Sweetness.

There are maples growing in our gutters! and other joys.

Elderhomeownership is full of fun and adventure.  Holes in floors, leaky sinks, drippy bathtubs, mysterious earthy-but-not-bad smells in the closet (My theory: they kept a pet skunk named Flower.  The Professor's theory: the former owner doused himself in musk OR had quite the musky smell about his person.) - so many projects of just the perfect size for learning about this house and how to keep it up.  My optimism may be dampened if we discover any projects that involve foundation cracks or oil leaks.

We've assembled the lawnmower and are digging out from under the mound of stuff we own that needs to find a place.  Personally, I think that place may be a garage sale, but perhaps the attic might do.

In the meantime, I've been reading the "Police Beat" section of the local paper, because I need to be ready for the robbers when they come.  According to the paper, a nearby residence was broken into and ruthlessly robbed of 18 bottles of wine and two steaks. 

That'd be like having dinner stolen right off our table.

The diaper brigade is on the loose.

Really, I will have to sit down someday and tell you all about all the awesomeness of recent.  Until then, I've got to get busy cramming all our stuff into Pampers Cruisers boxes.  Because who needs pride when you've got to move?

Editor's Note: There are no imminent expectations in this household (except that the Professor may stick his foot through the hole in our living room floor before the week is out) - all diaper boxes are loaners from friends with children.

The King's Evil

Actually, scrofula is a fascinating disease, historically speaking.

But you know what?  Nobody here's got it.

You know what we've got?

A house.

Yeah, we love it, too.

And don't worry.  The snow's gone.

For now.

T minus 1

Isn't that how they count down to awesome things like space shuttles lifting off and new houses being bought?

As of tomorrow, we are homeowners!  And landlords!  (For five whole days!) 

We're so excited that we're going to go on a vacation! 

Some day we will move in!

In the meantime, I've broken out in boils due to stress.  Which brings me to my real reason for writing.

Once upon a time, our President was struggling with a boil.  Facial band-aids were involved.  At the time, I thought to myself, "Oh, please.  You've got a zit, and are embarrassed.  This band-aid business is for high schoolers who like to pretend puberty and its accompanying skin conditions isn't (aren't?) happening." 

Oh, how wrong I was.  For the past few days, between bouts of writhing, complaining, hot-compressing, and reading the book of Job, I have been feeling belatedly very sorry for the President.  This is not like a zit, this is like one of the plagues of Egypt.  (In fact, was it a plague of Egypt?  Perhaps I should check out Exodus when I am done with Job.)

Do you think I can bring my heating pad and epsom salt poultices to closing?

I'm going to go now.  I need to climb back up on my pile of ashes and scratch myself with potsherds.

Tomorrow: scrofula!

Someone, somewhere said there'd be days like this.

Way back in grad school, things were bad.  Last straw, end of my tether, my cheese has been moved, someone else finished the ice cream type bad.  I actually remember thinking to myself, "This is it.  This is as bad as it is ever going to get.  It cannot get any badder.  Or worse.  Whatever."  (Even my grammar was gone.)  I decided that, having hit the nadir of existence, it was time for the emergency escape plan: cut my hair really short, jettison everything, and join the Peace Corps.  (This is my "it's rock-bottom time!" plan - if you ever hear that I've relocated to the other side of the world and am teaching sustainable farming and poetry while sporting a pixie 'do, you'll know that I've bottomed out.)

And then I looked at my leg.

And I realized that as low as I thought I had been 2 seconds prior, I managed to sink lower.

I had ringworm.

Now, some people might choose to look at having ringworm as a bad thing.  As in, "Ew! Ringworm! I've got worms!"   Ringworm, people, is not worms.  It's athlete's-foot-not-on-your-foot, and frankly, in the South in the summer things like athlete's foot and ringworm and armpit stains happen.  It is called heat and humidity.  It's par for the course.  And it's not like I had worms.  That *would* have been gross.

But, as it turned out, looking at that (miniscule) spot on my calf, I thought to myself, "Who am I to decide when I've hit rock bottom?  I mean, a girl thinks she's hit it, and then--bam!--ringworm!  It gets worse."  So, off I trotted to the drugstore to battle my leg with a variety of creams, powders, and sprays.  After all, one can only be philosophical about skin stuff for so long.

Two things I've learned from this experience:

1.  Always remember that as bad as you think things are at any particular moment, you *could* have ringworm, and therefore, things *could* be worse.

2. At this rate, I am never, ever, ever going to make it into the Peace Corps.

I haven't been this excited since the No-Knead Bread Craze of ought-seven!

I have tried dressing my salads in offerings from the House of Kraft and Ken's Fine Establishments.  I have even purchased Cool Hand Luke's own toppings for my lettuce in the hopes that staring longingly into his eyes would heighten my dining experience, and make me feel as if I was Joanne Woodward for one meal a day.

(I can hear the Professor even now: "You want to be a ninety-eight-year-old woman.  You're flirting with the salad dressing.  And *I'm* the one not allowed to bring my computer to the dinner table?")

Damn skippy, I say.  Computers are not allowed at the dinner table.  Anti-social.  And 98?  Awesome genes there.  And you know what else?  According to Wikipedia (which is Greek for "unquestionably true, with not even the slightest hint of inaccuracy"), she is from the South! she is named after Joan Crawford, pronounced Southern-style (transforming a single syllable word into multiple syllables through the magic of the diphthong)! she is married to Paul Newman! (But we knew that.)

But back to the salad dressing.

It's a good thing I'm not JW, though, because the dressing I love, the dressing that stole my heart away from my favorite Grumpy Old Man, is Brianna's Real French Vinaigrette.  The best part about Brianna's is the bottle:  simple shape, white label, big picture of an artichoke.  The artichoke tells me that I've bought the correct bottle of Brianna's, unlike the one time I bought a bottle of Dijon Honey Mustard.  Avocado equals Artichoke.  However, apparently, it told some people a little something different, because within the last few years the bottles have begun sporting a disclaimer.

"Does not contain artichokes."

Every time I gussy up my greens, I read this and think of the poor soul who bought their bottle of Brianna's, rushed home, heart-cockles warmed by the thought of the soon-to-be-unbottled spiky goodness, and discovered upon opening  the bottle that there were exactly 0 artichokes floating in their salad dressing.

Self-evident, I know.  I mean, it's salad dressing.  The bottle is clear.  Do artichokes even come in a bottle?

Still, I love imagining the disappointment, the righteous indignation, the protests, the angry letters, the feeling of justice denied!

Anyway, I love my artichoke-free salad dressing.

But I also love artichokes.  I particularly carry a flame for the baby artichokes of spring.  And not just because they are shovels-for-butter disguised as vegetables.

Which is why I am so excited to make this for dinner.  The last time I attempted a dish with baby 'chokes, it was like eating baby porcupines.  Ow.  But I remain undaunted.  And if things don't work out, I've got this as a back-up.

And, PS, in case you were under a rock in 2007,  here's the bread article and recipe.

Worth Noting

"...our job in life is not to be a perfect person but to be the unique person we are as fully as we can be."
-Sheila Reindle

Please excuse my long absence. I was at the grocery store.

1.  Tie flaps  or drawstring trashbags?
2.  Phosphate-free or phosphorolicious dishwasher detergent?
3.  Is there such a thing as organic dishwasher detergent?
4.  Powder laundry detergent or liquid laundry detergent?
5.  Regular or low-sodium V8?
6.  Recycled or regular paper products (e.g. tissues, toilet paper, our once-a-month roll of paper towels)?
7.  Is it wrong to use paper towels, period?
8.  Oh, the store brand of tissues is so much cheaper than Kleenex!
9.  But I was raised on Kleenex!
10.  Are handkerchiefs better for the environment?
11.  Can I resist the urge to eat a bag of Craisins in one sitting in order to save them for salads?
12.  Regular cereal or organic cereal?
13.  Maybe I should put the Craisins back. 
14.  Ooooooh housewares!
(20 minutes later)
15.  Regular skim milk or organic skim milk?
16.  Are my (nonexistant) children going to be endocrinally challenged because I am cheap about milk?
17.  Ooooooh flowers!
(10 minutes later)
18.  Why do two people need two different loaves of bread?
19.  If I was a good wife, I'd bake our bread.
20.  How hard is it to grind wheat anyway?
21.  Oh, but then, there'd be flour EVERYWHERE.
22.  Bologna is a crime against humanity.
23.  Bologna is delicious.
24.  Deli bologna or Oscar Meyer?
25.  What *is* fat free bologna?
26.  Maybe I should be a vegan.
27.  Doesn't not eating meat give you some sort of glow?
28.  Ugh, but soy is so bad for you and your endocrine system.
29.  Supposedly.
30.  Bologna it is!  (From the deli.)
31.  And some turkey too.
32.  Produce!  Hrm.  Do I buy a) organic b) locally grown c) regular or d) organic and locally grown?
33.  d!
34.  Or should I go to the Farmer's Market?
35.  If the only organic, locally grown thing is rhubarb at 12.99/pound am I justified in buying regular?
36.  Which Farmer's Market should I go to?
37.  Maybe we should join a CSA.
38.  I don't care if these tomatoes were strip-mined in Texas, I'm buying them.
39.  Organic or regular shampoo?
40.  What *is* sodium laurel/laureth sulfate?
41.  Why do I feel like this is a choice between death and greasy hair?
42.  At least it's not tested on animals.
43.  I give up.
44.  Check out.
45.  Hold up check out line while I run out to my car to get the approximately 592 reusable grocery bags in the trunk.

Hear hear!

"What God wants from a girl is for her to be who she is.  This is [her] highest spiritual purpose."
-Mary Wilshire

Hip hip!

I'd like to do a "Rent"-style countdown, but my math is truly abysmal when rushed and I'd arrive at the answer in Base 12 or some such nonsense, so suffice it to say that four weeks from today, the Professor and I will walk through this front door and, for the first time in a long time, be really, truly home.  And then we will turn around, walk out the door, and commence unloading approximately 543.2 tons of books, four bicycles, three couches, two kitchen tables, and exactly zero rugs.

(Please note: Actual house is not at an angle.  This was the best we could do while surreptitiously driving by for the 7,372nd time.  Also, the egg wreath was not included in purchase price.)