NTOTD No. 5: Dry Shampoo

I have a confession to make. (This blog is so cathartic that way.) Sometime after this post, I made a terrible, terrible discovery that - even now - I loathe to admit to both myself and you: I completely love, rock, and adore dirty hair.

I'm not sure what happened. Perhaps a week's worth of hair grease clogged my neocortex. Or my left thyroid held particular sway over any innate tendencies I have in the Euro-bathing department. Maybe I just got tired of blow-drying the third thickest head of hair on the planet. Regardless, it happened. I stopped washing my hair every day.

This led to a second - and much more pleasant - discovery: the wonder that is dry shampoo. I still wash my hair one or two times a week (I'm not that hardcore.), but on the days in between this stuff comes into play. You spray it on, rub it in, brush it out, and viola! Good to go! Liberated from the tyranny of the fifteen minute blow-out! Who knew my hair could be even more low maintenance? I am completely and utterly hooked.

There is one downside though. Bangs are decidedly not "No Poo" friendly. Without being 'rebooted' everyday, they tend to be flat, cowlick-ed, or otherwise unruly. C'est la vie. Mine are already on their way out.

Culture No. 9

Newsflash!

We live in coal country. Like, where they dig it out of the ground and people still burn it to heat their houses. Because it’s cheap and domestic and that's the way they do things because that's the way it's always been done. This might seem painfully obvious to anyone who’s Pennsylvanian or Polish, but for a girl who’s only childhood experience with coal was a few close calls with Santa, this is utterly fascinating. Whenever I hear people talking about how their grandfather or great-grandfather worked in the mines, all I can think is, For reals?! My great-grandfather ran away from home and joined a minstrel show. Obviously, we must be from different planets. (Because, of course, I think most people would agree that Quebec is in a world of its own.)

I am thinking about foreign cultures because my Cuban bestie visited the Carlton B&B this past weekend with her equally Latino-fabulous BF. (Granted, being from NOVA might be even more foreign, but I'm trying to build bridges, not tear them down. Work with me here.) So in the spirit of cross-cultural learning – I am, after all, an AFS alum – I thought a little Pennsyltucky indoctrination was in order. So we did the most Pennsylvanian thing I could think of. No, we did not go to a Penn State football game. (It's May, otherwise that may have been an option.) But yes, we did go on the Lackawanna Mine Tour.

And you know what? They loved it! See? Look at the extra-cultural love! Good sports, all around!

The mine – closed in the mid-20^th century – is located in Scranton’s McDade Park, just east of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Bert brought me once years ago, but since it’s been awhile and as it FINALLY STOPPED RAINING, we thought it would be a fun way to spend a sunny, Saturday afternoon. (Yes, going underground where it is neither sunny nor dry seemed like a good idea at the time. Just roll with it. E. & A. did.)

Me & E., together again and grabbing some much-need Vitamin D before venturing underground.

The tour lasts about an hour and starts with a three-minute ride down the shaft. (I won’t lie. The rest of the tour is great, but riding in the mine cars is my favorite part. It’s like Disney World, just cheaper and without the danger of being killed by stroller-wielding tourists.) Once at the bottom, a guide takes you on a half-mile trek through the mine, explaining the history of mining in the region - with the help of some antique machines and uber-creepy mannequins - as you go. At one point, he’ll even turn the lights off, which I’m proud to say did not freak me out at all. (History Lesson: Five year-old Sarah + a guide who decided to turn all the lights off in Howe Caverns = Disaster with a very large capital D) In fact, it was even kind of cool. I know, I know! Who am I?!

If you come and visit us between April and November and do not suffer from claustrophobia, you will most likely also be brought on this tour and forced to take fun, Pennsylvanian photos like this one. Consider yourself warned.

After the tour, we continued the international fun and trundled back down to the valley for dinner at the Ipanema Grill - a Brazilian steakhouse that came highly recommended from some of Bert's coworkers. While the outside was a bit 'Scranton-fabulous,' the inside was nice and the food was amazing. We all ordered the rodizio, which - from what I can tell - is a form of protein-consumption created by men to eat as many different kinds of meat as possible before exploding. Yes, the Grill is one of those restaurants where the waiter gives you a stick to leave on the table - one end is red, the other, green - and until you turn red side up, the meat just keeps on coming. In less than thirty minutes, we were served (in no particular order): bacon-wrapped turkey, pork loin, chicken hearts, spare ribs, roast chicken, kebabs, and more cuts of beef than I knew could grow on a cow. (I also learned that I love flank steak. Like woah.)

Bert, consuming more red meat than he usually gets in six months. And loving it. What a treat! :)

Somehow we managed to roll ourselves home and veg for the rest of the evening. It was a great weekend with some wonderful friends who we don't get to see very often and I can't wait till they come back. (Or - eek! - we visit them in NOVA.) Love you both. You are such a blessing to the both of us!

The B&B has an open schedule now! Who's next for some cultural fun?

Craft No. 1

First off, let me say that I love our apartment. I really do. It was the first and only apartment Bert and I found that allowed tenants under the age of 90 and felines, which is saying something since most Pennsyltucky landlords believe maturity begins post-retirement and cats will spray no matter how many times you fix them. (Imagine me trying to explain the details of spaying to a 70 year-old woman and you’ll have a good idea of how our apartment search went.) This apartment was a huge answer to prayer and I am extremely thankful for it, even more so since they replaced the ‘Christmas Tree green’ carpet with a ‘cat vomit beige’ one. It brightens up the place AND gives our security deposit a little room to breathe.

But I’ll be honest with you, my inner architect mourns for our duplex. It is a good, solid building that’s been horribly mistreated. Judging from the concrete foundation walls – a lot of laundry = a lot of time in the basement studying these things – the house was built in two phases, probably in the late 30s/early 40s, out of a rounded, split-face block I’ve never seen used in residential construction outside of NEPA. (It’s still all the rage. A guy down the block just rebuilt his front porch with it.) I’m generally not a big fan of CMU houses – it’s the New England snob in me – but for all its poor material choice, it’s still a cute house.

But years and years of amateur renovations have not been kind. Nothing’s plumb, our exterior doors are really interior ones, and the lack of bathroom ventilation is…a problem. And as much as we (i.e. Bert) dread drilling into the original CMU or plaster to hang things, it didn’t take long for us to discover they were much more preferable to the newer, ‘paper’ walls. (I have no clue what that stuff is. I’m not a big fan of Chinese sheet rock either, but this stuff has the consistency of soggy cardboard. I’m never going to ask my husband to hang a towel bar ever again.)

But when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right? I wasn’t going to blog about this project until it was a little more…done (There are no curtains on the dining room windows yet, which is why the photos are all close-ups.), but since I’ve had several requests for it already…okay! Without further adieu, may I present to you, the Carlton dinner leader board pole:

Due to the impenetrability of most of our walls, we have a lot of after-the-fact piping and conduits throughout the house. This lovely one is in our dining room, and I’m pretty sure it was decommissioned quite some time ago. (Steam heat, maybe? Any ideas? I’m not experienced enough for this one.) So in the grand tradition of lazy renovation (as also evidenced by our dropped ceilings and tiled-over plastic baseboards), someone just left it there. In my dining room. Cramping my vacuum storage space and not doing much else.

So one night after a particularly entertaining episode of Top Gear, I had an idea. Top Gear has a segment entitled “Star in a Reasonably Priced Car” where a celebrity – usually of obscure British origin – races the Anglo-equivalent of a Saturn around a test track. At the end of the segment, their name and time is posted on a magnetic leader board amidst all the celebrities that have gone before. And – here’s a brief glimpse into the weird, associative way my hungry mind works – that got me thinking: “Why can’t we do that with food?!”

Bert, of course, loved the chance to introduce a bit of British culture into our home and wholeheartedly approved the idea. And thus the pole was born.

Karen was queen at the Violette's and has annexed our household as well...

The rules are simple. When a meal is made (that I would consider making again), I write its name down on a magnet, which Bert ranks relative to all other meals already on the pole. It’s helpful to me because I know what meals he didn't like and it’s helpful to him because he doesn't have to come right out and say it.

This was a lifesaver (for him) when I discovered my own personal favorite, pea soup, chilling with the Dyson down near the FLOOR. When confronted, he pulled the 'adorable husband face' and said it was "a texture thing." "But," he said, "I will eat it if you make it."

The thing is, I've seen him eat it, and it is painful to watch. I had a feeling the soup was not going over well, but he is such a trooper and never complained. Trophy wife lesson learned: if you ask for honesty, prepare yourself for some bad news.

But I swear, the next time that boy gets shipped off to China, this house is going to be PEA SOUP CENTRAL! All peas! All the the time! Just wait...

NTOTD No. 4: Travis

I feel like Noah. It’s been raining for how many days? Too many. I’m usually the first person down for a weather-enforced TV marathon, but this is kind of ridiculous. (I’ve also run out of American Pickers episodes on Netflix and Bert might kick me out if I keep up with Pawn Stars aka “the show that will not be named”.) Also, Nora is about to burst a blood vessel. That cat needs to go OUT.

So in honor/appeasement of this terrible weather, I present to you the Theme Song of the Day/Week, “Why Does it Always Rain On Me?” by Travis. (I must give credit where credit is due: I found out about this band via a Brian-made CD in Sister V.’s car. If it weren’t for people with better musical taste, I would probably still be listening to non-stop Darius Rucker.)

Travis suffers from "Good Band, Lame Music Videos" Syndrome, but this one is actually alright. The song also happens to be the official anthem of my parent’s cat, Worf, who suffers from chronic bad days and neurological re-boots. (Fun Family Fact: Our late dog’s anthem was Michael W. Smith’s “For You”, which, yes, also has a nice ‘water theme,’ but is a little too 90s-fabulous for me to post so early in the morning. There is also not a real music video for it. Not even a lame one.)

So without further adieu, your new thing of the day...

Culture No. 8

A year or two ago, I was dubbed the ‘overnight conservator’ for a pair of married relatives who decided to turn back-to-back colonoscopies into some sort of middle-aged date. The medical office thought the whole thing was cute, but I found it bizarre and put it down to the eccentricity of my family and something to maybe be considered for the “50 after 50” List. Dinner and a movie may lack certain points for creativity, but it also lacks…scopes.

So yesterday, true to form, I went ahead and broke my own rule. No colonoscopies were involved – thank goodness we’re still a few decades early for that – but Bert and I most definitely spent a romantic afternoon at the optometrist’s office. Ooohhh yeah…

(Perhaps I should preface this whole story with the fact that I am currently in the middle of a migraine marathon. I thought bright lights and loud noises were bad? Ugh. Try forced dilation and an optic nerve triathlon. It helps to have a friend in the waiting room to distract from the too-loud TV playing “Dennis the Menace” reruns. [Question: Since when did Nick at Night go daytime?] Unnamed Relatives: Now I understand.)

Bert came home at lunchtime and off to the Opto’s we went. His appointment was first and mine followed. Migraine be darned, somehow I passed the torturous obstacle course of eye exercises ranging from the standard charts to 3-D illusions and color-blindness tests. (The color test was a first for me. Perhaps it was a comment on my wardrobe choice?) The best/least painful part was when the nurse and I discovered we were both sans thyroid and had an awesome chat about fun stories to explain our scars. (Her fav? A gang fight.) Thyroidectomies are all the rage!

Next up was the Opto. In the grand tradition of every eye doctor I’ve ever visited, he was fun, quirky, and had crazy-awesome, Gene Wilder-esque hair. (Bert and I are both considering career changes.) As always, I managed a good shock with the terrible condition of my eyes: a shock made even more incredible because, as bad as he thought Bert’s eyes were, mine were worse. (It’s official, folks. Our children will be moles.) Happily, the Opto pronounced my eyes had not degenerated since my last check-up, dropped in the dreaded dilation drops, and sent me back out to the waiting room to chill with the huz.

Bert was a few minutes ahead of me in the dilation department, which provided a welcome distraction as his eyes refused to dilate at equal speeds (i.e. One pupil was HUGE and one was normal. In his own words, “I look like one of those husky dogs…” Regretfully, I have no photographic evidence as – much to his relief – I forgot my camera at home.) Several of Dennis’ hijinks later, we both passed our dilation tests, got fitted with some new fancy contacts for our varying degrees of astigmatism, and drove home for a fun afternoon of (quiet and dark) Netflix-hopping. So maybe it wasn’t our most exciting date ever, but you know what? The insurance company doesn’t pay for dinners and movies. I’ll take what I can get.

NTOTD No. 3: Rooibos

Sometimes, Bert and I don’t speak the same language. Usually, I can attribute this to gender, but once in awhile the ol’ Mason-Dixon rears its culture-dividing head and I am reminded that yes, I married a Georgia boy. :) Case in point: when I asked him to put the water on last night, he had no idea what I was talking about.

Once we had that misunderstanding cleared up, he proceeded to tell me that my family drinks more tea than anyone else he knows. (“We only drank sweet tea at home.” Too presh. Almost makes me feel bad for refusing to buy it.) Mama and Papa V. are self-confessed “coffee snobs” (Sorry, guys. Secret’s out.), so I thought this was a funny observation, but hey! I’ll go with it. I can appreciate all forms of cuppas.

My favorite kind of tea is Rooibos, which, in the tradition of all proper trophy wife/hipster-wannabe preferences, is both unpopular and obscure. It’s pronounced ‘ROY-bos’ – though I prefer the French/more fun to say “rooey-boo” – and originally comes from Africa, which is where I was first introduced to it myself. When I was in Uganda, we were served a SWEET, reddish tea pretty much everywhere we went. While it was a bit too Southern-style for my taste buds, I could tell that minus a few cups of sugar, it would actually be pretty awesome. Turns out it’s supposedly amazing for you too. What a random happy circumstance. (Usually my culinary favorites have the nutritional content of a peanut butter M&M. I was so proud when I found out I picked out a wonder food all on my own.)

I buy my snob tea at the Christmas Tree Shop. Shhh! Don’t tell!

My second favorite kind of tea – because, as wonderful as Rooibos is, it scores a big, fat zero in the caffeine department – is Irish Breakfast. (Not to be confused with its cousin from across the sea, English Breakfast, which for some reason always tastes like wet sawdust to me.) Like Rooibos, I don’t drink it native style (Tea+Milk=No Thank You), but I think it comes off better for it. If I want milk, I'll drink milk. I don't need it cooling off or diluting my wake-up drink.

What about you? What's your favorite kind of tea?

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 93

93. He happily and voluntarily does the dinner dishes.

...

'Nuff said.

Cat No. 4

Last night, Nora went out around eight and did not come in before I fell asleep. I checked for her around one, but she was still MIA. I went back to bed, only to hear the sound of two cats yowling several minutes later.

Now, don't let her cuteness fool you. Nora is well-known in four states for having an attitude problem. Case in point: her general disdain for anything feline. (Excepting herself, of course.) If cats are yowling, you can bet good money that Nora is one of them.

The cat spat went on, off and on, for the next hour or so. (Yes, I stayed awake to listen, because that is the kind of crazy cat lady I am.) I waited until they sounded closer to the house before going outside, PJs and all. (My gummy bear boxers, to be exact. As if the neighbors didn't think we were crazy enough already...)

As I suspected, Nora and one of the neighborhood cats were having a showdown in our parking lot, which ended as soon as I chased the other cat away. (It was a white and tiger cat that I've seen before and actually seems to be kind of sweet. Nora just does not play well with others.) Nora came in the house, had a snack, and went to bed. Case closed.

Or so I thought.

This morning, I was working on my computer in the office while (I assumed) Nora slept off her nocturnal escapades in the living room. (It is fun having different "rooms" now. I feel so grown up.) I heard this very quiet groaning sound that I originally mistook for my stomach (an instrument in its own right) and dismissed until it repeated itself several times and gradually escalated into a full-on yowl. Again?

Nora was not sleeping in the living room. Nora was in the bathroom, preparing to attack the full length mirror. Ears back, bottle-brush tail, the whole nine yards. She was pissed. At herself. (I'm sure there's some deep life lesson in her actions, I'm just not sure what.)

Now, Nora's not stupid. Until now, her and her reflection have coexisted quite amiably. Her nose works. Her depth perception works well enough to get her up on counters, tables, and everywhere else she isn't supposed to be. (She is currently scratching at the closed bathroom door and meowing in that "Come and put your opposable thumbs to good use, woman!" tone of voice.) I don't know what her problem is. Too many Greenies? Sleep fighting? I hope this means we don't have to keep the bathroom door closed all the time now. (No vent = issues.) Oy vey. What a cat.

Culture No. 7, Part 3

(You can read the first part of this post here and the second part here.)

I have an overdeveloped sense of appreciation for vintage children’s lit. But I’m not talking about Dick and Jane. I’m talking about the quirky stuff. In fact, the quirkier, the better.

For example:

Apparently, Nora thinks otherwise...?

When I first came across this book on this blog, I instantly knew I had to have it. Because really, what kid’s book today communicates great gems like:

“If you want to keep on living you need FOOD and if you like food, you should be glad to be an American, because we are the best-fed people in the world.”

or,

“Any boy or girl your age who makes family meals a time of quarrels and arguments over food doesn’t deserve to live in our country.”

My favorite chapter in the book is the one on Liberty, which enumerates the dangers of Communism and informs the young reader they aren’t “old enough or smart enough” to know anything, which – if you think about it – is true. The Berlin Wall fell when I was in Kindergarten and I had no clue why that was important, even after Russians started living in my basement. (Mama and Papa V. took in a refugee family for a few months after the Soviet Union dissolved.) Regardless, you can bet on one thing: any future Carlton children will not be coddled when it comes to bedtime stories and civics lessons.

So how does this all relate to Mama V. and Co.'s NEPA invasion? Because on Friday morning - after I made a breakfast quiche and received the awesome news from my surgeon - we went a-tag-sale-ing. And I came home with this literary haul:

The Richard Scarry anthology was for my Busytown-loving husband - sometimes, if you listen real closely, you can hear him humming the theme song - but the other two I just couldn't leave behind. Mog bears such an uncanny resemblance to Worf, my childhood/parents' cat, and any story about a bird's funeral is an instant classic. What child wouldn't want to read that before bedtime? Honestly...

We didn't find much else at the tag sales, but it's still early in the season. I have high hopes for future weekends.

After our morning outing, we met Bert at Panera for one last huzzah. It was good to see some of my family so soon again after Easter and we'll get to see more of them Memorial Day weekend at my cousins' graduation party. Woohoo! Triple Whammy!

This week, my dad and some family friends are visiting. Next week, it's the Bestie and her bf. Bring it on! The Carlton B&B is open for business!

Culture No. 7, Part 2

(You can read the first part of this post here.)

The fam van arrived around 2 p.m. on Thursday, in high spirits, as always. I gave the gang the grand tour of our apartment (all six rooms of it), warned them about the knee clearance on our toilet (Future visitors, take note!), and then we immediately commenced upon a favorite family pastime and tucked in to the loaf of chocolate chip banana bread I baked just that morning.

When Bert got home, we decided to try out a restaurant just down the street – a Greek place called Theo’s Metro. It’s a big place hidden in the middle of our neighborhood and housed in an old chocolate popcorn factory. (I can’t imagine that chocolate popcorn was ever a lucrative enough business to warrant its own multi-building, brick factory complex, but I’ll admit: I don’t know much about the popcorn industry. I keep saying I’m going to go hardcore and start popping my own kernels on the stove, but those darn microwave packs just keep appearing in my pantry. Popcorn salesmen are sneaky, that’s for sure. Darn those irresistible coupons.) The building doesn’t look like much from the outside (I might have chickened out earlier that day and made the other ladies run inside for a menu.), but it definitely has the “authentic vintage paraphernalia” vibe going on inside. (And the website says it even has mini golf for the chitlins! How did I totally miss that?!)

The dining room was quiet, but in the grand tradition of all awesome Greek places, it was “We-have-to-go-buy-the-lamb” slow. So after we polished off the rolls, the five of us settled in for the always fun, gyro-proximity induced discussion on the correct pronunciation of just about everything Greek. (Except baklava, of course, which we all seem to have down. I attribute this to its inclusion in the lyrics to “Friend Like Me” from Aladdin.) When our food did come, it was fantastic. I got the lamb souvlaki gyro with a side of lemon potatoes and that awesome Greek sauce that I can’t pronounce or spell, but that seriously must make the world go round. I’m usually not a big fan of copious amounts of anything in the Sour Cream Family, but that stuff is amazing. I definitely smeared it on everything on my plate.

After dinner, we walked home (Because we walked there and not because we got a little crazy on the ouzo. And no, I can’t pronounce that either. ;) – and broke into Mama V.’s berry and rhubarb pie for dessert. As you will recall from this post, Mama V. makes pies of epic proportions and this one did not disappoint. (I finished up the last bit while writing this post!) I don’t know if it was the food or the long day, but we pretty much called it a night after that. Or at least Bert and I did.

Mama V. and the aunts, however, decided they would all squeeze on the pullout couch for the night. (Future visitors, please note we do have several extra air mattresses. This was a decision of their own making.) The pullout is some weird European/Ikea size, but it’s definitely in the Full/Queen range, i.e. not meant for three adults. Details, details. These ladies turned themselves sideways, pulled up a chair and an ottoman for the overhanging feet of the two 5’8”+ ladies, and giggled themselves to sleep. Oh yes, you are correct. It was a total sleepover.

They only look innocent. (Except for maybe Aunt A. She looks uncharacteristically devilish.) This was taken before the beginning of Mama V.'s "Honkey the Donkey" bedtime story. Grammy definitely had her hands full...

Only in this family, kids. Only in this family…

(Thanks for your patience with this super long post! Obviously, epic weekends take a long time to explain! Stay tuned for the third and final segment!)

Culture No. 7, Part 1

Anyone who knows my family knows that this photo needs no introduction:

But it does beg the question: why are my mother, my cat, and two of my aunts swaddled in every extra blanket we own and camped out on our pullout couch? Because I have a bad habit of not renting trucks when I move, that’s why. Let me explain.

After my first semester in Virginia, my parents let me take one of their Saturns back to school. On the surface this may seem very gracious of them – especially considering I already had one totaled Saturn under my belt – but secretly it was their way of never having to make the 1,256 mile round trip to Blacksburg to get me. Well played, Mama and Papa V., well played.

So as my freshman year came to a close, I suddenly realized I had to fit my entire dorm room and all my studio gear into my trusty Saturn SL1 (aka “the Tupperware.”) This included things like a desk chair, a trunk, a drawing board, a wood hutch, and a huge straw laundry basket that looked cute but was unforgivably rigid. (I upgraded to a mesh bag sophomore year.) And you know what? I totally did it.

I would totally do it for the next four years (even with the addition of Nora, her crate, and an apartment), which led me to believe the unfortunate lie that I could fit anything in my Saturn. I’ve got news for you, kids: that just plain isn’t true.

Take my dresser, for example. When I moved to Massachusetts, it actually did fit in the Saturn. That’s because I drove it straight from the New Haven Ikea to the Berkshires in its happy little flat pack. (Which, incidentally, never made it out of the car. The box was too heavy for Single Sarah, so I tore it open in situ and carried it in the house piece-by-piece. Oh, the glory days!) However, once that dresser was assembled – I don’t care what Ikea Anna says – it wasn’t coming apart. (It needed nails, for one. What Ikea furniture actually uses nails?)

The dresser made it back to Connecticut via some kind friends with a horse trailer and there it's sat ever since. I’ve moved most of my stuff down to Pennsylvania via small trips in the Saturn, Drew’s Mazda, and my parent’s Rav, but the dresser has eluded them all. (We think we might have been able to fit it in the Rav, but it would’ve been really close.) Cue Aunt A. and her mighty minivan.

Mama V. gave her little sis a call and asked if she’d be up for a road trip down to the wilds of Pennsyltucky. Aunt A. used to live in PA herself – albeit the more civilized part – so she’s always game for a visit to the land of TastyKakes and Unique Splits. And well, as my family enjoys traveling in packs (and short buses), there’d be no leaving Aunt L. behind on this trip either. They removed all but three seats, loaded up my infamous dresser, and trekked down Thursday morning for an overnight of fun, food, and trouble...

...that I will write about later! (It is a sunny Sunday afternoon. It's time to go outside and get away from this computer! But just FYI: yes, Bert did survive a night with five – including Nora – women. No worries. ;)

Cancer No. 7

I'm clean! I'm clean!

The surgeon called me at 7:48 Friday morning and - while sounding particularly groggy himself - asked me if he just woke me up. Not quite, sir. I'd been up for over an hour making a quiche for a pull-out couch full of moms and aunts. (More on that later.) Regardless, he'd just received the happy news that my nodule was indeed benign, which means - dun dun dun! - no more surgeries for me! Sweet!

Just wanted to let you all know. :)

Cancer No. 6

Many of you have been asking if I've received my (second) biopsy report back yet, and I just want to let you know how much I appreciate all your thoughts and prayers. But to answer your question: no, I have no received word from the lab. Last Wednesday turned into this Monday turned into "we'll give you a call whenever we hear." Patty-the-receptionist at my surgeon's office is my sergeant-in-arms and has been keeping me up to date, but she doesn't know when the lab will get back to her either, so there's really not much to say.

So until then, I'm keeping my eye out for an army of bio hazard trucks and suits ala E.T. and not thinking about it. I feel good, my slash is healing well - it's moved out of "ew, gross" mode and into the "hmmm...what's on your neck?" phase - and spring is here. The weather is much too beautiful to worry about these things.

Cooking No. 5

It’s been kind of a slow week here in NEPA. Nora disappeared for twelve hours on Sunday and I ran myself into a four-hour nap yesterday (Note to Self: Righty the Lonely Thyroid is not up to that kind of exertion yet. Cool your jets and keep it down to the “walking to Dairy Queen” level.), but other than that, it’s been pretty quiet. So, in the interest of maintaining the dullness, I am going to write about – drum roll, please! – my stove.

Stove, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

Originally, I intended on writing this post in the form of a haiku. But then I remembered that I have not written a haiku since the second grade and even then it did not go so well. Seven year-old Sarah had trouble grasping the concept of syllables, but hid this fact by writing short, terse poems and trying to pass them off as art. (Was I a closet hipster even then? Perhaps.) Other elementary school concepts I had trouble grasping include: left and right, long and short vowels, and the correct pencil hold. Thankfully, all have been rectified except the latter, where I unfortunately still hold all my writing utensils with entirely way too many fingers and in a particularly cramped style. I can’t help it. I love the feeling of control.

Which may be, perhaps, why I love my new-to-me gas stove. The rest of my kitchen may be a disaster of 1970s proportion, but not my stove. (Okay, the fridge is also brand new, but it’s not exciting. It is your ordinary, everyday, “I will freezer burn your pirogis no matter how you cover them” fridge.) I’ve never cooked on gas before and, I’ll admit, I was a little nervous about it at first – the click-click-click always sounds vaguely bomb-like to me and my “safety switch” turned out to be the oven light – but now I’m hooked. There’s no turning back. I’ve gone to the Dark Side. If all my previous electric stoves were Geo Metros (Sorry, Dad.), than this bad boy has got to be somewhere on the “Designed for the Autobahn” level. It handles like a dream.

Granted, it has no timer, the stove top takes an eternity to boil water, and you need to disconnect the smoke alarm if you want the oven hotter than 400 degrees, but in every other facet of cooking that thing heats quickly, cools instantly, and increases my ability to cook by a factor of ten. (Or at least increases my coolness by a factor of ten. How can you not look awesome when you are cooking with fire?) How have I ever lived without a gas stove? Does everyone know about this? Perhaps I should have posted this under "New Thing of the Day" instead...

And in more exciting news, my mother and two of her sisters will be arriving tomorrow afternoon for a sleepover. If they can’t liven things up around here, no one can. Stay tuned!

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 94

94. When my cat has been AWOL for 12+ hours, he goes out and looks for her. As in, "I will walk around the block and shake a bag of cat treats like a crazy man without being asked." <3

(Nora's fine. She showed up on her own while said husband was looking for her. She wasn't hungry or thirsty or tired. Always the drama queen... That animal knows how to make an entrance.)

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 95

95. He considers "being from New York" an ethnicity in its own right.

...

I wish I knew this years ago. Just think of all the scholarships I missed out on!