Endless poppies

My job is all about connections. Specifically, making connections between people. A lot of people read the stuff that I produce, but it is actually written by a horde of different people. Each person has such an amazing, unique history. Sometimes I am blessed to get to know their history. This is a story about a shared history.

One of my contributors wrote about a Veterans Day many years ago, long after the name of the national holiday was changed from Armistice Day, which was actually a day that people recognized the end of World War I. A longtime symbol of the armistice is the poppy, which signifies the vast fields of blood-red poppies that bloomed among the most horrific battle sites.

The contributor, an American military veteran, was looking for some artificial poppies on Veterans Day, but was very dissappointed when he found that there were none offered by any of the florists near him. He was disabled, so it was not an option for him to travel across the city to find poppies to memorialize the day. He then lamented what appeared to him as a loss in shared national history, that the greatest known memorial for our heroes of World War I could be forgotten is a very real tragedy.

Several weeks after his missive was published, I received a large padded envelope inside a mailer box with a note asking me to forward the envelope to the contributor. No problem.

Later that week I received a call from the contributor. Another reader had been so moved by the disabled veterans search for a personal memorial to those fellow vets that had died in World War I that the reader, a World War II vet himself, procured some artificial poppies for the contributor and sent them along with a note describing his memories of the armistice. The poppies and the note had meant so much to him, and he said that with future Armistice Days, he'll never forget that so many men died on battlefields to preserve the freedom of others.

This is our shared history.

Let us not forget.

No one could care about your life that much

One of my friends just sent me an e-mail about plans for Thanksgiving. After we were done with our back and forth she sent me a link to find her on Twitter. Part of me was able to supress the compulsion to e-mail her back and tell her that no one could possibly care enough about what you ate for breakfast or how big of a dump you took this afternoon to not be able to wait and read it on your blog.

I had yogurt and Fiber One for breakfast, but still nothing to report this afternoon...

Truth hurts

Nothing is more painful than making a budget.

Nix that.

Nothing is more painful than actually scrutinizing how very little money you have left over after paying to keep yourself sane and alive.

Dave and I hash out a relatively modest existence. We don't do any crazy traveling. We don't exactly spend exorbitantly. We do drink a lot. We don't have extensive credit card debt (but the little we have makes me uncomfortable, nonetheless).

We eke out a living. We're happy. Things are OK.

But we pay a lot of taxes. We pay a lot for our healthcare. We pay too much for (unreliable) cable internet and (ridiculous) satellite TV.

Sitting down and budgeting, though, is depressing.

So, instead, I prefer to admire the fruits of my frugality...



Here's a recession-proof recipe to ease the strain on your wallet:

Easy Peasy Pea soup

1 medium onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 large bag frozen peas, defrosted
2 1/2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup half and half, milk or soy milk
1 tablespoon corn starch dissolved in 1/4 cup water

In a heavy-bottomed stainless steel soup pot, heat olive oil over medium heat and then add onion, sauteeing until translucent. Add garlic and continue sauteeing until the garlic is light brown. Add peas and stir vigorously.

Once peas are coated, add chicken broth, reduce heat and simmer for 10 to 12 minutes or until peas are very soft but not mushy. Remove from heat and blend with an immersion blender or blend in batches in a standing blender until a creamy consistency. Return peas to pan, and milk, continuing to stir. Then add corn starch.

Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

Think, thin and the occasional hairball

A chicken friend of mine recently adopted a shelter dog. This same friend at one time bought an AKC German Shepard only to turn on a dime and take it back to the breeder because, holy cannoli, the dog required more investment.

These same people got chickens soon after visiting my sweet lay-dees. Now they have a sweet shelter dog. Unfortunately, that same sweet shelter dog got Parvo.

If you are unfamiliar with parvovirus, consider yourself very lucky. I remember my first encounter with parvo. It was my first stint as a veterinary technician. I was working at a very tiny clinic in a very tiny strip center in the small Houston-area town in which I was born and raised. There was a miniscule area in the very back-back-back of the clinic for isolation, and in one of those tiny cages was a Great Dane puppy, whose name escapes me, though I wish it didn't.

The puppy was in the top right hand cage of the two-by-two cage block. It was so small and fragile, so scared and weak. I remember the dog well: all black except for a small triangular patch of white right at the tip of its breastbone. It also had little white tips on its very tip-toes, but you could hardly discern them because he was rarely on his feet.

He was on IV fluids for most of the beginning of his life. Parvo is especially hard on larger breeds, and usually only puppies are gravely afflicted. Most older dogs are already vaccinated for it.

The poor thing. Constantly evacuating a messy pool of smelly goo, too tired from being drained dry from the virus to even stand or to whimper. No tail-wagging. Hardly a breath of a dog.

But the sweet little Great Dane eventually got over it. Lots of dogs don't make it through parvo, so he was very lucky since most odds were stacked against him.

I remember seeing him for check-ups after his recovery, and he became the epitome of a good dog: kind, loyal and obedient, and never straying from the young family that pulled him out of that hell.

I've had the pleasure of loving many animals in my life, but they were always cast-offs. The abused, the hurt, the abandoned and the unwanted. Sometimes they were trouble, but they were always forgiven. These animals are the ones that make pet ownership look deceptively easy. They are the ones that know you were there to save them when they needed it, and they are working so hard to repay your kindness.

A tonic, a distraction

If you weren't aware (and I'm sure that by now the world is watching with baited breath), the United States will elect their new leader today. I voted. I'm pretty proud of that.

But today marks the end of what has been a long, turbulent and emotionally taxing campaign. One of which I have been a sometime captive spectator. I've never felt such relief at having the end in sight when it comes to politics.

Now, my blog has never really been too political, other than to skewer some of the morons in Dallas' municipal charade, and I don't intend to start spewing about national politics, but all Americans should take a deep breath tomorrow, take a look outside the window and see that the world, in fact, did not end, no matter who is elected tonight.

----------------------

I've been rather ill for the past week, and I've finally found the right cocktail of drugs to get me through the workday. Our autumn has arrived in Dallas, and I'm desperate to roll in the leaves that cover our drive, though Hornsby has already beaten me to the punch.

Also, if you can muster a few drops of solitude or energy, a friend of mine has been in a dreadful accident, and I'd appreciate it if you can send any thoughts or prayers you can spare here.

The city that never sleeps kept me awake, too (Volume III)

It was a very, very cold morning that we rose early to make our way to Boston's South Station for our NYC departure. We rode the T there, which, as I mentioned before, is dirty and antiquated through much of downtown. But to be fair, they were undergoing extensive renovation, and much of the dirt and grime was due to construction. I think they're going in much the same direction that NYC's Metro is headed: artful mosaics with modern features, though harkening to a more elegant time.

Some of the lines are a little more modern, but for the most part they look like something unexpectedly hung over from an earlier, simpler era. The cars have that rounded sort of art-deco look, with chrome accents and bright colors. We used the Green line mostly, which is America's oldest subway line.


Much of what I enjoyed about our Boston experience was that the city was easily navigable. I never once was lost when we were in Boston. I always knew with just a hint of a map which way we should head. It's too bad we were only there for two days and that much of those two days was held captive to baseball (though it was really great baseball, and those two games that would go on to forecast much of the the ALCS championship). I was thinking about our trip thus far, and this is what I wrote in my travel journal, my Moleskine:

It's been an OK trip so far, but I'm excited about finally going somewhere and doing a few things that Dave hasn't yet done or seen. I feel kind of lashed, haphazardly, to Dave's plans, and what he wants to show me. Along with the lack of sleep, I'm a little bitter.

But one amazing thing is how Boston has this palpable grit. I kept thinking about how you might truly experience the city, and it really is best through your feet, in subway cars, your butt in Fenway's Grandstands and your back stretched out in a sunny spot on a grassy patch near the Frog Pond in Boston Common after a lunchtime brew.

So, we got to Boston's South Station pretty early, which was OK. Gave Dave and I plenty of time to eat our Dunkin' bran muffins and drink our coffee (I asked for Splenda with skim, and they were happy to oblige this time). The South Station pretty much set the bar for the other Amtrak stations: It was clean and easy to navigate, lots of friendly people around to ask questions, and lots of seating available, with easily accessible and well-lit newsstands. It even had wifi.



We hung out and waited for our train to be called, and Dave was much less nervous than we were before departing DFW for Logan, mostly because riding on a train was much less dangerous (statistically) than flying (or driving for that matter). I was just stoked to ride on Amtrak. I never had before, but my grandmother took my brother and my oldest sister to Dallas to see the Ramses exhibit many years ago via Amtrak.

Our train is called, we stow our small, small bags, dig out our iPods and off we go.


I wish I had taken pictures of our ride from Boston to NYC, other than the obligatory ones of viewing Manhattan for the first time. But if it's any consolation, this is what I wrote in my Molskine:

Sure, I like warm weather, endless azure water, white sands and an island's warm breezes that lazily your bare legs, and yet, cool mornings on the eastern coast, taking a ride on a train down New England to New York, stokes a hunger for thick cable sweaters, sailboats and long piers into a quiet bay, clapboard houses cheery in their idyll lawns, shining like a mirage, quaint and beautiful.

In the plans I always make for the lottery money I'll never win, there is a seaside home in Mystic, Conn.

And finally, we were in NYC.



We arrived at Penn Station just before lunchtime. Penn is a huge, dirty, disgusting port of arrival. I was immediately disenchanted when we got there. I began to think that if this part of NYC is this gross, then the rest is likely the same. I wasn't that far off.

We were staying in a small hostel on the Upper West Side, which is a neat, sleepy little area. We rode the Red Line up to 86th I think, and then stared about at the city, looking lost and Texan. A nice Jewish man took pity on us. He gave us directions and then suggested a decent place for us to eat. We thanked him for his hospitality and then made way to the hostel.

I was rather disillusioned by our accomodations. We are budget travelers, but even as budget travelers in NYC, I atleast expected a mattress that wasn't sunken in the middle. The room was equipped only a shitty bed and a table. It was definitely a situation that you don't really hang out in, accommodations for those who intend to see the city, and not the inside of their hotel room.

We were both dreadfully hungry, so we headed over to the Fairway cafe and market that the nice Jewish man suggested, and lo and behold, him and his lunch mate were both there, seated at a corner table near a window. We went over and said hello, asked what they might suggest (turkey burger or the salmon) and then bid them both adieu.

We sat, got situated, ordered coffee and our dinners (Dave had the turkey burger with swiss, I had the mediterranean vegetable plate, both were very good). We then started hatching our plans, when Jewish man and his friend decided to stop by and see what we were planning on doing (I guess having our guidebooks and maps sprawled all over the table, dodging the coffee with them, invites locals to sit down for a chat).

They said that we should avoid ground zero or any area south of TriBeCa, but we were determined to see Ground Zero. They relented, although saying that we'd most likely regret it (they were right).

So, we arrived in NYC on 9/11. This was just a casualty of arranging a vacation around baseball games. We were catching Tampa Bay on a road trip between the Red Sox and the Yankees, so it wasn't like we planned on getting into NYC to see Ground Zero, but we did anyway.

It was a really weird experience, and not one that I'd recommend. I figured we'd see a little bit of progress on the construction of what is supposed to be America's living monument to 9/11, the Freedom Tower. It was little more than a concrete hole in the ground, swarming with people who were there to see something, though were unsure of what. Just our luck that Barack Obama and John McCain were both visiting on that day, so there were dozens of news crews there as well, only compounding the melee.

There were also protesters. (More irony on that front, later).



And we saw a few things beyond the hordes, too. Like this sculpture.



It looks familiar for a reason: we have one in Dallas, too, outside the Dallas Museum of Art.



There were several interesting things to see and to shoot in the area around Ground Zero, even if Ground Zero itself was a big let down.

There was a gorgeous Episcopal church on Wall St. called St. Paul's Chapel, the home of Trinity Episcopal.





It had this fascinating sculpture in the courtyard, which was a bronze cast of a tree uprooted by the 9/11 attacks.



There was also a flag memorial in Battery Park. It was touching, but was also swarming with tourists. Not my bag, but a decent photo op.



But this is my favorite shot of the day.



We were both spent, and we decided to get a beer and some dinner at Famous Original Rays.

I will post another episode about our trip very soon...

... but I'm in the middle of a existential pseudo-crisis.

Please be patient!

In case you couldn't figure out what to get me for Christmas ...

I know this is awfully presumptuous, but since I'm already knitting Christmas gifts for my loved ones, I bet they're wondering what lovely thing they could get me this Christmas/Birthday. A few ideas:

A set of two poach pods.

A mandoline slicer.

A food grinder/slicer attachment kit and a pasta maker kit for my kitchen aid stand mixer.

A juicer.

A set of 2.5mm and 3 mm Harmony Wood double pointed knitting needles.

A food scale.


And a gift card to KnitPicks, for yarn, of course. :D

Oh, and you know, I like fabric, too, so how about a gift card to Ikea and one to Joann's?

I know I sound greedy, but people, I have dreams. Domestic ones.

With my bare hands

I hear that a lot of people did fun things this weekend. A few people went to the UT/OU Red River Rivalry game at Fair Park, others went to the State Fair of Texas just for kicks. Others even went to the movies and hung out and had drinks with friends. What did I do, dear readers?



I built a new run for our flock of SIX hens.



It has a full-sized door. Now I don't have to crouch on hands and knees to give the gals food and water.



I also painted the exterior to resemble the magnificent Fenway Park.



The girls are loving it!

I couldn't have done it without the patience and understanding of my dear husband, Dave. Thanks babe!

To collapse in a heap, Episode 2

So, I left off where Day 1 in Boston ended, but there are a couple of things I left out: We had to get up ungodly early to catch the shuttle to the airport, so by the time we were done with dinner and about to head over to Fenway, I was exhausted. I've never done this, but I fell dead asleep on the hotel bed, face-down, and stayed right there for an hour and a half. That's crazy tired.

So, when the game was over that night, I was ready for bed. Besides that, we had to get up kinda early to see a few sights before our Fenway Park tour. Since there's a Dunkin' on every corner in Boston, we grabbed breakfast and coffee (there coffee is surprisingly good, but I forgot to ask for splenda instead of sugar with my coffee, so it was ridiculous sweet, but good nonetheless).

We ate, walked around Yawkey Way and the neighborhood nearby, where there is a community garden that was so cool. Since I live in a state best known for its wide-open spaces, I had never been familiar with not having my own backyard. Some of the plots were beautiful, with koi ponds and climbing roses. Others had neat little rows of veggies, and maybe a stool to sit on and contemplate.

We headed back to the Fenway area, which is so neat because the ballpark is literally carved into the neighborhood. In the area we saw:



Manny Who? (Shortly after Manny Ramirez left Boston for the greener pastures of LA)



So, we went on a very cool tour of Fenway Park with a very knowlegeable young lady named Christina (I think) and we got to go to some really cool areas of the park that I'd probably never get to go unless I bought a heinously over-priced ticket to be there.



From the top of the right-field deck ...



From the 406 club boxes looking at the retired numbers (this was before they retired Johnny Pesky (# 6)...



And of course...



From the left-field foul pole atop the Green Monster.



Best. Tour. Ever.

So, from Fenway we decided to go to Cheers after a beer at the Cask n' Flagon. We also thought we would walk, which is very ambitious because it's REALLY FRIGGIN' FAR!



We got to Cheers, and of course, it was packed. Nobody knew our names, either. Well, besides Norm, nobody knew us.



We hung out for a while with the Cheers gang ...



And then we went on a stroll through Boston Commons.









And then we did some window shopping. I then spied a yarn store!



Then we hoofed it back to a subway station and made it back to our hotel to change and get ready for the game. So, we get to the ballpark and there's all sorts of crazy fun going on.



And Dave and I are drinking a few Octoberfest Sam Adams and we start to get really hungry. We're standing in the beer line, though, not the food line (priorities?) when this guy gets in line behind us with THREE sausage dogs, done up just like I like 'em (plenty of peppers and onions with spicy dijon mustard). Dave turns around and asks him where he got the dogs, and the guy says "You can have this one for $5." Now, I don't know about you, but I have this thing about second-hand food/drink. So we just laughed it off. But the guy was serious. Which is kinda gross. His friend shows up and we all start joking around and Dave says we're from Texas, and the guy says, "I'd have never guessed! You don't sound Texan, but you [me] do a little." WTF? No one says I have an accent. If I have a Texas accent, then Dave sounds like one of the Waltons.

Anyway. We get dogs, we couch our asses down in our excellent seats, and we proceed to watch the longest game I've ever attended. It was 14 innings. Fourteen riveting innings.

I once saw Josh Beckett pitch when he was still in high school, pitching for the Spring Lions. He's still got it.



And we saw Terry Francona get up in an official's face ...



and we saw Kevin Youkilis and his funky stance.



But nothing was more beautiful than cheering with the dedicated fans of Boston for 14 innings. We lit up Fenway until we couldn't anymore.



After that, it was showers and bed, because we had to get up early for the journey to NYC.

More on that, next time...

Planes, trains, automobiles and baseball: Chapter 1

Looking back on what I have started calling "Baseball Odyssey 2008," I now realize that it was a once-in-a-lifetime gig, and that I didn't take enough pictures (I took over 700, yet still that ended up not being enough). I had a great time going places I've never been and eating/drinking things I've never consumed/imbibed, but there's one thing that I can't quite reckon with: Why didn't we just stay in upstate NY? There's plenty of homes for sale...

Anyway. Just as an overview, it went like this: Tusday morning we left D/FW International Airport for Boston. After two days in Boston we left via Amtrak headed to NYC. After three days in NYC we headed to Albany via Amtrak, rented a car at Albany International Airport and drove to Cooperstown, NY. After three and a half days in Cooperstown, we drove back to Albany and departed from Albany Int. to Chicago O'Hare for a (woefully unavoidable) three-hour layover, and then departed Chicago for D/FW.

Now, We left for Boston from D/FW on Tuesday Sept. 9, the fucking day before Hurricane Ike decided to wipe Galveston off the Texas Gulf Coast and shortly after Hurricane Gustav gave Baton Rouge, La., a run for its money. So, needless to say, there was a lot of stormy weather on the coast. Also, with stormy weather comes bumpy flights. Did I mention that Dave doesn't fly all to well. He took a Xanax before we took off, but I still have some slight bruises on my thigh from where he was gripping my leg like it was the only thing keeping him in the plane.

So we land in Boston, ditch our stuff at the hotel after a rather hot and unpleasant subway ride, hop on another subway headed toward the government district area thingy (near city hall) only to find the warm, sunny weather we encountered upon landing in Boston had all the sudden turned into this:



Seriously, in this picture the rain is actually coming down sideways. So, I think to myself, "Self, you've got a new bag on and nothing to keep you dry other than the fleece jacket you just happened to grab before leaving the hotel. You're wearing clogs and long pants, too. You're going to be soaked. Why not wait it out a bit, hm?"

So we waited, at least until I couldn't stand the hunger any longer and the rain at least wasn't nearly so horizontal. We made a mad dash for the Union Oyster House, huddled in a booth and had the best clam chowder I've ever tasted, some oysters on the half shell, and we split some kind of fish casserole that was pretty tasty.

While we're both filling up on good food and the freshest Sam Adams I've ever had, we asked the waitress if the rain is going to clear in time for the Red Sox/Rays game. She said, "Oh yeah, of cowahse. This is nahthin'!" If I've learned anything from my travels, it's trust the locals. I'll be damned if it didn't clear up just before game time. There was a little sprinkling during one of the middle innings, just before the seventh-inning stretch, too, but it was nothing since we were sitting under the covered portion of the grandstands, which happens to be one of the best places to watch the Sox play.



Here, you see the beginnings of my vacation sock. I pretty much took it everywhere, and had it almost finished by the time we touched down back in Dallas. Is it shameful that it took me almost a full week to finish one sock? Maybe, but I don't care. Every time I put on these socks (once they're done, of course) I'm going to be reminded that one of them has been on a journey with me. Pretty cool!

So, our first night in Boston was pretty great, with the exception of the fact that the Sox lost and that it rained. It was Fenway Park, really, that puts you in a good mood no matter what the game's outcome. That ballpark seems alive. Or perhaps it's the fans that make it seem that way. Whether a favorable call, a base hit, as run on a sac fly or the amazing homerun that Jason Bay hit off of the Green Monster while we were there, the people around you, these complete strangers, are there to cheer and to celebrate and to watch this great game with you. From the press box to the box seats, Sox fans make Fenway Park breathe. They give it a voice of its own. It's like nothing I've ever seen.



Next Post, Day two in Boston...

I miss him already

When I was about to leave work today, I got a frantic call from Dave.

"Hey, I'm kind of worried that Mr. Orange got out earlier and hasn't come back yet."

"What time did he get out?"

"About 3 p.m., when I got back from Target and was letting the dogs out."

"That's only about 3 hours. He'll be back soon. He always comes back. I'm trying to wrap things up here, but we'll look for him when I get home. Try not to worry. OK?"

The thing is, it's past 11 p.m. and there's still no sign of Mr. Orange.

Where'd you go, little buddy?



We miss you.

UPDATE: Dave was about to go to bed last night at 2:30 a.m. He decided to check the bowl of food we left on the front porch for Mr. Orange. Still no kitty. So he decided, just in case, to check the back door. Here comes Mr. Orange, casually strolling up to the door like nothing ever happened. Dave snatched him up and brought him to me in bed and then set the little orange adventurer on my belly. He was back, and I swear to Pete, he's never going outside again.

The Three Rs

Rested, Revitalized and Recharged.

I'm back in Big D after a much-needed nine-day desk sabbatical on the East Coast. Get ready for a huuuuuuuuuuuge update with a gazillion pictures and some surprises!

Missed y'all!

I don't know how they did it

Many years ago there was this thing called company loyalty. Often times people worked for the same company IN THE SAME JOB for years and years, usually until they collected a retirement pension and shot everyone the bird while saying "Siyonara, mo fos!" (I made that last part up.)

Today, this is unheard of. Acutally, many people still try to grasp for the role of up and coming pensioner in the U.S., but in the U.K. and in Canada, and I think pretty much anywhere else that has socialized medicine, employment is much more transitional. People are often on contract for a limited period, and after that's up they are left to the fates. Unemployment in the U.S. is a hugely feared condition, mostly because unemployment means no health care.

Not that I think that transitional or contract/short-term employment is a good thing, though I think more people in America would go that route in lieu of being in a stifling job if we had national healthcare.

Checking my list

Goals and aspirations mean nothing without a little friend I call motivation. I got a couple of things done this past three-day blitz of laziness, though I didn't rock my entire list.

1) Make an old pair of jeans into a jean skirt. (Made an AWESOME jean skirt out of an old pair of stretch Levis! Love this so much I think I'll take it on vacation with me!)



2) Finish knitting my socks. (Oh yes I did. Yet something else I love so much I'm thinking of taking them on vacation with me!)



3) Finish knitting my sister's fingerless mittens. (Don't hate. I didn't get this done but I made some serious progress.)

4) Expand the chicken coop's run. (Yeah, so it was 100-plus degrees outside, and well... I'm not big on sweating.)

5) Yoga, yoga, yoga. (Did some yoga. Worked mostly on my inversions.)

6) Start on another knitting project. (I started on a fingering weight pair of plain vanilla socks for Dave out of OnLine 75% wool 25% viscose yarn. Yay socks!)

Caffeine free and easy?

I think that the key to happiness is balance. Small meals during the day balances out a huge plate of chili for dinner with gingerbread a la mode for dessert. Taking a break from physical exertion for a week balances out the insane amount of walking I'll be doing during my vacation. A liter of coffee in the morning balances out the beer and wine I'll be drinking that afternoon, although, getting a mad case of the mid-afternoon latte shakes isn't all that attractive.

So, on Thursday we awoke to no coffee in the coffee pot. This throws everything out of balance. We grind the beans and pour in the filtered water the night before so there will be coffee ready for the two of us to make it to work without murdering small woodland creatures on the roadways. No coffee, no peace for squirrels.

I tried troubleshooting the damn thing on Thursday night, but still no luck. Something is wrong with the system of tubes that connects the reservoir to the drip basket. All worrying about coffee and no coffee makes Jo a very curiously angry girl.

So no coffee on Thursday morning, but I would be damned if I had no coffee on Friday morning, so I ground up some beans at home and brought enough to make a pot at work, though I staged it as one of those "treats" for your coworkers. "Lookee, everyone! I brought gourmet coffee for the office! Nevermind the coincidence that my eyes are barely open. I have dibs!"

Though, without access to the office pot, I had to get inventive this weekend -- a three-day weekend for me at that. So, I'm using my Bodum press instead of a regular coffee pot. It's not bad coffee. It's actually the opposite of bad coffee. The only thing is, it's very strong coffee. Where it would normally take me a good 5 or 6 cups to give me a decent case of the latte shakes, I'm over-caffeinated in only two or three. Yipes!

---------------------------------------------------

With a three-day weekend now half-wasted, I'm looking for things I've been meaning to do but haven't.

(I say it's half-wasted, but yesterday was awesome. Dave and I woke up and drank strong coffee, ate french toast coated in our backyard eggs with homemade wheat bread, hung around doing a few chores until we were hungry again, went to Souper Salad and gorged ourselves with healthy food. I had a nice nap, woke up and watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in bed. Went on a nice long walk just before dusk with the dogs, came home and cooked baked potatoes, had a beer and knitted until I was sleepy. Awe. Some.)

Some things I've been wanting to do:

1) Make an old pair of jeans into a jean skirt.
2) Finish knitting my socks
3) Finish knitting my sister's fingerless mittens
4) Expand the chicken coop's run
5) Yoga, yoga, yoga
6) Start on another knitting project (maybe a hat, maybe a scarf, maybe another pair of socks, who knows!)

All alone in my pajamas

Well, technically here at the House of England, you're never alone. There's always something furry or feathered about.

Just after lunch today I started to feel sick to my stomach. Not the vomity kind of sick, but the real, painfully pervasive, I-can't-stand-up-straight-because-it-hurts sick to my stomach. After running through a few things with a coworker, I went home to dive into my flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt.

Still, I have no idea what I ate or did that would do this to me. I'm still very much in an blerg-y state, and have only been able to eat two pieces of wheat toast and half of a Sprite Zero, totally uncharacteristic for me. Another bummer, I haven't been to yoga this week. I miss my yoga.

Dave is out at the Tom Petty show tonight with our neighbor friends and one of his buddies. So it's me and the furs. As I look around, I realize what awful pet parents we are.

First, there is the state of Hornsby's bed. It is far beyond just unmade:



Then there is the fact that the two of our chickens have fowl pox. I'm sure they'll be fine, and in Texas, it's kind of unavoidable with all of the mosquitoes, but that doesn't make me feel any better for my birds.

And to top it off, Mr. Orange still hasn't learned how to put a wristwatch on properly.



Dawsey, though, thinks I'm just being silly. Here she's telling me that worrying is futile, just take a nap by the window and shut up, you crazy wench.



Oh well...