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Saturday, December 27, 2003

a long ramble, about nothing in particular, really

I've spent the day having a little private growl at my husband's boss, whose extreme need to be The Man Of The Hour has resulted in him calling my husband in to work with him for the last two days on something that could just as easily be done on Monday. This is the only time my husband has ever had a five-day weekend without having to take leave to get it, and for two of those days he's been in at work. His boss is just a big blue Meanie. [deleted long and sometimes funny tirade re: boss out of fear that either a) he would happen upon my diary and know he was being described and fire my husband on the spot or b) someone who knows both of us would read this and, in the usual way of our town's magical gossip mind-reading chain, without anyone ever verifiably telling anyone ANYTHING, the grapevine would carry my tirade to him, with the same end result as option a]


Other than the periodic loud, angry apostrophizing on my part towards the absent boss, the day's been quiet. If T were home it would be a perfect day -- cold outside, warm inside, nice and relaxing.


Ironic, isn't it, that I had just typed those words about fifteen minutes ago when my darling son managed to knock over a nearly-full gallon of milk? Imagine the chaos that began even as I typed the "g" in "relaxing", and it's almost funny, even to me. However, I have a question: At what age or stage do human reflexes improve to the point where a person will simply and quickly pick up, say, a gallon container of fluid when it's been tipped, rather than standing and staring in apparently impotent horror for a few seconds while the fluid obeys the laws of physics and goes glug glug splash splash onto the floor? I really want to know this. (at least the floor needed mopping anyway; it could have been worse).


I think I need a good dose of Austen to return to my former relaxed and happy state. As soon as I figure out what I'm making for dinner I'll indulge. And speaking of indulging, I have been outright avoiding my scale lately. It is looking resentfully at me every time I go past, but I just can't get involved with it right now. This is in large part the fault of my darling brother, who found the recipe for the world's most amazing clam chowder and brought the resulting big-bowl-o-bliss to our family Christmas dinner. Oh. My. Gosh. It was so good. And then how was I supposed to turn him down when he offered to send home leftovers? I swear this stuff probably has five thousand calories per serving (seriously, it consists mostly of equal portions heavy cream, half and half, whole milk, and bacon, if I remember right, with the requisite clam juice and all that as well. Well, here, here's the recipe), but it tastes so good that I was willing to eat it and face the consequences. I've finally finished the rest of the leftovers and I have sworn an oath on my size 12's not to make more than two batches of this heavenly stuff a year. Yikes. And January 1st, I am stepping on the scale whether I like it or not.


I bought a pair of inline skates with some Christmas money. I have all these grandiose plans of skating along with the kids as they ride their bicycles on bike paths. First I have to actually, um, put them on, and see if I can remain upright in them. I haven't stood on anything that rolled since roller rink trips in junior high, and maybe high school once or twice. Hmm, perhaps I should have bought the helmet as well as the knee pads, elbow pads, and gloves. If I suddenly disappear, you'll know it's because I'm in a Rollerblade-induced coma.

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