2º

"I don't do the weather."  That's the sentence I employ to describe the sort of relationships I form and my lack of skill for pulling off "casual acquaintance."  I'm here.  I'm really, really here.  Have you read the science of global warmingnot?  Did I tell you one of my eyelashes fell out yesterday?  What's your rapture stance?  I'm behind on laundry.  Are you following the birth certificate case?  What's your favorite font?

"I don't do the weather."  Try telling that, though, to Cousin Annie and Zoomer, who received from me a yesterday a blow-by-blow account of my cloud, wind, and temperature experience, when I delivered Bammy's breakfast: "Blue-gray ... warm ... the color of dirty snow ... fifteen minutes later the temperature was ... the front ... ten minutes after that the temperature was ... north northeast ... cold ... south southwest," and 5 photos.  I even copy-pasted two weather forecasts from The National Weather Center.  *rolling eyes*


See.

And now I have a blogpost entitled 2º.  I'm excited about it being 2º outdoors this morning.  Maybe even a little excited ... or exhilarated ... or shiveringly aware of it being 59º indoors.

I think I do the weather.

What's the temperature in your neck of the woods? 

Postscript:  Woo-hoo!  5:33 a.m., and it's dropped to 0.5º.  I SO do the weather!

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.  ~Matthew 5:6

Poor Reporter

Big uh-oh.  The fellow is probably going to lose his job.  I hope he doesn't have a wife and children to support, and his parents have a spare room available to him.

He should have gone to the staff meetings.  I don't want to sound too puffed up or unsympathetic, but this is what he gets for skipping out.

This week, I heard a reporter say there was a conspiracy led by the Illinois governor to sell BO's Senate seat.  He used the word conspiracy as a noun and didn't even whisper the word theory.  It was literally jarring to my ears.  My head immediately whipped in the direction of the television, so I could see who'd made this surprising error.

Shoulda gone to the meetings, Buddy.  Can't say conspiracy any more, unless you use it as an adjective, modifying theory or theorists, immediately making venomous and debasing statements about people who reveal or report conspiracies.  Even when video evidence, audio evidence, documents, eyewitness and scientific testimonies number in the hundreds, DO NOT USE THE WORD CONSPIRACY AS A NOUN.

Add one more to the ranks of the unemployed.

Or not?


Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.  ~Matthew 5:5

Give Me Some Space

O, Happy Day!  I have some space.

My fingers were taught to type an extra space between sentences, which readers' eyes like to have.  Blogger composer, however, doesn't read those keystrokes, which has made me twitch for nearly two years now.  In fact, a few months ago, I searched for the space html and failed to find it.  During a search sparked by an interest in whether or not email addresses can now contain hyphens, I stumbled upon the html for dashes — another bit I've longed to know, so I could ditch double-hyphens — and was able to springboard from there to the space.

I'm happy as a pig in mud.  No, I'm not going to edit the html of 350 posts.  (Okay, I did one as a test.)  But from now on, I'm gonna have plenty of space.

Sometimes it's the little things.  ºÜº


Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. 
~Matthew 5:4

Bob the Birthday Boy

[Note to Newcomers: Bobdog is Cousin Annie's little boy.]







Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ~Matthew 5:3

Two Sizes Too Small

or
It's All Zoomer's Fault
She kindly didn't ask, so I rudely never mentioned that I couldn't answer the phone, because I was up to my elbows in wet, brined roosters chicken pieces.  I knew as soon as I got some of that into the crockpot and the rest into the freezer, I had to get the dough made for rolls, or our dinner wouldn't be complete.  On this frosty, windy day, I rigged a lofty stand atop the woodstove and set the dough to rise, before I returned Zoomer's call.

Well, we hadn't talked voice-to-voice in a long while, and I've been largely email-absent in recent weeks, so we had some catching up to do.  Even so, while we talked, I thought to check on my dough, which had risen posthaste, and I'd nearly baked the stuff in the bowl, because it was entirely too hot on its makeshift perch.  In fact, some of it was baked to the side of the bowl, but I never uttered a peep about that and just punched the stuff down, turned it out and smashed it flat, then used the only cutter I could quickly find, as I rummaged through the little drawer with my one free hand.  Abused dough and phone call or no, we were going to have rolls for dinner.

Same free hand reached into the bakeware cabinet above my head and pulled out what I thought was the new cookie sheet — you know the one I bought, not when my tape measure failed me, but when I should have been paying attention to interior dimensions as well as exterior, as I chose a replacement for my croaked oven.  Who knew some manufacturers make really thick oven walls, and a girl won't have a roaster, cookie sheet, or cake pan that fits in her new oven?  Really big oopsie.  I also didn't know someone had put that huge cookie sheet back in the bakeware cabinet, after I'd assigned it a new home with the grillware.

Still talking and listening, I managed to prepare a sheet and a pan of rolls and set them, this time, beside the woodstove to (hopefully) rise again.  Hey, I'm pretty good.  I got all this done, and Zoomer never even knew I was on my feet, much less being QueenKitchen, as we talked.

Off the phone and with the passing of more time, I checked on my rolls, and as I lifted the previously damp towel, I realized I hadn't thought to brush the tops with butter before I tucked the phone beneath my chin and shrouded the pans.  Now I had cotton toweling stuck to my dinner rolls.  Only two collapsed as I gingerly coaxed the cloth from the dough, and even they perked up a bit while waiting for the oven to heat.

I was on the march to the kitchen with my sheet of rolls when I finally noticed what pan was in my hands.  No.  Uh-uh.  This didn't happen.  And I held the pan before the oven, hoping I was imagining things.

Not.

Well, it'll either work or it won't, and there's no turning back now.


Know what?  It worked.  But if it hadn't, it would have been all Zoomer's fault!


When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom.  ~Proverbs 11:2