  You know, he may be on to something.  I remember back when I was in school, I’d often race home and beg my mom to make food just like they served at the cafeteria.  “Mom, pleeease make stinky, overcooked spinach for supper!” I’d whine.  Or sometimes I’d say, “Why do we have to have MEAT in our hamburgers?! That’s not how they make them at school!” 

The plan is pure genius, I tell you.

I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before Mississippi is a state full of apple and granola eating fitties, and the Hoosier State can claim its rightful place at the top of the food pyramid. 

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Aug. 23, 2007 - Getting to Know You

I remember how, way back in the beginning of our relationship, the Hubster and I would spend hours talking and getting to know one another.  We'd tell stories from our childhoods, favorite memories, traumas, exciting adventures, likes and dislikes.  

Of course, since we covered all that background back then, we don't need to spend a great deal of time talking about it now.  It's just there, serving as the foundation for our conversations and inside jokes.  But that's not to say that we're not still adding to that knowledge base.  However, these days we don't even need to spend hours talking to glean these new tidbits---or at least he doesn't need to in order to glean my tidbits.  Nope, we're not telepathically connected, like the Borg. All he has to do is read my blog. 

I didn't realize that this was a new avenue of marital bonding for us until supper last night when I put an extra little lump of my homemade zucchini relish on my plate.  I commented, "I love relish."  To which he responded, "But not as much as mayonnaise, right?"  I said, "No, not as much as mayonnaise."  He said, "I knew that---no blog entry." 

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Aug. 10, 2007 - Stating the Obvious

I read an article yesterday where researchers had studied body weights among American women ages 30 to 60 between 1976 and  2000.  They found that during that time the weight of the average women increased 20 pounds, leading them to conclude that  it has become more socially acceptable for people, especially women to be heavier. 

In other words, fat is the new normal, which is exactly the phrase that was used for the headline of the story.

And I thought...."Well, du-uuh!"

Maybe it's because I live in the heart of the corn-fed Midwest---land of 10,000 Chinese buffets---but this was no shock to me at all.  The shocking thing is that someone spent a great deal of time studying data to come to this conclusion, when all that's really required casual observation.  I'm not *that* old (or at least I like to think that anyway) but back in my day people were smaller.  When I was in high school, I would never have been caught dead letting my gut hang out over my pants and under my shirt--let alone tanning it, piercing it and giving it a cute name like mushroom top.  There for a while it was like that extra flab hanging out there was just another fashion accessory! 

"Wow! Brittney, your mushroom top is hot!  Have you been working out?" 

"Yeah, I totally stuffed my face at the Mexican restaurant all last summer."

Thankfully, the shirts are a little longer than they were a couple of years ago when the pants were low and the shirts were high and in between lie the mushroom top.  But it's still pretty obvious that fat is the not-so-new normal---no scientific study required.

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Aug. 8, 2007 - Mingling with the Bluebloods

This has got to be my favorite bald picture yet.   Taken while I was at Colts training camp yesterday.

Bear in mind that my original intention was to get my head autographed.  With a blue Sharpie. Heh heh.  I was specifically hoping to get my head signed by Tony Dungy. After all, we kind of look alike these days. Plus, I have a lot of respect for him. I also wanted photo documentation of the whole head-signing process, so that I could post it here. I think there's just something about having a big bald chemo head that makes you kind of bold. Or at least it does if you're me. Besides, I really don't plan on being bald again, so this is like a once in a lifetime opportunity, right?

I'll spare you the long version.  The short version is that a friend and I were going to watch practice, then to a dinner at which Bill Polian was speaking.  We didn't know if any of the other members of the Colts would be there...but we hoped they might.  Alas, it was not to be. Bill Polian was the only member of the Colts organization at the dinner. And while he was an interesting speaker, he's not head-signing material. I don't get excited about just any old famous person signing my shiny pate.

Now, about the pictures.
Prior to the dinner, Jamie and I went to the practice field to watch the team practice. If you live anywhere around here, you know it's been stank nasty hot lately. Bill Polian commented that the heat index on the field was 116 degrees. As we were sitting there, sweating (it's amazing how profusely one's head sweats without hair to soak up the liquid) these guys show up. How their face paint wasn't melting off, I'll never know because folks, those suits they're wearing are made of polar fleece! Crazy!  I was particularly impressed by the attention to detail in their wardrobe.

Note both the bobble head and the horse head on his shoulder pad, as well as the half football.

Also note the championship belt, a la Rocky Balboa---even *I* don't have accessories this big!

People were taking their picture, and I said to Jamie, "I've got to get my picture taken *with* these guys" because that's way more fun than just taking a picture *of* them.

And there I am.

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Aug. 6, 2007 - Creativity Runs in the Family

Mini-Me and her cousin have customized the old Do Your Ears Hang Low ditty.  Now, I don't generally post a whole lot of "listen to theis funny thing my kid said" type of posts.  Not because she's not funny, but because it generally doesn't translate well online, or it's funny only if you know the warped family history behind it.  This time, however, I think we can all appreciate their creation.  There's no inside joke, no history, just complete randomness.  Ah, yes, it's times like these when I'm most proud...

All together now...

Do your ears hang low?

Do they wobble to the flow?

Do they shine the light?

Are they brown, or are they white?

Okay, so they still need to finish it, but I think it's a solid start.  One of these days maybe they'll graduate to rewriting the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies, which I know you'll be shocked to hear, I actually *did* for Sister Basketball Fingers wedding invitation.  Yes, I'm serious.  Sister BF got married in Gatlinburg, then came back home and had a hog roast for her reception---if that don't scream "Hey, y'all, check out my Beverly Hillbillies wedding invitation" I don't know what does.

If I can find it, and if you ask nicely, I might even post it here for your banjo-pickin', rope-for-a-belt wearin' pleasure.

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Jul. 30, 2007 - Ode to Mayonnaise

I was reading TC's list of random things when one of them inspired me to write an entry of my own:  "5. I like to eat my french fries like the Dutch do it - with mayonnaise. "

Now, I don't know much about Dutch cuisine like our friend TC apparently does---I'm not nearly so sophisticated and continental in matters of fried foods and their culturally correct condiments---but I sure do loves me some mayo.  Oh yeah.  One of my favorite snacks is mayo on a saltine.  You heard me right, just mayo on a cracker. 

And I'm picky about my mayonnaise.  You see, I was raised on Hellmann's mayonnaise.  Some of you may remember my post where I talked about all of the "we were so poor" stories from my youth.  Well, listen up: We were never so poor that we used generic mayo.  Like bringing a store-bought pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving, It simply was not done.  Mayonnaise is just too important.  You can make a salad out of anything as long as you have mayonnaise to bind it together.

Now, let's get one thing straight.  I'm not, I repeat, not talking about Miracle Whip.  In my opinion, the only thing miraculous about Miracle Whip is that anybody eats it.  Even if you like Miracle Whip, you should at least be able to recognize that it and mayonnaise are two entirely different things.  Being the same color does not make them equal.   Really---lot's of things are, say, brown, but that doesn't mean that they all taste the same.  You'd be surprised, however, at the number of people who think mayonnaise and Miracle Whip are interchangeable.  These are always people who have Miracle Whip in the fridge. 

Okay, so now you're thinking I'm really a freak---because I'm sure being a mayo lover is what convinced you, and not all my other ramblings---but you know, I'm okay with that. 

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Jul. 23, 2007 - Priorities

I realize that I'm a foodie snob.  All my friends & relations will tell you so.  I further realize that not everyone else is like me.  That's not to say that I'm all hoity about it---I just like good quality food and I enjoy cooking. 

That being said, there are just some things beyond my comprehension. 

Someone please explain to me what kind of warped priorities a person has to have in order to make their muffins from a mix, and their underwear from scratch.  Yeah, you heard me right.  Undies from scratch, muffins from a mix.  Mini-Me stayed with her aunt a few days last week, and reported that Aunt Insanity had approximately 450 brassieres in various states of construction in her sewing room, and when it came time from supper, she took the time-saving route and made muffins from a box.

Maybe it's due to my own lack of sewing ability that this seems totally crazy, but I'm thinking muffins take about 20 minutes or so including the baking which you can do while other things are cooking.  Furthermore, muffins are easily made with common ingredients you'd normally have around the house anyway.  A bra, on the other hand, would require all manner of strange components I don't normally have around the house, and probably take me a week and a half at the end of which I wouldn't actually have a bra, but  a shredded pile of elastic and a nervous tick.

I used to feel inferior due to my lack of sewing ability compared to Aunt Insanity and the rest of the in-laws.  However, this incident served to teach me that being a foodie is way better than being a sewie.  After all, bringing homemade food is an appropriate way to contribute to many social occasions.  Bringing a homemade bra as a hostess gift or to a sick friend is just downright weird.   Our youth group used a bake sale, not a homemade underwear sale, to raise money for their missions trip.  And, finally, it's a whole lot more socially acceptable to show off your skills by bringing a fancy dessert to the pitch-in than it is to show off your skills by showing off your fancy undies at the pitch-in.

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Jul. 20, 2007 - Classy is as classy does

Remember that staple of teen magazines---the My Most Embarrassing Moment section?  I never could really relate to that, because what most people consider to be fodder for their most embarrassing moment is just everyday life for me.  My life is just one long string of most embarrassing moments, except that after a while, you kind of get desensitized to it.  Eventually, there are no more embarrassing moments, let alone one you can pick out as the most embarrassing one.  Well, okay, at least there are no embarrassing moments for YOU, although that’s not to say that you won’t embarrass the bean bags out of innocent bystanders, friends or relations.

But, this time I truly outdid myself.  No, really.

Perhaps you read my post about the shopping excursion to find a dress to wear to my nephew’s wedding.  In it, I commented that it’s hard to feel elegant while sporting the Aryan Nation look.  I did, in fact, find an elegant dress.  Very classy.  Poor dress.  I bet the other ones made fun of it when they saw it was going home with me. 

I wore my new, classy, brown (it’s the new black, you know) dress to the wedding and everything was fine until it came time to move from the wedding to the reception. 

Did I mention that it was windy? 

So, there I was, sashaying along, thinking about how doggone classy I must look in my new dress.  Walking behind me was my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and 20 year old nephew.  Just as I got about two steps from the door to the reception---remember that wind I mentioned? *WOOOSH!*   The front of my allegedly classy dress begins to whip up toward a rendezvous with my cranium.  I swat down at it in an effort of damage control, only to find that, to my horror, the wind is beginning to catch the back now, too.  It’s hard to look classy when sporting the Aryan Nation look.  Even harder when sporting the Aryan Nation look while having a Marilyn Monroe moment.   Fortunately, I did manage to get my bum covered enough to get inside but not before having flashed my unsuspecting in-laws.  

This incident definitely crossed that threshold between run-of-the-mill funny/embarassing and "who let you into the family anyway?"

I think we’re all scarred for life.

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Jul. 16, 2007 - Humor Famine

Last Thursday I went shopping for something to wear to my nephew's wedding, which was on Saturday.  I'd gone a couple of times already to various stores, but I was just having a hard time finding something that looked good with my bald head.  It's hard to feel elegant when you're sporting the Aryan Nation look. 

Because we were leaving town Friday morning, Thursday's shopping excursion was my last chance.  I went to Dress Barn to see what my options were.  "Woo hoo!" thought I, "They're having a sidewalk sale!"  I grabbed several tops, then proceeded inside where I found a few dresses to try on as well.  Of course, the hype-helpful saleslady asked if I needed any help.  Feeling chatty, I said, "I have a wedding to go to this weekend, and I'm trying to find something that goes with bald."  I even said it with a chuckle and a smile, which I thought would indicate that it was a JOKE.  Her response?  Nothing.  She just looked at me, expressionless, and then moved on to another customer. 

Gee, tough crowd.   At this point, I thought, "Hey Lady, I'm FUNNY over here....and you need to be laughing at my jokes, if not because you find them funny, then at least as a customer courtesy."  Sheesh!

Later, after I'd found a dress (60% off---woo hoo!) and some jewelry, I proceeded to the checkout.  The same saleslady, Ms. Stoneface, was manning the register.  I whip out my checkbook---no debit for me, I'm all old school low tech like that---write a check and she asks for my license.  Because I'm persistent in my under-appreciated humor, as I hand it over I remark "It's got hair, heh heh."   She says, "Oh, that's okay," like she thought I was really worried.   Like she thought I was afraid she'd say, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I need YOUR driver's license, not someone else's."

I give up.

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Jul. 11, 2007 - Why, it's a major award!

I'm feeling a whole lot like Ralphie's dad in A Christmas Story.  You know, when the mysterious box marked "fra-gee-lay" (must be Italian) is delivered to the house because he's won a prize for his crossword puzzle?  As he pulls that leg lamp from its heavily fortified crate, Ralphie's mom asks him what it is, and he, bursting with pride, announces, "Why, it's a major award!"

Well, folks, I've been having my own leg lamp moment ever since TC bestowed upon me the honor of "Rockin' Girl Blogger."  Sure, it's no bowling alley (I heard some guy down in Terre Haute won a bowling alley...heh heh) but cool none the less.  I got a spiffy little badge to stick on my sidebar---though if I actually knew what I was doing I'd be able to figure out how to put space in between it and the things above and below it.  But, apparently technical knowledge was not a consideration where this major award was concerned.

I'm also feeling a little like Navin Johnson in The Jerk when he receives the new phone book and sees his name in print.  "I'm SOMEBODY....Things are going to start happening to me now!" he exclaims.  Of course, the next scene shows a nutcase opening the phone book, randomly pointing to Navin's name, then proceeding to try to pick him off from a nearby hillside.  So, I'm kind of hoping that part doesn't apply to me.  I really don't have time to dodge a sniper's bullets today.  

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Jul. 10, 2007 - 7-7-07

Did y'all hear about this 7-7-07 thing?  Apparently, a lot of couples thought it would be a great idea to get married on that date because it's *lucky*.  Makes you wish you'd have run out and snatched up the first bubba you saw just so you could get hitched on that date, doesn't it?  "Forget love, commitment, and mutual respect, Gertrude...what we needs is a lucky date for our wedding.  One with lot's of 7's in it, just like hitting the jackpot on the slots at the casino boat!  We'll hit our own little jackpot of love."

One local bride was quoted in the newspaper as saying, "We picked it because it is such a unique date.”

Because, gee, all the other dates in history are exactly the same?  Sheesh.  Most people recognize that having different numbers for each month, day and year guarantee that each individual date is unique.  That's how we differentiate between something that happened TODAY and something that happened on another day in history.

Unique or not, I bet 6-6-06 wasn't nearly as popular.

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Jul. 7, 2007 - Just My Luck

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May. 16, 2007 - Where's a Sledge-O-Matic When you Need One?

My oncologist's name is Dr. Birhiray---that's pronounced Beer-Hurray! I tried to get an appointment with Dr. Coffee-Hurray! but he wasn't taking any new patients. Dang it! I really like Dr Beer-Hurray because he laughs a lot. I know, you're probably thinking, "THAT'S your basis for liking your chemo doctor?" Yeah, but laughing is one of my favorite things to do---really. And it's good for you.

Dr Beer-Hurray! sent me to have a MUGA scan to make sure my heart can withstand the chemo they want to give me. A MUGA scan involves shooting radioactive junk into your body and then watching how your heart works. I'm thinking if this kind of thing keeps up I'll be my own nightlight pretty soon.

There's something funny about saying you need a MUGA scan. Maybe it's because it sounds like something you might expect late at night in Central Park. Or maybe it's because it makes you remember all those yo mama jokes you used to know. Yo MUGA so ugly, she made an onion cry. Yo MUGA so skinny, she hula hoops with a Cheerio. In my case, is was more like, Yo MUGA so short, she models for trophies. Seriously, I think it took longer for them to set the IV than it did to do the actual scan. Short, easy, relatively pain-free. Word to your MUGA... 

While I was in the building, my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to visit the boutique. The boutique has all manner of breast cancer accessories, like wigs, fake boobz, bathing suits for you and your fake boobz, hats, scarves, etc. For the fun of it, I decided to try on wigs. Now, the funny thing here is that I'd just about decided not to get a wig, because I was getting so stinkin' tired of be talked to about wigs. Really, when you're facing a mastectomy, temporarily losing your HAIR is the least of your concerns.

But, as I said, curiosity got the best of me, so I visited the wigs. Of course, there were NO curly wigs. Apparently no one has curly hair but me. And, there were no long wigs, except for one that was platinum blonde. I did however get to try on the hairdos of some of my family members. Particularly disturbing was trying on my Aunt Phyllis's hair---not because it's bad hair, but because I LOOKED JUST LIKE HER! Very strange for me indeed.

One that I did not try on was the skullet. Made to wear with a hat, it only had hair hanging down on the sides, with just straps across the top. I don't know who would think this was a great idea because in my world it would just be a recipe for disaster. I'm thinking I'd rather just be bald than be walking around with my fake hair, and have a gust of wind snatch my hat off to reveal Gallagher's hairdo.

If there had been a free Sledge-O-Matic to go with it, I might have reconsidered.

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Apr. 17, 2007 - Coming Out of the Closet

I hesitated to post about my recent diagnosis of breast cancer.  First of all, I try to post funny stuff, and most people don't think cancer is very funny.  Secondly, I don't really want to talk about cancer all the time---I already *have* to do that too much as it is.  Lastly, I didn't want everyone giving me a virtual version of The Look that I most often receive when people find out I have cancer.  It's the look that says, "Aw, that's too bad---I really LIKED you.  I'll miss you when you're gone" as if they're already thinking of me in the past tense.

However, one of my gifts is the ability to see the humor in just about any situation.  Since my diagnosis on 2/28 I've had several experiences that would make for awfully funny blog material.  My friend Angie keeps telling me I need to be writing about all this funny stuff...but as I said, I hesitated doing it because my blog is kind of the last realm of normalcy for me.  

I had an experience this weekend that made me decide to come out of the cancer closet.  My homeschool mom friends organized a team for our local Relay For Life.  It was heartwarming to have my friends rally around me---in fact we had the biggest team there.  But all that warm fuzzy inspiration is not why I decided to blog about it.  No, it was instead the Rumble at the Relay that my girlfriends had on behalf of my purse.

There was this really cute bag in the silent auction. The first thing I said when I saw it from across the room was "Ooooh! I like that bag!" But, as the price climbed higher and higher, I decided that I wouldn't bid on it.

Unbeknownst to me, Susie had decided to buy it for me (Awww...she's so cool) so at the end of the auction, she had the high bid and she says to Melissa, "I'm going to bid on some other stuff. Keep an eye on the purse, and if anyone bids on it, outbid them." So, Melissa is hanging out, watching the purse, when this guy walks up, looks at the sheet, CROSSES OUT Susie & Melissa's high bid, and hands the sheet to his girlfriend!

If you know my friends you know that doing nothing just doesn't work for them. So, was Mr. Purse Snatcher Cheater Man going to get away with that? Huht-huh! They confront him, and end up dragging in the Relay authorities who award the purse to them, and chew out the purse snatcher man. Then they cheerfully sashay over to the tent and present me with the purse...and tell me about the throw down they just had over it.

I just sat there with my mouth hanging open and my newly acquired purse on my lap, half afraid to put it down for fear of the purse snatcher. It's just amazing to me that the guy was that bold...and at a charity auction no less!

But, it made for a really great story, and I had a lot of fun telling it Sunday morning at church. And I think there's a moral to this story: Don't mess with a woman with four kids. She can multitask circles around you, dude. You will get caught. Back away from the purse.

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Apr. 4, 2007 - Vengeance is mine!

Ever had the dryer eat your socks?  Of course you have...we all have, right?  The dryer eats only one of each pair---never both.  I wonder if it prefers one side over the other.  But, then, how would it know which sock it had eaten unless your socks were the kind that had a design on only one side of the ankle?   Maybe the dryer doesn't really likes socks at all---it's just a spiteful appliance that acts out frustration over its slavery by stealing them.

The dryer has eaten many of my socks over the years.  However, it was not until recently that my dryer did something entirely different.  My dryer has apparently taken up knitting, because it has somehow made a sock.  See Exhibit A:

I kid you not, I have never seen this sock before in my life.   I guess that must be what happens when you don't empty out the lint trap on a regular basis---the dryer takes matters into its own hands and goes all crafty with the excess lint. 

Perhaps the dryer made a pair and now I have stolen one of its socks.  HA!  Take THAT, you thieving appliance!  How does it feel to have YOUR sock stolen, Mr. Kenmore? 

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Mar. 15, 2007 - Enough is enough

Finally, the real reason why I homeschool comes out. 

No, it's not the fear of school shootings, secular humanism, or even the cafeteria mystery meat. 

The Indianapolis Public Schools have proposed a dress code which will require uniforms, and ban accesories---like grills.  While I don't live in Indy, surely this is a sign of things to come to a school district near me.  Now, I'll put up with a lot of things.  You can let bullies beat up my child on the bus, expose her to alternative lifestyles, and ridicule our Christian worldview---but don't be denying her right to wear fake gold teeth!  What's this world coming to?

I've got to draw the line somewhere.

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Feb. 21, 2007 - Hair We Go Again

I have naturally curly hair.  Although I've gone through phases of attempting to straighten my hair, I've never achieved a really sleek look like naturally straight-haired girls have.  My semi-straightened hair always has the appearance of teetering on the edge of springing back to it's normal shape--or worse.  Experience has taught me not to even attempt a straight 'do in the summer.  Basically, anything above 1.5% humidity will cause the hair to violently rebel, a la Buckwheat from the Little Racals.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine commented that I should just go with the curly thing.  She said, "I don't think you realize how well that works for you."  And here I just figured everyone thought I was stuck back in the days of big, boofy permed hair.  Or maybe she was just kindly trying to tell me that the semi-straight thing was NOT working well for me.  At any rate, I decided at that point to just make the best of my crazy hair.

There are some definite good things about curly hair.  The best thing, if you're lazy like me, is that there's not a lot of work involved.  Wash, spray gel, air dry for a few, then blow dry for 5 minutes of less, couple squirts of hairspray, and voila!  The other good thing is that I don't have to pay people to cut my hair.  In fact, I find that my random, hacking attempts actually provide a better outcome than any professional haircut I've had.  Maybe that's because hairstylists never have naturally curly hair, and straight-hair rules don't apply.

However, sometimes cutting it myself doesn't work so well either.  This week I decided to trim my bangs.  This is where I always get in trouble.  When I pulled them down, they came to below my nose.  I cut off what seemed like a reasonable amount.  However, when I dried the hair, I took one look in the mirror and said, "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die." 

Oy!  Not the Princess Bride look---AGAIN!  You'd think I'd have this figured out by now.

Oh well, I'm off to find the six-fingered man...

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Feb. 12, 2007 - Snowaphobia

It's my regular grocery day today, and so after I take Mini-Me to harp lesson I'll be running to the store.  Normally this wouldn't be a big deal, however, today is no normal day. 

Is it a holiday?  No. 

Is it some ginormous sale day?  No.

It is Everybody-Freak-Out-Because-It's-Gonna-Snow Day.  Yes, folks, we are supposed to get hit with a big winter storm tonight and tomorrow, and apparently some of us are under the impression that we live with the Ingalls in Walnut Grove.  A whole 7-inches of snow is expected in this area along with some nasty ice.  I bet the folks in upstate New York would be particularly impressed with the panic, considering that they are sitting under more snow than we have EVER had here and we have yet to see nary a flake today.

I'm old enough to remember the infamous Blizzard of '78, where we actually were snowbound in our rural neighborhood for 3 days.  But that was the last time it was that extreme---so why the panic now?  We survived that time, right?  Suck it up, people!  Sheesh!

Yet I know that when I go to the grocery store, where it is normally relatively uncrowded that time of day, the placed will be crammed with folks buying their weight in toilet paper, 16 gallons of milk and bread enough to build a spare room onto the house with.

Meanwhile, I'll be attempting to do my normal grocery shopping and keep my sanity intact. 

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Jan. 30, 2007 - Coffee

As of Sunday afternoon, I had just spend three days weaning myself off of caffeine.  I do this every so often, however this time I did it, rather grudgingly, for a specific reason.  I was not particularly thrilled to be getting a cup from the decaf pot at church Sunday morning.  Decaf is nasty.  Most of the time I'd just rather do without.  Sunday was so doggone cold, however, that I went ahead and got some of the wretched swill.  I whined to the hubby, who does not drink coffee, and he suggested I go half-caff.  Well, you know me, the wonder woman of willpower that I am, said, "Okay."  It was better, but I still only drank half of it.

The good news was that because I've walked this lonely, coffeeless road before I knew I needed the 3 days to adjust to a caffeine-free existence.  Otherwise, splitting headaches would be my fate.  So, at least I was only in emotional, rather than physical pain.

Sunday evening, the child and I had to head into town a little early so that I could run some errands before church.  My hubby is always amazed that no matter where I need to go, somehow, there is always a coffee shop "on the way."  And, it just happens that my favorite coffee shop really IS on the way to church and my errands.  I decided that I would go have an iced caramella---decaf.  After all, with enough caramel syrup and whipped cream, even I wouldn't be able to taste the lack of real coffee. 

So, the child and I roll into the Java Haute.  I order the child a caramel steamer, and me a tall iced caramella.  Then I run to the restroom while the tasty brews are being made.  Now, if you were paying attention, you'll notice that I said, "tall iced caramella".  Did I say "decaf"?  No, I did not.  And I realized this while in the restroom.  "Doh!" thought I, "They'll have it done by the time I get back out there!"  And so they did.  What's a girl to do?  I couldn't ask them to remake it---they'd made what I ordered. 

Of course, not because of any deep seated caffeine addiction, but purely from a standpoint of Christian charity and goodwill toward the baristas, I sucked that puppy right down.  Within five minutes, Sister Basketball Fingers happened to show up and I was already so hopped up on my caramella that I told her the entire story in the span of about 4.5 seconds. Followed by the hyper-active laughter than only going from zero to two shots of espresso in 5 minutes can produce.

I've spent the last two days weaning myself off of coffee again. 

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