My laptop came home from the doctor today. It's fast. It's clean. It works as it's supposed to. All the keys function. It didn't cost my right leg. I'm happier than The Precious at the movies. I'm happier than Lefty eating hot dogs. I'm happier than Angel Doll with a cookbook.
I'm happy even though it's Friday and Blue Bloods isn't on tonight. Sorry, basketball fans, March Madness is a rotten reason to blow off the Reagans. Maybe I'll watch an episode I missed a couple weeks ago, on my laptop that won't overheat and shut itself down after thirteen minutes. I'm happier than Pixie in an arsenal or on the X-box or at a fashion show. I'm happier than Jeremy Renner with a turkey bacon cheeseburger.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Stupid Modern Technology
I didn't think I'd need to print the Excel file, so I just saved it to the desktop of my laptop and left to make a pitstop.
Meanwhile, other things came up like a game of whack-a-mole, and today, when I needed the Excel file like now-ish...I didn't have it because I had taken my laptop to the doctor. No problemo, I thought. I logged in to my email on Elder Computer, only to find I had deleted the email because, you know, I had saved the file. I like to keep my inbox cleaned out, but this is like when I was a teenager and my mother Rapunzel used to tell me, all in good fun, that I was too blasted efficient. She'd go looking for her coffee, and I'd have dumped it out and washed the mug.
I had to beg the sender to resend the file, which she promptly did, at which time I was cruelly reminded that Elder Computer doesn't have Excel. I'm going into town tonight, so I'll apprehend someone else's computer and open my file there. Wait...what's my stinkin password? Elder Computer knows what my password is. I don't.
I had to further beg the sender to reresend the file, to another email address whose password I DO know. Either she's cursing me right now, or she has the patience of Jeremy Renner. Again she obliged, and Voila! thanks to Excel Online and the fact that I can access it from this email program, I now have the file. I'm trying really hard not to print seventy-nine copies of it just in case.
Just as I was about to post this blog entry to Facebook, as if there are people out there who actually want to read it, what should I hear from across the house but, "This one?"--CLICK--computer off. Because The Precious was turning off breakers for Hunneypunkin who was doing some electrical work. No, not that one. That was the one that powered the computer. True story.
Meanwhile, other things came up like a game of whack-a-mole, and today, when I needed the Excel file like now-ish...I didn't have it because I had taken my laptop to the doctor. No problemo, I thought. I logged in to my email on Elder Computer, only to find I had deleted the email because, you know, I had saved the file. I like to keep my inbox cleaned out, but this is like when I was a teenager and my mother Rapunzel used to tell me, all in good fun, that I was too blasted efficient. She'd go looking for her coffee, and I'd have dumped it out and washed the mug.
I had to beg the sender to resend the file, which she promptly did, at which time I was cruelly reminded that Elder Computer doesn't have Excel. I'm going into town tonight, so I'll apprehend someone else's computer and open my file there. Wait...what's my stinkin password? Elder Computer knows what my password is. I don't.
I had to further beg the sender to reresend the file, to another email address whose password I DO know. Either she's cursing me right now, or she has the patience of Jeremy Renner. Again she obliged, and Voila! thanks to Excel Online and the fact that I can access it from this email program, I now have the file. I'm trying really hard not to print seventy-nine copies of it just in case.
Just as I was about to post this blog entry to Facebook, as if there are people out there who actually want to read it, what should I hear from across the house but, "This one?"--CLICK--computer off. Because The Precious was turning off breakers for Hunneypunkin who was doing some electrical work. No, not that one. That was the one that powered the computer. True story.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Play By Play
KWWW http://www.kw3.com/ plays "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons.
Lefty turns up the radio.
I play my personal playlist on my personal subwoofer.
Lefty turns up the radio.
I turn up my subwoofer.
Lefty turns up the radio.
Angel Doll goes deaf.
The Precious tells Lefty to turn up the radio.
Pixie flees the scene.
"Radioactive" ends and "All of Me" by John Legend begins.
I turn off my playlist so I can hear "All of Me".
Pixie, Lefty, and The Precious roll their eyes and fall asleep.
Angel Doll dances with me.
Jeremy Renner gives us all the smolder from his cardboard cutout in the corner.
I love Imagine Dragons.
I just don't love "Radioactive".
Sorry already.
Lefty turns up the radio.
I play my personal playlist on my personal subwoofer.
Lefty turns up the radio.
I turn up my subwoofer.
Lefty turns up the radio.
Angel Doll goes deaf.
The Precious tells Lefty to turn up the radio.
Pixie flees the scene.
"Radioactive" ends and "All of Me" by John Legend begins.
I turn off my playlist so I can hear "All of Me".
Pixie, Lefty, and The Precious roll their eyes and fall asleep.
Angel Doll dances with me.
Jeremy Renner gives us all the smolder from his cardboard cutout in the corner.
I love Imagine Dragons.
I just don't love "Radioactive".
Sorry already.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Bird Poop Brownies
I try so hard to follow the directions and just be normal like everybody else, but no, I have to sprinkle my life with special ingredients. So once upon a spring day while my babies were playing inside the fenced yard and I was melting a cup of butter to make brownies because sugar and chocolate are so healthy for my family, I got bored with the regular recipe.
After adding 3/4 of a cup of cocoa, two cups of sugar, three or four eggs, a splash of vanilla, and a cup and a half of flour to the melted butter, I picked out the eggshells that shone so brightly in the brown goo. Then I ransacked my cabinets for other neat things to add to the batter. I prefer boy brownies (you know, they kind that have nuts) but I'm outnumbered five to one in my household so I decided not to add nuts. (If I ever grow up and move out, I'll eat what I want.)
I threw in a fistful-minus-five chocolate chips, as if there isn't enough chocolate already in brownies. I would have added the entire fistful except five of the bittersweet morsels fell inside my face. Thank you, Nestle. Then I found some crusty stale marshmallows. Well, they're no good for anything else, so I chopped them up and dumped them into the brownie batter.
After half an hour at three hundred fifty degrees on the temperature scale proposed by Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit (1686-1736), the batter had turned into a beautiful glossy brick of delectability. Besides the usual sheen across the top, there were also little white and gold globs here and there where the marshmallows had peeked out of the batter to toast themselves.
My babies came in from the backyard, all sniffing. "Yum!" and, "Smells like brownies!" and, "What's that stuff on the brownies?" And then The Precious had to say, "It looks like bird poop." It was true. The melted marshmallows looked like bird poop.
Like any self-respecting mother would, I said, "Yep. It is bird poop. I went out to the front yard and collected bird poop, and then I made brownies out of it."
If they didn't believe me, they'd have a funny story to laugh at, and if they did believe me, I could eat all the brownies myself. Definitely a win-win. As usual, they didn't believe a word I said. Which is probably a good thing, or I'd be looking like the purple Willie Wonka girl right now. Even Jeremy Renner would get fat on these things.
Bird Poop Brownies became a household tradition that day, one I'm proud to say has passed on to the next gen. Pixie just baked some up today.
After adding 3/4 of a cup of cocoa, two cups of sugar, three or four eggs, a splash of vanilla, and a cup and a half of flour to the melted butter, I picked out the eggshells that shone so brightly in the brown goo. Then I ransacked my cabinets for other neat things to add to the batter. I prefer boy brownies (you know, they kind that have nuts) but I'm outnumbered five to one in my household so I decided not to add nuts. (If I ever grow up and move out, I'll eat what I want.)
I threw in a fistful-minus-five chocolate chips, as if there isn't enough chocolate already in brownies. I would have added the entire fistful except five of the bittersweet morsels fell inside my face. Thank you, Nestle. Then I found some crusty stale marshmallows. Well, they're no good for anything else, so I chopped them up and dumped them into the brownie batter.
After half an hour at three hundred fifty degrees on the temperature scale proposed by Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit (1686-1736), the batter had turned into a beautiful glossy brick of delectability. Besides the usual sheen across the top, there were also little white and gold globs here and there where the marshmallows had peeked out of the batter to toast themselves.
My babies came in from the backyard, all sniffing. "Yum!" and, "Smells like brownies!" and, "What's that stuff on the brownies?" And then The Precious had to say, "It looks like bird poop." It was true. The melted marshmallows looked like bird poop.
Like any self-respecting mother would, I said, "Yep. It is bird poop. I went out to the front yard and collected bird poop, and then I made brownies out of it."
If they didn't believe me, they'd have a funny story to laugh at, and if they did believe me, I could eat all the brownies myself. Definitely a win-win. As usual, they didn't believe a word I said. Which is probably a good thing, or I'd be looking like the purple Willie Wonka girl right now. Even Jeremy Renner would get fat on these things.
Bird Poop Brownies became a household tradition that day, one I'm proud to say has passed on to the next gen. Pixie just baked some up today.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Galadriel
We were offered a milk goat. Because sometimes people just have an extra milk goat, right?
Hunneypunkin's first reaction was an emphatic no. When the goat arrived, Hunneypunkin's second reaction was an emphatic what-are-we-going-to-do-with-a-milk-goat. And I pretended to be all indignant: "She has a name," even though I was thinking the same thing.
Her name was Galadriel, which totally made me laugh because, you know, Lothlorien elf-witches are, like, all beautiful and flowing and grace-y and goats are, like, just goofy. Galadriel reminds me of Middle Earth. Middle Earth reminds me of Thorin Oakenshield. Oh, no, mental loop...
Angel Doll milked the goat twice daily till her wrists fell off. I did it for a while till I thought, "Hey, I have other children." So Lefty and The Precious got stuck with it just because I'm mean. They weren't even motivated by the promise that milking would give them the muscular structure of Jeremy Renner.
Turns out Galadriel is a sexist. She adores Angel Doll, and she's all smiles for me, but she doesn't like the boys at all. The turkeys let it slip that she'd been plotting to stomp the boys half to death with her hooves, till the turkeys reminded her that it's the boys who feed her. Now she just stares at the boys with telepathic disapproval and they return the favor.
The People drank some of the milk for a while, but as time went on the milk started to taste more like how you might imagine a goat would taste if you licked it on the fur. For the record, I have not ever licked a goat on the fur. Or anywhere. So now we have jars and cartons of goat milk in the freezer all saved up for those times when suddenly you realize you need some frozen goat milk, and so then you don't have to go to the frozen goat milk store because you already have your own endless supply of goat milk in the freezer.
Much to my sons' relief, Galadriel eventually, finally, at long last, dried up. I was so glad, because I almost stapled my ears shut for all the boys' complaining about having to do the milking.
Galadriel haunts the pasture now, waiting for spring, wishing for other goats, bored with the turkeys, and occasionally escaping the fence just because she can. She searches for Angel Doll. There's nothing in the world that is funnier, and possibly more unnerving, than looking out your kitchen window and being stared down by a bored goat.
Hunneypunkin's first reaction was an emphatic no. When the goat arrived, Hunneypunkin's second reaction was an emphatic what-are-we-going-to-do-with-a-milk-goat. And I pretended to be all indignant: "She has a name," even though I was thinking the same thing.
Her name was Galadriel, which totally made me laugh because, you know, Lothlorien elf-witches are, like, all beautiful and flowing and grace-y and goats are, like, just goofy. Galadriel reminds me of Middle Earth. Middle Earth reminds me of Thorin Oakenshield. Oh, no, mental loop...
Angel Doll milked the goat twice daily till her wrists fell off. I did it for a while till I thought, "Hey, I have other children." So Lefty and The Precious got stuck with it just because I'm mean. They weren't even motivated by the promise that milking would give them the muscular structure of Jeremy Renner.
Turns out Galadriel is a sexist. She adores Angel Doll, and she's all smiles for me, but she doesn't like the boys at all. The turkeys let it slip that she'd been plotting to stomp the boys half to death with her hooves, till the turkeys reminded her that it's the boys who feed her. Now she just stares at the boys with telepathic disapproval and they return the favor.
The People drank some of the milk for a while, but as time went on the milk started to taste more like how you might imagine a goat would taste if you licked it on the fur. For the record, I have not ever licked a goat on the fur. Or anywhere. So now we have jars and cartons of goat milk in the freezer all saved up for those times when suddenly you realize you need some frozen goat milk, and so then you don't have to go to the frozen goat milk store because you already have your own endless supply of goat milk in the freezer.
Much to my sons' relief, Galadriel eventually, finally, at long last, dried up. I was so glad, because I almost stapled my ears shut for all the boys' complaining about having to do the milking.
Galadriel haunts the pasture now, waiting for spring, wishing for other goats, bored with the turkeys, and occasionally escaping the fence just because she can. She searches for Angel Doll. There's nothing in the world that is funnier, and possibly more unnerving, than looking out your kitchen window and being stared down by a bored goat.
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