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Amy
This is the first time in many years the thought of spring doesn’t fill me with dread. Spring doesn’t mean EXACTLY the same thing in Co-op circles as it means for most people. For the majority, spring means warmer weather, maybe thinking about planting a garden, or putting in a pool, going to the lake, planning barbeques. Spring at the Co-op means an absolute onslaught of people, demanding grass and vegetable seeds, fertilizer, herbicides, pesticides, you name it. Spring means a season of calves brought in thunderstorms by heifers, the constant nuisance of flies, and the persistant worry of when the rain’s coming-will it be soon enough? Can it hold off till you get this last field spread? Old men and new farmers haggle over buggies and sprayers and sod drills. They raise Cain that the price of chemicals are cheaper by three dollars the next county over. They gripe and complain about being subjected to “all these changes” and “you about can’t make a livin’ anymore, with you a-robbin’ us blind!” Yes. Clearly, I’m the one to blame. There’s the warehouse screaming on the radio to quit sellin’ Kennebec seed potatotes, how many times do they have to tell us we’re out till Houser gets back from Tenco? The phones are ringing with people wanting to know when…
I love American Pickers, in case you didn’t know. I hope they stay current on their tetanus shots. We watched the entire season (except the season finale) of Alone yesterday. The History channel makes this cable business worthwhile. If we forget to DVR the last episode of Alone Thursday night, I will potentially inflict harm to something. I don’t know what yet. There is a bottle of Texas Pete on the coffee table. Johnny has forgotten about it, but will remember when he reads this. Why are they called coffee tables, reckon? I googled a lot of stuff today. It started with Excel taking my numerical data out of cells and replacing it with the date. I was all for blaming a poltergeist but turns out it’s programmed that way. Weird. Then we came across a social security number that started with “003”, which sounds fake, or George Washington’s social, but with the aid of Google I learned that that is what people who are born in New Hampshire are branded with. Also, the 000’s, 666’s, and 900’s are not used. Neither are some 700’s, because they were retired after something happened with the railroad. (??) I mean, you just never know what you’re gonna get with me. I celebrated 8 months at my current job today. That’s quite the feat, considering I didn’…
I’m sitting at Food City waiting for my first ever swap meeting. I’m a bit skittish. However, I have Annie safely tucked in beside me. I’m sure there are some perverts or sex trafficking conartists who seek out especially girly Craigs List ads to prey upon young women. My social media adept cousin set up this rendezvous for my sunny leggings I had aimed to wear with my UT orange. Turns out the only color that looks worse on me than white is yellow. We’re meeting at the grocery store because, for my part, it’s well lit and busy. I reckon the lady’s son works here and she gave him the cash for the goods. He sounds young, pimply, and harmless. So I backed in out here by the highway by an old red Ford pickup. I’m early. Before long, here comes this stocky teenager loping across the parking lot towards me with purpose. This is it, I think, ready to hop out with my reject lularoe and a winning smile. I bet he embarrasses easily, and it’s probably a pain for him to pick up his momma’s purchases all the time (I could tell she was experienced from the way she made arrangements via text). Maybe he gets a dollar or two to do her bidding. Maybe she upped the ante since it’s Superbowl Sunday. Just…
My black cashmere sock has resurfaced after a good year and a half. You are perhaps wondering what would possess me to hang onto one mismatched sock for so long. Well, the reason is threefold. One, it’s cashmere. It was expensive, as far as socks go. And I knew that if I were to ever buy a replacement pair, I would undoubtedly, at some point, lose one of them. So then I would still have a complete pair. But look at THESE. So cute and affordable. Secondly, things have a way of disappearing and reappearing around here at a somewhat alarming rate (as you may have noticed). I’ve learned to roll with it. Usually they don’t stay missing for long. This particular sock must have been having a really epic adventure. I guess the rich really do have more fun. And no, I have nothing to do with these possessions that come and go like mosquito bites. It’s merely a hazard of living with a scatterbrained writer. And finally, I mean, how much room does one sock take? Hardly any. It cost me nothing to leave it when I organized my sock drawer last weekend (no, really, it’s true. Don’t envy my crazy rockstar lifestyle). So anyway, it magically appeared tonight when I went down to the laundry room and gathered up some odds and ends from the table. I know my darling husband didn’t have…
When Donald Trump announced he was running for President, people scoffed. His earliest supporters were shushed, intellectuals informing America that he was a pompous ass and not to debase themselves by publicly approving someone who was so clearly a joke. As it became clearer he was no joke, and in the very least not one to be counted out, collective America was still stamped down. Don’t waste your vote to someone who doesn’t have a chance, we were told. But when the polls opened for early voting and they were packed from daylight till dark, and the plastic coat hanger signs popped up in yards, and the campaign tour wore on, it became obvious he did have a chance. And blue collar America had a voice. And they were screaming. America turned out day after day to stand in line to cast their ballot for their best chance. Their only chance. And maybe their last chance. And by God, he won. He actually won. And we couldn’t believe our luck. So we rejoiced. And again, we were silenced. We were told it was over, to stop celebrating, whatever. In four years, they’d show us. We think it’s gonna be so great, but it’s gonna be a train wreck. And on Inauguration Day, Trump made yet another rousing speech, and it wasn’t a sugar coated backpedaling of all his promises…
I don’t make any plans beyond what to eat and what to read when there’s snow on the ground. Usually it’s soup or chili. Something hearty, you know. Yesterday was no different. While eating breakfast, I was plotting supper. I decided on chili. And I like Mexican Cornbread with my chili when I have time. So much more savory than crackers. But it is a bit of a pain. It involves lots of dirty dishes. But first things first: snow cream. It surprised me a few years ago when we got about 7″ of snow dumped on us and so many of my Facebook friends were asking for the recipe. Recipe? I’m pretty sure that was the first thing I learned to “cook” because it didn’t involve an oven and the secret is you just add more sugar till it tastes good. Step 1: Gather snow. It’s best to get it somewhere your dogs haven’t been, for obvious reasons. But you might want to think about birds, too. Typically the hoods of cars provide unblemished snow. Get more than you think you’ll need. And if this is the wet, heavy stuff, you really gotta hustle. Step 2: Reserve about a quarter of the snow to another bowl unless you don’t mind going back out or can send a minion/ husband/ child. Add milk, LOTS of granular sugar, and a…
I’ve been craving fajitas since Christmas Eve. I wanted to make tacos for Christmas dinner and Johnny said it was sacrilegious. I think we had chicken pot pie instead. Like, I’m totally sure Jesus would prefer tacos on his birthday, but whatever. Anyway, since he’s camping with his buddies this Saturday, I get whatever I want on Friday. Usually I make him take me to Maryville for Chili’s or Cheddars, and maybe peruse Hobby Lobby and the bookstore while we’re at it. I rarely push my luck for a movie, but it does come under consideration on occasions when I’m particularly vexed. So it was decided early in the week that we would finally satisfy my fajita famine this Friday, unless an oyster craving took over my life between now and then. No, I’m not pregnant. I just like food. So after two full days worth of snow advisory warnings and twelve hours of on again/off again snow showers, we bundled up and set off, he in his camo, and me in my Lularoe. We take note of the specials and settle into our booth, making conversation with our favorite waitress (her kids are already hoping they won’t have to go to school Monday, nevermind the snow has yet to stick). We enjoy our drippy cheese dip. We make fun of the Yankees in the booth behind us. Our tiny…
I….I….I…. Ahhh-CHOO!!!! I swanny. All I want on my days off are to be able to relax. I love staying home. The rainier and colder it is, the better. I’ll loll about, reading two or three books, leisurely fix breakfast, maybe do some light housekeeping. I’ll bake cookies, troll Facebook, maybe pin some recipes or crafts that I have no aspirations of creating. I’ve been craving fajitas for four days, but when going-out time rolls around, either Johnny or I don’t feel like venturing out. I made the typical New Years Feast yesterday (for the non-southerners out there, that consists of collards, kraut-n-weenies, fried taters, cornbread, and black eyed peas disguised as soup beans…because they actually were soup beans because black eyed peas are dis.gust.ing.). We technically should have eaten those leftovers today, but you know me, always thinking ahead…so I decided to go ahead and make supper tonight that way we could have the soup bean conglomeration tomorrow night, so that I wouldn’t have to cook after working all day. Once that was decided, I sought out a roast from the freezer. And boy did I find one! It was enormous and I plopped it in the sink to thaw. An hour and a half later, I skipped into the kitchen to transfer it to the crock pot. This is where I encountered…
Here we find ourselves at the tail end of 2016. I’m ending it much the same as I have every other Saturday night of this year: in my pajamas with a book and a glass of wine nearby. Although I have recently debated the merits of hot chocolate over fermented grapes… I am fully dreading taking down the tree tomorrow. Not because it’s enormous and laden with decorations, unlike the trees of years past. I’m dreading it because I’m lazy. That’s really all there is to it. I don’t WANT to. I got around to packing everything else up today: all the candles and knick-knacks…I broke my Pottery Barn reindeer but I have high hopes for the miracle that is superglue…once I eventually find it. That can wait till next November, at least. Until then, I have plenty of things to keep me busy, such as this blog post I’m rushing to finish before midnight (or, more realistically, until I fall asleep, which would have been by ten o’clock if I hadn’t been going back and forth with the good techies at Bluehost). I almost lost my mind there for a minute. You see. Turns out I’ve been logging into the wrong WordPress account. Who knew? When I log into Facebook, I log into Facebook, whether I want to post something on my page…
Our holiday was mild, which is the way I like it. I especially liked the part about being off for four consecutive days. Friday I was run-run-Rudolph, indeed. I had a hair appointment at 8 (what? You think I’m competent enough to keep myself this perfect red? I can barely apply blush). A pleasant surprise was a Krispy Kreme doughnut as I processed. Then a quick elf run to my cousin’s house to drop her off a thank-you-for-helping-with-my-blog/ Christmas gift. Then, as is common for me, I had to come back by the house to pick up Robin’s gift because I’d had plans to meet her for lunch for a solid week. I hurriedly washed dishes while I was here so they would stop mocking me. They’d only been there for fourteen hours…which sounds like a long time when I think about it, considering they typically don’t last more than thirty minutes. I digress. I also collected a helping of éclair cake because the heathens at the Co-op hadn’t thought to save her a morsel of theirs. I had my own personal one delivered to the shop by both the Newmans! I skirted by the dump, then by the Co-op to drop the dessert so it wouldn’t acquire E.coli while I ran my other errands before lunch…
