Month: January 2012

Tea! And potatoes! And. . . and tea!

It says many sad things about me, doesn’t it, that I was hugely excited about heating up one cup of water for tea this morning (as opposed to boiling a kettle of water on the stove)? And I was almost equally excited about nuke-baking some taters for lunch? Do we have a word for that? Naking? Well, okay, does it say anything less pitiful about me that I passed at the dental check-up today? Oh, and the nuker prompts you if you don’t push the right buttons! It’s made for Luddites!

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Yes! Yes-s-s!! Yes-s-s-sssss!!!


It works! It is cooking! It is cooking potatoes!

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Tell me it’s not a waste. . .

My entire day went to clearing out end-of-year paperwork. I loathe and despise paperwork, and end-of-year paperwork is beyond horrid. Which is probably why it usually turns out to be such a mountainous chore. That, and doing Grandma’s and mine; oddly, she has tons more paper to corral than I do. All of that, and I’m now ready to start on taxes. Which also qualify for the “loathe and despise” category.

Somebody reassure me this wasn’t a waste of my day. Gaaaaaaaaah.

Mr. Nuker Installer Man is supposed to show up tomorrow afternoon to put in the new nuker. I hope he makes it, because I have discovered that I eat cereal if eating involves continually washing pots and pans.

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Zombie fingers

Not too long ago, I sent some zombie finger puppets to Girlandi and crew, modeled on the zombies I’d knit into a hoodie for Miri and Katie. They were fun to make. The one in the palm shows the scraggly hair. I was particularly pleased with the zombie dog and zombie kitty.

I know. I’m easily amused. Happy birthday to Northwood!

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My dear readers will doubtless remember how many mornings they had to get their own breakfasts because their pitiful excuse for a mother is So Not A Morning Person. A post coming at 7 a.m. may surprise them; but not nearly as much as the fact that their mother woke up at 5.30 and couldn’t get back to sleep. I hate this. I hope we pass this stage of the Brain-pill Conversion (Supreme Irritability with a Glittering of Sleeplessness) soon. Last week was just Supreme Irritability. As I told Northwood, the sound of the dog licking the floor was enough to make me want to throw her through a window.

I am now the owner of a new, yet-uninstalled over-the-stove (over-the-range? One of those) microwave oven! Nothing fancy; just yer basic nuker. A 1.6 cu. ft. one was the smallest I could get. The guy who’ll install it probably won’t be able to get out here for another week, so here’s hoping I can tolerate one more week sans nuker. He’ll have to cut up the central cabinet, put in a new floor for it, and cut down the doors. I’ll lose a fair amount of space up there, but I’ll get about three square feet more counter space, which will provide that much more horizontal surface to cover up with Stuff! It’s well worth it! This whole heat-things-onna-stove thing is so 20th century.

Last week I found an old pair of glasses at Grandma’s (along with the Possibly Former Food Product) so I took them in to have her current prescription put in. She’s mangled up the pair she now wears so badly that they appear to be continuously poised to leap off her nose. Sideways. ‘Course, then it snowed all week and, with a 12″ car clearance vs. 16″ of snow in the never-plowed street, I was stuck here. Finally picked them up yesterday and they fit much, much better than the poor beat-up ones.

She’s now decided that her eye hurts because of astigmatism (which has nothing whatsoever to do with eye pain; her eye hurts because she banged it against something and it’s swollen and bruised) and she’s going to drive everybody nuts about getting a new scrip. The scrip she now has already corrects for that, but you can’t use logic (or even science) with her any longer. She knows what she knows, dammit, and nobody’s gonna convince her of anything “true” that contradicts that.

I’m about 4″ into the red sweater KrisDi commissioned for Chilkat. This yarn isn’t quite as bright as we wanted, but the smaller yarn size is going to make a much nicer fabric with a texture better proportioned for tiny people. After spending two or three weeks making stitch markers,


it’s nice to have my Knitting Mojo back.

Now, if someone could just tell me where I can buy a package of Sleeping Mojo?

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Blast (har har) from the past

Huh. Letter comes in the mail for Grandma. No cover, no explanation, just a form offering $X to lease or buy the mineral rights on a chunk of ground in the far-off land where Ah was Borned. Grandma, who can’t remember when her own birthday is, will certainly not remember this. I spent a little quality time with the Goog and found the spot, which is way out in some boonies where we never lived. I am scratching my head. With both hands.

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But wait! There’s more!

My long-suffering, semi-functional microwave oven, in which I do most of what passes for cooking around here, has finally given up its high-frequency ghost. In a rather spectacular, though not injurious or fatal (for me), manner. Oh, whee. Aren’t we having fun.

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Living the interesting times

Yeah, yeah, of course I mean the old Chinese curse. What else?

Grandma looked at the Christmas photos again today and enjoyed them as much as if it were the first time she’d seen them (I’ve taken them over three times this week). She quite rightly thinks her great-granddaughter is fun to look at. We have to skip over KrisDi’s family, though, because Grandma can’t quite wrap her head around them.

So then I started looking on her desk for unpaid bills, etc. And found
—an ancient, moldy, ghastly object that may once have had food value, cemented between two pieces of gooily stained, probably important paper;
—six-month-old dining room menus;
—a broken lamp, propped up against another broken lamp;
—pages from two books that are torn up so badly you couldn’t even order them sheet by sheet because the page numbers are gone;
—a broken frame and loose broken glass from some photo, without the accompanying photo, which has probably taken the long route down the Path of Recycling; and
—seven—seven—Bibles scattered all over the surface of the desk, with various objects in them, including a magnifying glass, a crumpled-up, coffee-stained napkin, a piece of chocolate, two gum drops, and other things I didn’t have the nerve to examine too closely.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Yeah, you knew I’d get there at some point.

Last week, that traveling-through-life-in-a-rowboat, staring-backward-to-go-forward thing showed up again. I discovered that not only am I having fun trying to get the brain-pill dosage sorted, but I’m also and simultaneously having a different kind of fun because the pharmacist gave me the wrong damn pills. Lucky for him (and for me) that Mistake Med is also an antidepressant; it could have been a heart thing or something for kidneys or lupus and flattened me permanently. Anyway, with brain pills you can’t just stop taking them; you have to titrate down slowly. Blah, blah, nobody cares about the nits; bottom line, I’m getting
—way less of the chemical I’m supposed to be getting;
—a bunch of new chemical, which has yet to build up to full effectiveness,
and gods only know whether the two chemicals play together nicely (or at all), which means I ought to be crankier than h€!! if, indeed, I can function at all. Oddly, I was feeling pretty good the last couple of days (after switching from taking MM in the a.m. to p.m., so it can knock me out at night instead of after breakfast). ‘Til I ran into The Withdrawal Issues today.

“Issues” in this case most often involve, for me, an extremely short, explosive temper, an inability to deal with the unexpected, and a sense that Everything Is Horrible and Is Going to Go Wrong for the Rest of Your Life, which may also be short and explosive. There may be wailing, gnashing of teeth, and fountainous tears; you never know and can’t anticipate.

It’s almost impossible to describe: It’s as if you’re sitting inside a little transparent box in your brain, and all these things are roiling around, like the worst thunderstorm you’ve ever seen complete with hail, lightning, crashing thunder and tornadoes, outside your box. You can see them; you know they mean trouble; you know they, not you, need boxing up. Then something happens to set them off, and you cannot get out of the little box to stop them. It can be pretty scary, it’s always extremely frustrating, and it makes you feel horribly guilty. You’re a grown-up; you’re supposed to be able to control yourself. When this stuff happens, you can’t. It’s not a matter of choosing not to; you simply cannot get out of the little box to do it. I’ve never yet met a person who thinks depression itself is as bad as the withdrawal syndrome from the drugs used to treat it.

Fortunately, having experience is a good thing. I recognized that Due South was going to be the given Direction for Proceeding very shortly and that the internal GPS was not going to be taking contradictory instruction from me. I packed up some of the possibly-broken wiring stuff to bring home to test, threw out the frighteningly moldy possibly former-food substances, and came home.

Grandma’d already enjoyed the great-grandbaby shots for the day. That’s the main thing.

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