Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! The Rouge’s first music video is finally available online!
The Rouge - Heat and Light (music video)I love it. Love it, love it, love it! Is that little drummer boy the coolest? I mean, the lead singer’s pretty awesome but he doesn’t call me “Auntie Zen” (yet) so I love him a little less than the drummer.
Yes, it’s true: I can be bought.
Loveliest Lori has been promising that I would no longer want or need to call her Grouchiest Lori after I received my birthday gift from her. Not that I was ever doubtful or considered trademarking this new name, but she was indeed correct! Just minutes ago my doorbell rang and I was presented with a delightful cookie bouquet.
I opened the cellophane wrap and the kitchen instantly filled with the delicious aroma of fresh sugar cookies and frosting. And there’s Mickey! And Minnie! They’re each bigger than my hand and look too pretty to eat but I’m totally gonna anyway. And don’t give me that stuff about waiting until my birthday… turns out I need to get halfway across the country for my parade tomorrow so I have to get my suitcase packed. What does one wear to a ticker tape parade? And does it make any difference that the ticker tape parade is in Booger Hollow, Kansas? With bunks and outhouses and Pappy and Mammy Booger, oh my?
Thank you, Loveliest Lori, for being the loveliest gift-giver EVER. Or as she said when I texted her, “Take that, Kim F’n.” 
Did you know it’s Book Blogger Appreciation Week (September 14th-18th)? They are celebrating today with a fun reading meme!
A few years ago I bought one of those sunflower-like shower heads. You know the ones; they’re supposed to feel like rainwater falling above you and make you forget all the bad things in life. I thought I’d give it a try because I like to spend my money on stupid stuff.
But surprise! This new shower head was immediately my favorite thing ever to show up in my bathroom. I almost wrote about it in our Christmas letter that year, because OH, THE HAPPINESS IT BROUGHT TO MY MORNINGS. It was gentle and quiet, and yet, morning after morning, there was somehow plenty of pressure in which to rinse the shampoo from my hair. Gravity can be awesome, I tell ya. They say the water falls from this shower head like rain, but it really was much, much lovelier than that. The closest comparison I can make to what it feels like is this:
(that’s rum, folks)
When the kids started choosing showers over baths, they always wanted to shower in our bathroom rather than their own. They’re messier in the bathroom than any kid ever in the history of the world, so allowing them to use our bathroom was not the best decision we ever made. Katie insisted she didn’t like the shower head in their bathroom because “it makes the water hurt.” I’ve blogged before about what a giant weenie she is with pain; I’m all WHATEVER, it’s a standard shower head:
(how can that hurt?)
And then I took a shower in the kids’ bathroom last week. You probably heard my cursing and screaming all the way to Wisconsin. The water comes out and hits the showerer (that was me) with such pain and surprise, it feels less like water coming out of the shower head and more like someone shoved a bunch of these up in there:
(the sharp ends)
That is, except for the “dead” spots—there are areas where very little water comes out at all. Those streams feel like this:
(oh yeah, it’s a cute bunny, but worthless for rinsing soap)
And then there’s the spot here and there where no water comes out at all:
It makes the simple things, like rinsing soap off one’s body, nearly impossible. If you stand in just the right place, you won’t even need a towel when you’re done. ‘Course, you’ll still stink like a mo-fo too.
We traded shower heads with the kids because we want our bathroom back and I figured if I’m reminded every morning how much their shower head sucks, I would be more likely to replace it in a timely manner. Two mornings into this experiment, I’m ready to kill every engineer at Moen or Delta or whatever company made this thing, and I’m also getting a new sunflower shower head on the way to work this morning.
Loveliest Lori is making fun of my salad picture, saying it looks like something her cat coughed up. Is that nice? I don’t think that’s nice. She’s also accusing me of all sorts of unfairness over on Facebook. I think there are days when maybe Loveliest Lori should not be allowed to communicate with others, and I think this day might be one of them. She’s mean!
On the other hand, she’s agreed to represent me and Mom when Grandma shows up “dead of natural causes.” So there’s that.
Note to Lori: “Quinoa” is pronounced “keen-wa” or “kin-wa.” It’s nothing like “quinine.”
Hey, Fancy Lori™! It turns out you can win friends with salad. This one met with Sunshine’s, Dawn’s, Darby’s, and Victor’s approval, and that’s enough for me.
I tried a deli salad at New Seasons recently and fell in love with its unique texture and flavors. I started craving it regularly. Last week I put a pint through “the lab” (I asked for Dawn’s advice and wrote down the ingredients listed on the sign) so I could attempt to make it at home. With some Internet research on possible ingredients for the dressing, I think I’ve gotten it as close to perfect as I can. Here’s my recipe.
Salad:
This makes a very large (“Thatsa Bowl” sized!) salad. Cut the recipe in half if desired.
Some additional thoughts:
If you try the recipe out for yourself and have any good suggestions, please share! I had a lot of fun creating this, but as it was my first time working with quinoa, I’m not yet aware of all the ways it can be used. Good luck—
Other people think I’m making the woman up, that I don’t even have a grandmother. To you people I say: SHUT. IT.
And there are others who get excited at the possibility that I might be seeing my grandma, because that means Evil Grandma stories! So glad someone enjoys the woman’s presence on Earth.
I usually share Evil Grandma stories that could all be published under the title “Grandma Hates Jen,” but this time I’ve got one I’m going to call “Mom’s Amazing Self-Control.” My mom shared this with me and Kathy today, and I got her permission to post it here because in our family we believe in the importance of turning tears into laughter. It’s much better than the alternative, which is turning tears into a murder rap.
Mom’s email opened like this:
After my last few days with Grandma, I’m happier and happier that I live in Oregon—physician-assisted suicide...
I’ve been told by many that it’s people like me who make physician-assisted suicide so difficult to define and legalize. Turns out Mom is people like me too. Heh heh heh…
Two mornings in a row Grandma has called me feeling awful—can’t sleep, upset stomach, etc. I went over each time, and each time once I was there for a short time, she seemed to begin feeling better. Once she talked about me taking her to my place for a few hours. I politely said no to her ‘invitation.’
Last night Shirley and I went out. About 9:30 I took my sleeping pills and had just fallen asleep when Mother called.
When Grandma calls Mom, she almost always starts out speaking in the whiniest, most irritating voice you could imagine—as if whatever she is about to say isn’t enough to make you want to reach through the phone and strangle her. And since Grandma’s bedtime is usually 6 p.m., getting a call from her in the middle of the night (9:30 p.m.) can never be a good thing.
“Maaaaaryyyy, could you call Bud to ask him to come over when he’s finished with his gig to take me to the hospital?”
My uncle Paul—Mom and Grandma call him “Bud”—is a musician; hence the gig. Why Grandma couldn’t call him directly and leave a message, or call ‘Auntie’ Claire, I do not know. Pretty sure she just wanted Mom but wouldn’t admit it.
“Mother, what’s the problem?”
“I just can’t sleep, I’ve been vomiting, and I just feel awful.”
“But Mother, you know there isn’t anything they can do if you go to the ER.”
“But I just can’t get to sleep!”
“Mother, how about I bring you over some of my sleeping pills (which by the way I just took and have made me very sleepy) and see if they will make you sleepy?”
Mom’s sleeping pills are Benadryl. Nothing potent.
Now, in a very natural, normal voice, as if she’s just had ten hours’ sleep: “Oh Mary, could you do that?”
I grab the pills from the drawer, look at them and yell “WORK!!!”
Mom drove across town (“down the street” in normal city size-speak) to Grandma’s.
I walk in and she says, “Mary, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just feel terrible.” The trash bucket beside her bed is dry—she has NOT been vomiting.
“Mother, have you taken your evening pills?”
Grandma doesn’t always take the medications she needs on schedule, which is a lot of the reason she gets sick in the first place. This is a constant stressor to Mom, and she’s done everything she can to make it easier for Grandma to remember (if forgetting is really the reason) or for other people to help her remember.
“No, do you think I should take them?”
Um, DUH.
“Yes, Mother, and take these also.” I hand her two sleeping pills. An internal battle develops: “Mary! Give her ALL the sleeping pills!!” “Mary, an autopsy will show the drugs in her, just give her two.”
See what I mean? Mom is people like me!
“Mary, I don’t think I should take all my pills and your sleeping pills too.”
“No, Mother, it’s OK; my pills are very mild.”
And then comes my very favoritest part:
Eyes wide and with a look of extreme seriousness, Mother says, “Mary, you would never forgive yourself if I didn’t wake up in the morning!”
Awesome, huh?
So where can I sign up for one of those death panels I’ve been hearing so much about? I don’t want to decide if everyone should live or die, just one old bat. And it’s not really so much a decision as a demand.
I had forgotten about this ad that Budweiser ran during the Super Bowl in 2002, until my friend Jay posted it on Facebook today.
Budweiser aired it just the one time. To me, it’s unbelievably touching, and so unexpected for a beer commercial. Beautiful.
“Never forget.” Like I could. The tears come easily on this anniversary. It’s even harder on a sunny day like today, when the weather feels bright and cheery like it did that morning in New York City, Washington D.C., and Pennsylvania. How could a day that starts out so beautifully unfold into such horror?
Last year, September 11 was the first day of the last week of my thirties, an appropriate time for me to blog about the life-changing events that occurred during that decade. It’s good for me to look back on those kinds of posts. Ah, reflection. Sometimes (though rarely, I admit) I can see growth and maturity. Sometimes I can simply say “that post meant a lot to me.” Last year’s post? It meant a lot to me.
I did not blog about 9/11-ish matters around the 9/11 anniversaries until 2007. This is partly because I wasn’t blogging as consistently before that, but I also think it took me a while to put my feelings into words. When I was finally able to do it, I shared my most personal memories of September 11, 2001, as well as the long-term changes it brought to my life.
I ask you to share your thoughts about that day in a comment, and for my bloggy friends, encourage you to write them up in your own blog.
If nothing else, the anniversary of 9/11 should be a day we are reminded to always hold our loved ones close, right?
