Cooking No. 4

According to the 17^th century German mathematician and astronomer Johannes Kepler, the universe was created on this day in the year 4977 B.C. However (and much more importantly), according to the Social Security Administration, my maternal universe was created on this day in the year 195X A.D. That’s right, folks. Today is Mama V.’s birthday.

Mama V., showing off her mad trophy wife skills. She is the best pie baker in the entire Northeast.

As the designated “domestic” daughter, I volunteered to make her a birthday cake this past weekend. Last year, I made her a not-so-great Bundt cake, whose myriad of issues I tried to cover up with an entire bag of M&Ms, so this year I decided to kick it up a notch. Oh yes. You are correct. I went Martha on her.

If Martha Stewart were married, she would be the ultimate trophy wife. (As she is not, I will retain my title.) She is from Connecticut, obsessed with her pets, AND owns every cooking accoutrement ever known to womankind. (On a related sad note, my pizza cutter broke last night. I think this is the Lord’s way of telling me pizza was not meant to be served multiple times a week. Thankfully, now that it is getting warmer, I can switch over to hot dogs.) I am kind of obsessed with the magazine Martha Stewart Living, so when I received the May issue and saw the Sugar-and-Spice layer cake on page 125, I instantly knew Mama V.’s birthday warranted nothing less.

I woke up bright and early Saturday morning and set to work. Thankfully, Mama V. was gracious enough to let me make her birthday cake in her own kitchen, which was an absolutely luxury. Not only does she have more than two feet of linear counter space, but she is also stocked with baking exotics such as cake flour and unsalted butter. I think she is making a run for my title. She even has a sifter!

Mama V. buys the fancy eggs from happy chickens. <3 However, my hand mixer is better than hers. This gives me a certain amount of smug joy.

The spice cake batter was delicious and baked well for the most part. The recipe said to coat the pans, line them with parchment paper (Wonder of wonders – also something Mama V. had!), and then coat the paper. While this redundancy helped the cakes pop right out, it also made the edges uneven, so in hindsight I think I should have just gone overboard on the Crisco and flour.

I tackled the frosting Sunday morning before church, which was really not a great idea. Attempting your first four-layer cake ever on the holiest day of the year does not lead to particularly holy thoughts. The frosting recipe calls for mascarpone cheese – something I had never heard of before that took me 20 minutes to track down in Price Chopper and then almost killed me with its exorbitant price tag – so I had to get a little creative with its poor man’s cousin: cream cheese. Would it taste okay? Would it stand up on its own? (Even after a bumpy ride down the Merritt?) There was only one-way to find out: I had to put it through the dessert gauntlet.

My family specializes in desserts. On some occasions, our desserts outnumber our side dishes two to one. One person may be designated to bring dessert, but everyone will find some way to make an extra batch of cookies, brownies, cupcakes – you get the picture. If my cake could stand out among the many (or failed to garner a peep from Uncle Karl), I would consider it a success. As someone who is still too low on the family totem pole to be asked to bring things – Sister V. made it up to appetizers not too long ago – it was a stressful moment. Would Martha/my cake baking inexperience let me down?

Mama V., wondering if the baking gene was successfully passed down to her younger daughter. (She is not, however, wondering why she has a duck noisemaker around her neck. That was for the rest of us to figure out.)

The verdict? The cake was light, the frosting was not too sweet, and the jam didn’t make anything soggy. A success! It turned out to be a beautiful cake for a beautiful mommy. I love you, Mom. Thanks for teaching me all the trophy wife skills I know. I hope you had a wonderful day!

A gratuitous, embarrassing sister shot. She has dubbed my scar "gangsta." Don't you know it. (My cousin, on the other hand, informed me that I look like I've been murdered. I <3 my family.)

Culture No. 6

I have a confession to make.

…

Sometimes I am a bad trophy wife.

Not a terrible trophy wife, mind you. After all, we’ve only been married three months and I’ve yet to do something like drain the bank account or – knock-on-wood – crash the Mazda. But sometimes (aka this past weekend) I do play “Read My Mind Or Die” or some equally rigged, hormone-fueled mind game and am eventually forced to own up to the fact that sometimes I’m not very nice.

Thankfully, Bert is patient and loving and forgives me, but I’ve learned that sometimes it helps to have something to sweeten the deal/earn future “Bad Mood Indulgences.” Take, for example, our conversation from this past weekend:

Me: I’m sorry I was mean and refused to give you directions home from the gas station. [Long story. Don’t ask.] Will you forgive me?

Bert: Yes, I love you. I forgive you.

Me: Did I mention there’s a B-29 Superfortress practically in my parent’s backyard? Let’s go spend the afternoon looking at it and three other hangers full of planes and jeeps.

Bert: For real? You are the best wife ever! Were we fighting? I don’t even remember. Wow, you’re swell. And beautiful. I am the luckiest man alive.

Okay, so maybe I have never heard Bert say swell, but that was the essence of our conversation. And yes, I shamelessly distracted my husband away from my own shortcomings by bringing him to the New England Air Museum while we were in Connecticut this past weekend. And it worked like a charm. (He distracted me from his own shortcomings by buying me a box of Munson's truffles. It also worked like a charm. One that is currently almost gone.)

It's all about the shiny distractions, ladies. Case in point: my own, personal, butt-saving B-29. Look at how rapt he is. Is he thinking bad thoughts about his cranky wife? Not on your life!

The museum is pinched between Bradley Airport and the CT Air National Guard Base on a back road that looks like the TSA will arrest you just for looking at it. I’d been there once before, but it’s been awhile. (Not that it makes a difference. I am unable to ID anything less ugly than a Warthog.) This was Bert's first trip - am I a bad trophy wife for not bringing him sooner? - and he really enjoyed it, even with two-birthday-parties worth of children hogging all the open cockpits and flight simulators.

Bert and the 2.75 rocket his grandfather helped design. Apparently, the manual for this piece of weaponry resides somewhere in our apartment. You learn something new every day!

I always find it much more enjoyable to go to these kinds of places with people who know what they're talking about. (I feel the same way when I'm watching football. I know, I know. I am a terribly uninformed Hokie.) Bert and I had many riveting discussions about the purpose of "general purpose" bombs, what kind of seaplane was used in TailSpin, and how George Lucas' Naboo fighters were definitely not an original concept. (My level of discourse on aircraft only goes so high.) They also had an interesting exhibit on dirigibles, which included a photo of the swastika-bearing Hindenburg hovering over the Traveler's Building in Hartford. Kind of eerie!

Jeeper's grandfather. Still dripping oil into a pan of kitty litter on the floor. Guess it runs in the family. ;)

All up, it was a fun way spend a rainy afternoon burying the hatchet. I got mad Wife Points and Bert got enough antique engines to last him at least a good three months. (Anyone up for a car show in Carlisle after that?) I am a lucky gal. Cute and forgiving. What a combo.

Culture No. 5

It is a well-known fact in the Carlton family that I am a staunch believer in the theory that Northeastern Pennsylvania is caught in a time warp that leaves it drifting aimlessly somewhere around 1951. This is mostly due to that fact that, since moving here, I have witnessed/caused several archaically sexist incidences that gave even my post-fem besties cause for rant and rage. Now, I – of all people – am always up for a good rant, but today I am instead going to focus on the bright side of living in the mid-20^th century. (Besides the fantastic pickings at Salvation Army, of course.) What good can come from a society that has yet to land on the moon or discover ethnic food outside of the Italian/Polish persuasion, you ask? Let me tell you.

They have amazingly awesome, retro fabulous supermarkets. (And Polish delis. Is there anything better than fresh pirogis? Sorry Mrs. T. You don’t stand a chance.)

On any given week, you can find me in Price Chopper, Weis, or my new favorite, Redner’s. (Sorry Weggy’s. I covet your hipness, but you’re kind of a budget buster. And the “price your own veggies” thing stresses me out.) Every time I step into a supermarket here, I feel like I am walking backwards through time. It’s not an obvious thing. They are all modern in every sense of the word. (Except for Aldi’s, of course, which seems to be outside of the space-time continuum altogether.) Maybe it’s the little paper hats the Weis deli ladies wear. Or the fact that Redner’s carries a brand of juice I have not seen since the second grade. (Sipps, anyone? They don’t even seem to have a website I can link to…)

But overall, I think it’s the smell. Every grocery store in NEPA smells like Beechwood, that little market in Huntington where Mama V. had her start as a price-punching, grocery-slinging cashier. It is the smell of a time before the invention of the UPC. Or Title IX. Or coed Polytechnics that give women unfortunate things like degrees.

I digress. Now I am just being snarky for fun.

But for reals, the grocery stores here seem much less corporate and much more cozy than ones I’ve shopped at in the past. Grocery shopping is fun, and not just because I get an “Extreme Couponing”-type thrill every time I check out. In fact, I don’t even miss the hand scanners at Stop & Shop anymore! Who needs 'em? That's what slide rules are for.

Cat No. 3

Is there anything more homey than a kitten in the window?

Nora is home. Life is good.

Commerce No. 2

All good trophy wives are consummate label snobs. As I am an awesome trophy wife, I also have the corresponding uncontrollable addiction to overpriced clothing. Unfortunately (or otherwise), I am also the Budget Enforcer of the family, which means I am keenly aware of the state of our (usually) nonexistent clothes budget. These two facts are not compatible and if I were a PC or a man my brain would now explode. (Thankfully, my Mac and female-ness are capable of overcoming these contradictions so this post shall continue.)

My particular Achilles Heel is Ralph Lauren. This is due to two, scientifically-verified facts:

1. Ralph – we are totally on a first name basis – is the ultimate connoisseur of Prep. As I am from New England (aka the world’s largest producer of preppiness and trophy wives), I am genetically drawn to anything containing primary colors, sail boats, and/or stripes. This is why, much to Mama V.’s chagrin, I am always able to justify the purchase of another white and navy striped shirt.

2. Ralph makes awesome rugby shirts. And I am addicted to rugby shirts. Canterbury’s great if you’re playing the game. (Or Barbarian if you’re a cheap American.) Lansdowne’s cool if you want to go for the hooligan look. But Ralph… Only Ralph could make a shirt with rubber buttons and an undeniable kinship to a pack of Lifesavers classy enough for everyday wear.

Thankfully, TJ Maxx doubles as a ‘Ralph Dump,’ so sometimes I am able to pull off a major find without making Bert work overtime. Cue earlier this week:

I was cruising the men’s sale rack, looking for a new Easter shirt for Bert. (This is also something that trophy wives do. They buy their husbands uncomfortably pastel shirts for Easter.) I found him a nice purply grey Calvin Klein button-down, but in the process, I also came across a FABulous orange and brown, red-tagged, Ralph rugby shirt. (And as even my well-trained, five-year old niece knows, if it’s red-tagged, it might as well be free!)

It was a men’s medium – usually way too large for moi – but it was also “vintage slim fit” – which everyone knows is couture for “a lot smaller than you think” – so I gave it a shot. And it was awesome. It had everything I look for in a rugby shirt: comfort, length, the ability to stop traffic with its obnoxious striping. It even threw in a skull and crossbones on the cuff for kicks. Perfect. Ralph and Calvin both came home with me that day. (Bert’s reaction? “Don’t you already have a shirt like that?” Looks like Mama V.’s got a bug in SOMEbody’s ear…)

Now here’s the rub. I wore my new shirt the next day when I went back to TJ’s to get a different size for Bert. (I am still honing my trophy wife ability to intuitively ALWAYS know my husband’s clothing size, regardless of item, brand, or star alignment.) As I walked in, a group of four hip-hop-cool dudes was walking out. One of them looked at me and said, “That girl’s wearing my shirt! And it looks the same on her as it does on me!”

Was he saying I looked like a dude? Or was he saying it was awesome that we had both attained the same level of expensive, street-smart cool? I had (and still have) no idea. So I gave him a smile and a shrug, took it as a compliment, and retreated to the relative safety of the shoe department.

But now I know why most trophy wives probably stick to the women's section. (In my defense, I do have a women’s Ralph rugby shirt. It’s navy and white. Mama V. bought it for me. Now THERE'S a contradiction.) If you’re going to wear dude’s clothes, there’s always that chance you’ll get called out. Which I did. In less than 8 hours of wear-time. I’ll take it as a consequence of quirky taste. You can’t fight fashion.

Cancer No. 5

I have an announcement to make! Ned is now Nancy and my gen-dar is officially nonexistent. (I also thought Nora was a boy when I first got her and have the footage of me calling her Norris to prove it.) What in the world am I talking about? Let me clue you in:

That’s right, folks. Not only could they not tell what Ned/Nancy was when it was inside my neck, they still can’t figure it out now that they can slice and dice to their heart’s content! So I have decided that Nancy is my twin and, as sisters have always done me well and Worf has satisfied any need my father may have ever felt for a son, why not throw another female into the Violette clan? Ugh. Yes, I know. What in the world am I still talking about?

I had my follow-up visit with the surgeon yesterday. It went mostly well. My slash is healing well and he gave me permission to get it wet. (My hair is joyously squeaky clean and wet as I type.) He used the nasty nose scope again and gave my vocal cords an A+ as well. Unfortunately, the nurse did not give me enough anesthesia this time, so the scoping was less awkward and more painful than last, but I survived. (It is like having a smoke alarm going off in your ear and an ice cream headache all mixed up and shoved down your nose. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Definitely an eye waterer.)

The pathology report was when we came to the good news/bad news. The good news is: he didn’t cut any lymph nodes or para-something nodes or anything else out when he removed the thyroid. (They are all close and chummy, so it’s pretty common to loose a few during surgery.) Awesome. The bad news is: they had to send Nancy out for a second opinion because they still don’t know what the hey she is. Most signs point to her being benign, but there is still something a bit funky that’s making them unsure. (Perhaps it’s the spinal cord.) Regardless, I should have the final-final report back in a week or so. Poor Nance. What a way to go.

NTOTD No. 2

Hospital socks. Have you tried them? Ah-mazing! I feel like Spiderman in these things. Unfortunately, they seem to be designed for very limited usage and are already disentegrating on my feet, but still. Definitely worth slipping into the mom bag the next time you're within range. I kind of wish I'd asked for an extra pair. (And if you haven't already been introduced, Skip-Bo is also an excellent NTOTD. Just don't play my memere. There's no winning there.)

Cars No. 1

Being a trophy wife is not all fun and games. (Although, I won’t lie. It comes pretty darn close. Mama V. ain’t no fool.) The very fact that I don’t have to report to anyone for a good majority of the day makes me a prime candidate for what I like to call “9-5 Tasks.” This includes anything to do with the post office, bank, and my personal least favorite, taking care of the car.

Let me be frank. The sum of my personal knowledge concerning automobiles amounts primarily to the list of things I’ve learned over the years not to hit: rocks, road signs, deer, 18 wheelers, garage doors, etc., etc., et. al.(I’ve also learned that by the time your oil light comes on, you’re already dead in the water, which I think is a very mean-spirited design flaw on the part of all automakers. Come on! I don’t even get a warning?!) I know nothing about cars, they know nothing about me, and we’ve maintained this frienemy state of affairs quite happily for some time now.

Until now. Until AAMCO Dan.

Pennsylvania does not believe in paving roads, so – as you can imagine – the Mazda took quite a few pot(hole)shots this winter. This alone would probably call for some sort of appointment I don’t understand, but the Mazda’s issues are also exacerbated by its special “I’m from Georgia and can only drive in sunshine and sprinkles” suspension. (Bert’s words, my translation.) I’m not sure what makes it different, but let me tell you: every time I hit a hole in that thing I feel like I’m about to loose a molar. Oy vey.

Last week, the Mazda and I were zipping around on one of our daily Fun Runs when the front, passenger tire started making this terrible grinding noise. Like metal teeth crunching metals rocks. Ugh. Nails on a chalkboard. It makes me shiver just thinking about it. I called Bert in a wifely panic and asked him if I was about to loose a wheel and die, because everyone knows that this is something that you can immediately diagnose over the phone when speaking to a frantic woman. (Just ask Click and Clack.) He told me to calm down and drive it home. “You can take it to AAMCO tomorrow.”

Ah, AAMCO. When Bert said those words, it WAS like sunshine and sprinkles. (I can assure you. I’ve been to every Saturn dealership on the East Coast and there were NEVER any sprinkles at Saturn. And look where it got them.) Why? Because when I go to AAMCO, I get to hang out with AAMCO Dan.

AAMCO Dan has changed my entire perception of automobile maintenance and local Pennsyltucky culture. How could I not love a man who calls my husband “Hercules” (because, yes, Bert CAN crack an oil cap with his bare hands) and is not ashamed to steal my purple cell phone and run around the entire premises with it? (Sometimes, Bert would just rather talk to Dan. Apparently, my descriptions of car problems are not always helpful.) He is that rare (to me) combination of local and normal (which gives me hope for the rest of NEPA) and has a much-appreciated knack for diagnosing the Mazda without spending gazillion dollars.

In this case? That terrible crunching sound I heard was just a rock caught in the rotor. Oh. My bad. But we did end up needing a new something, so our hang out time was justified. Next time it will be the front struts. Or maybe we’ll bring Jeepers in for some TLC. Either way, I’m not dreading it quite so much anymore. Thanks, AAMCO Dan!

Cancer No. 4

If I were hip and cool, I would now begin to extol the benefits of a “No Poo” lifestyle and how going four days without even getting my hair wet has changed my follicles forever. However, since my hair is undeniably addicted to parabens, sulfates, and (at the very least) daily washings, I will instead wax poetic on the disgusting, dread-like quality of my current hair texture and why “No Poo” will never be something I advise outside of a conversation with my cat.

Thankfully, my doctor’s admonition to keep my neck dry (and consequently, my hair dirty) until Thursday is the only thing I can find to complain about right now, which is probably a lot less than most people can say three days after an organ removal. In short: the hospital was great (as far as hospitals go), the surgery went well (less than 2.5 hours from "out cold" to "sort of awake"), and I’ve been clean of my Percocet (aka “the three hour nap” pill) for over 24 hours.

Rather than give you a play-by-play of my short hospital stay, which would no doubt be blurry and muddled due to the fact that I traded my glasses for a morphine drip early on, I am instead going to provide you with a short list of lessons learned and problems faced.

1. Prayer works. At no point during this whole ordeal was I scared, worried, or otherwise freaking out, which says something coming from the woman who couldn’t ride through Disney’s “Haunted Mansion” with her eyes open until she was 21. The fact that I went through this whole circus of needles, IVs, hospital beds, wheelchairs, anesthesia, organ removal, and a pre-op roommate who had to get his chest shaved and was making terrible gurgly noises without batting an eyelash tells me that God was right there the whole time. I wonder what we’ll do together next. Hopefully something I will be conscious for.

2. My husband rocks. He’s definitely got the “in sickness and in health” thing down. He was by my side until they whisked me into Pre-Op, reappeared as soon as they let me out of Post-Op, and would’ve stayed the night in the Laz-Z-Boy from Heck if the nurses would’ve let him. He even offered to sneak some DQ in for me. That, my friends, is true love.

3. Nurses are bestowed with supernatural soothing powers. The only other creature that wakes me up as much as they did is my cat, and she does not fare nearly as well. Perhaps they put something in my Italian Ice. Or maybe it was the narcotics. Either way, I'm glad I don't have to do what they do. Gold stars all around!

4. Currently, I look like I had a run in with Freddy Krueger. It’s cool and sassy when I’m at home looking in the mirror, but at the grocery store? The post office? I was supposed to get my new license photo taken this week, for cryin’ out loud. (Yeah, definitely did not think that one through…) Do I flaunt my thyroidlessness with pride or try not to terrify the children? Decisions, decisions…Maybe I should start with brushing my hair. That might help.

But for reals, thank you for all your thoughts and prayers. I have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon on Wednesday when I’ll find out if my nodule was benign or not. (Benign = Great! Not Benign = Another surgery to remove the rest of my thyroid. Not great!) They might throw some more blood tests in for kicks as well. I’ll let you know how things stand as soon as I do.

Thanks again & lots of love,

S (minus Ned the Nodule)

Commerce No. 1

Prior to the wedding, our one and only premarital counseling session consisted of an afternoon of quality hangout time with one of the coolest pastor/wife duos we know. The moral of the afternoon was pretty simple: “Be nice to each other.”

We did go into more than that, of course, but anyone’s whose been through premarital counseling can give you a basic list of things bound to trip up a pair of happily-married newlyweds: money, sex, children, etc., etc., et. al. It’s a good list to go over and I’m glad we were aware of those areas ahead of time, but everyone seems to have left out one, troubling, explosive zone of matrimonial disharmony.

Furniture.

(Don't let the handsome man fool you. He is secretly thinking of ways to convince his wife to okay the purchase of that $50 lamp: an impulse buy that was totally NOT on the pre-approved list.)

Yes, it’s true. Bert and I fight more about furniture than any other topic. (Food is a distance second. For a good laugh, ask him about the epic “Cinnamon Bun Battle of Tannersville” sometime.) I’m not sure what this says about us, our maturity level, or the compatibility of our design sensibilities, but if you put two people through design school – thankfully, the same one, otherwise we might have a lot more issues – and then ask them to set up an apartment together, there’s bound to be some sparks.

This underlying tension came to a head this weekend during our visit to that stalwart bastion of European capitalism loved by poor, furniture-less people the western world over: Ikea. Philadelphia is blessed with not just one, but TWO Ikeas (Ikei?), so on Sunday we buzzed on down after church to the closer one in Conshohocken. (This is Pennsylvanian for “Susquehanna was already taken, so this is the second-most torturous combination of consonants and vowels we could come up with.” Haha. Just kidding. It really means, “A location only reached by paying ridiculous amounts of Turnpike tolls,” which we all know is somewhat akin to modern-day highway robbery, seeing as how PENNDOT has not paved a road since 2001.)

We already had a rough idea of what we needed: a dresser, a bookshelf, desk, and maybe a bed. Generally, we are big fans of anything in the Malm or Expedit family (Don’t even suggest a Hemnes to Bert. OMG. I thought we were through right then and there.), so you’d think the whole outing would be as simple as downing a plate of $1.99 Swedish meatballs, right?

Ha. If only.

Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was because the Malm bed turned out to be a big, chunky mess and my beloved Edland was made of particleboard matchsticks. Or because I told Bert every desk he liked was ugly. (I believe my exact words were, "Those legs look like mailing tubes.") Or because he was intent on believing that bedrooms should have two low dressers. (A girl’s got to stick to her guns, okay?) Let’s just say that by the time we made it to the Café, we both decided we better sit down and have a cuppa so as to avoid duking it out in full view of all the impressionable children in Smaland downstairs.

It was a wise decision. The coffee turned out to be free, which made my day – unbeknownst to us, it was “spend a lot of money and get free food” day – and the cafeteria had automatic dispensers for the cream AND sugar, which made Bert’s. Saved by European loss leaders and ingenuity! Thank you, Lord.

(I also got a free froyo on the way out for signing up for Ikea's new frequent shopper card. Yes, sweets do shut me up. I am five-years old that way. Especially when they're free.)

The quick breather was just what we needed and our stroll through the lower level was decidedly less volatile. We decided on a high 6-drawer Malm dresser in black brown, one 2x4 Exedit bookshelf in white, and two Expedit desks in white. We decided to not buy an Ikea bed due to quality concerns and instead sprung for this bad boy from West Elm when we got home. (This also turned out to be a wise decision due to space concerns. The Mazda was packed out as it was.) Bert whipped out the big guns and showed those flat packs who was boss, while I hovered close by for moral support and lateral stability.

(This is his second cart. Before he could load the first cart, he managed to give it away to a little, old lady who needed one. He is such a boy scout. I <3 him. :)

So what was the moral of this afternoon? I'm not sure. We are easily soothed by coffee? The Eames we are not? Bert can make it through anything when he knows there's a cinnamon bun waiting for him at the end? (Although that didn't hold true in Tannersville...) Maybe it is just "Be nice to each other." So simple. So Ikea. Sign us up. I'll go for that even without the freebie.

(No, I did not intentionally dress in Ikea colors. And yes, I am wearing every one's favorite sandals. Hurray for the first Teva day of the year!)

New Thing of the Day (NTOTD) No. 1

This is a new series, affectionately titled "New Thing of the Day," in which I will write about a new thing of the day. Pretty self explanatory. I also wanted to see if I could embed videos, which those post goes to show that I can. Awesome.

To kick things off, I thought it appropriate to start with one of my new favorite bands - The Winter Sounds - and their song Trophy Wife. I found The Winter Sounds on a trip through Amazon's "free music" section and ended up buying their second album, Church of the Haunted South, as a Christmas present "for Drew." The band is originally from Athens, Georgia - a town that produces amazing bands like it's going out of style (R.E.M., anyone?) - so I figured he'd like them. Mmm...who am I kidding? I bought it for me and my guys-with-guitars lovin' ways. ;)

In the grand tradition of semi-indie bands, there's no cool music video for the song, but enjoy the music below!

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 96

96. Your pillow talk consists of the merits of Star Wars fiction, specifically why Timothy Zahn's books should be the only ones ever considered for Episodes VII-IX, why the X-Wing series rocked, and why Chewbacca will never truly die if you refuse to read the book.

Culture No. 4

Friday mornings are quite significant in the Carlton Household. For this one and blessed morning only, we dip into the dry recesses of our “Eating Out” budget and hit up what is quite possibly our favorite restaurant ever. Oh, yes. You are correct. Friday morning is the day we go to Dunks. (And yes, the inventor of the chocolate frinkle TOTALLY qualifies as a restaurant. Don’t give me any of that “fast food joint” nonsense.)

Drew has gone to Dunkin Donuts on Friday mornings since before the beginning of time. I’ll admit: I was tempted to go all “Budget Enforcer” on him until I realized one debilitating, Kryptonical fact: Northeastern Pennsylvania is haven to the elusive Dunkin Donuts sugared raised donut.

Most likely you have never heard of this creation because, sadly, it was admitted to the “Endangered Donut List” sometime in late 2007. (Ridiculously, the French Crueler is also on this list. Dang you proponents of the Freedom Fry/Toast! You obviously did not think through all the consequences of your Franco phobia.)

I first discovered the sugared raised donut at the Williamstown, Mass. Dunks in mid-2007, from where it promptly disappeared the day after I was officially addicted. (Life is cruel.) Mama and Sister V. also sighted this rare beast in Connecticut around the same time, but, tragically, it too vanished. As of today, the New England habitat of this delicious concoction has been completely wiped out. (The Boston Crème is quite the heavy weight. The more delicate donuts have a hard time competing.)

But then I moved to NEPA and my world became a better place. (I bet this blog is the only place on the interwebs containing that sentence.) Because yes, it’s true, not only does the sugared raised donut still exist in this bastion of heritage pastries, but it is thriving! Here, you can go to Dunks as late as 7:15 a.m. and they still have six left! (In Billsville, you were out of luck after 7.) It brings hope and happiness to my heart knowing there are still holdouts against the advent of good donut flavor destruction. (You may also be happy to know that America does INDEED run on Dunkin, as evidenced by my multiple mile post-donut jog. The slogan is true!)

Happy Friday, kids. Go a little crazy. Eat an endangered donut just for me.

Cancer No. 3

It’s official. Late next week, I am having a partial thyroidectomy at the same hospital where CeCe Halpert was born.

Well, no, not really. I googled “hospital where CeCe Halpert was born” and I couldn’t find anything, so I’m not sure if they ever specified the hospital during the show. But the hospital is otherwise very dull and normal, so I suppose, as always, I will have to make it exciting on my own

I met with the surgeon early last week. His office is part of an Ear, Nose, and Throat practice and, judging by the number of children in the waiting room, initially fooled me into thinking there is a pandemic of thyroid problems among America’s youth. Silly me. Forgot about those tots and their dang ears. Our meeting was brief and went something like this:

Surgeon (His name is Michael. This is a prerequisite to be a doctor in Pennsyltucky. My other two doctors are also named Michael.): Even though Ned is only on one side, I want to cut your whole thyroid out. You are also the whitest person I’ve ever seen, so your scar is going to be worse and it’s not my fault.

Me: No way, Jose. (Or, perhaps, Miguel?) I don’t want to be hormonally out of whack for the rest of my life. You can have the left side. I’ll tell people I was in a knife fight. Why does everyone have to remind me I’m so pale?

Surgeon: Whatever. I don’t care. Keep your right thyroid, pasty. Be that way.

Then he sprayed anesthesia up my nose and chased it with a scope to look at my voice box. It was awkward and unpleasant and if my life were a sci-fi movie, I would now have something growing in my trachea. (Are they even connected? My sinuses then, perhaps.)

I left the office feeling like I had a nostril of Novocain, but otherwise in good spirits: out with the bad, keeping the good, and hopefully avoiding a life addicted to Synthroid.

Later on in the week, I had to go to the hospital for pre-admission testing. It was wonderfully boring and involved no Alien-esque scopes or faux nasal drip. I successfully irritated both the EKG and X-Ray tech by moving and not moving at the incorrect times, but they still validated my parking, which by the end of the morning was all I really cared about. (There was also some blood testing at a lab that doubled as a Dharma Initiative set due to it's groovy 70's dinginess, but sadly, the grossness of the office was the most exciting thing that happened there.)

Am I nervous? Yes. That’s why I scheduled this whole party as soon as I possibly could. (Let’s be real. Nervous or no, after a year and a half of looking, I’m so ready to leap. Let’s cut this time bomb out.) Excepting my wisdom teeth, I’ve never had surgery before, although because of my wisdom teeth, I also know I am an anesthesiologist’s dream. The Doc says I’ll wake up with an oxygen mask on, which makes me feel claustrophobic just thinking about it. They may or may not keep me overnight. “It depends on how you’re doing,” the Doc says, which also freaks me out. (There’s a chance I won’t be doing well?!)

But other than nerves, I think I’m alright. I know lots of people are praying for me, which helps. I don’t really get how God operates, but I guess he knows what he’s doing, so I’ll hang in there for the time being. Visits, cards, and care packages full of coupons are always appreciated and, if you want a good laugh, give me a buzz when I’m still on the painkillers. I’m told I can be quite the entertainer.

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 97

97. He gets really excited about basements, as in [when referring to the basement in our new duplex], "I've never had a basement I could stand up in before! This is great! Look at all this storage! Look at the underside of the floor! You can see everything! Wow!"

He obviously has never been on the "Top 100 Nastiest Basements in Western Massachusetts" Tour. Or did he forget I come from a long line of basement dwellers? Hmmm... Either way, got to love the Georgia boys...

Cat No. 2

Nora is on Spring Break in CT right now, but I thought you'd like to see this belated photo of her rockin' out on St. Patty's Day. I made these mint brownies for a dinner party that got canceled, thus depriving me from a much anticipated introduction to the carb overload that is "spaghetti pizza." I sent them to work with Drew the next morning to save us both from indulging in the sugar overload that is "anything made with karo syrup" and he came home with a recipe request from his coworker. How do you politely tell someone Betty Crocker is your BFF? Granted, I threw in some mint chocolate chips and pulled out my hereditary frosting making skills (Thanks, Mama V.), but the hard part? It was all the Bettmiester.

Update

Hey Gang!

I just wanted to assure you that I am not MIA, nor is this blog going the way of all my previous blogging fiascoes. The past week or so has contained a birthday, a trip to the New E, a move, three doctor's appointments, and a three day migraine, so writing has (unfortunately) not been high on the priority list. That will change this week! Just let me play catch up for a day or two first. :)

Sarah