Brainf@rts and Anthems and Dead Fondue Pots

Well, this explains it. I was looking all over the living room and kitchen for my “empties” the other morning so I could refill them with juice and milk. I’d left the bag under my desk at work.



Yes, I recycle my bottles. I have bought numerous of the “non-leaking” drink cups over the past several years, only to have them leak. And Snopes says that there is no harm in reusing the bottles, so I do. Not indefinitely, mind you, but for a few days, and then I pitch them. If/when I move to Fort Worth, there is a recycling program in place. The suburb where I live now doesn’t have recycling. Nor does it have mass transit. After I move, I will be a good citizen and recycle, and maybe even have a small compost pile. Right after I sew up and/or knit up some market bags. Let me get the kid graduated first.

I am galloping up the leg on LittleBit’s Firestarter. One small piece of my life is proceeding in an orderly manner. [And I realize that I have just invoked the wrath of the Yarn Muse and am likely to pay dearly for it.]

114 envelopes. That’s how many I opened, between the early mail and the late mail, last Thursday. I looked at them stuffed into the attorneys’ red rope folders, waiting to be opened, and I thought, “I wonder how many of them there are?” And now I know. And so do you. It took me almost two full hours to open the envelopes, date-stamp the mail, and replace all the staples with paper clips.

Better than half of the envelopes contained file-stamped vacation letters. Trial attorneys can’t just take off on vacation like ordinary mortals. They have to send letters to the court, stating which days they are unavailable and requesting that no court dates be set during that time.

Remember that last deep, cleansing breath re: the “West Side Story” costume?? Well, apparently I’m not done after all. Where’s that programmable parrot that Firstborn offered me?

The @#$%& costume got a qualified approval from the choir director on Monday night. She loved it; it’s beautiful, *and* it’s too long. No, wait, as of Tuesday night we also need a black flower to pin to the skirt, and a black ribbon for the sash, because suddenly it’s a little boring. LittleBit wore it to rehearsal last night, unaltered, and has been instructed to inform Madame that the first night I have available to shorten it, is tonight.

I’m just thankful that it fits LittleBit above the waist. Shortening the skirt will be easy, though time-consuming. The PITA [pain in the neck] factor in tweaking the fit of the bodice after finishing the armscyes and neck, does not bear contemplating.

I will be so very glad to sit down at the last performance and know that I will never, ever have to sew a costume for a high school musical again. Or at least not until the Bitties reach that age. At which point it might be fun.

I had one of my rare bad days yesterday. One of those mornings where my inward attitude might be most discreetly expressed as “I don’t want to talk to you. Or that horse you rode in on.” All day Saturday I was wondering why my chest was so tender. And on Sunday I found out. It is a good thing they are not performing “Flower Drum Song”, because if I had to endure “I Enjoy Being a Girl” while feeling this way, well it wouldn’t be pretty. Or printable. I thought I was done with this nonsense!

The day did get better as it progressed. I like my job, and I love the people I work with. And I was productively busy all day, and then there was Knit Night and my first order of Girl Scout cookies to pick up. I knit a bit on my own sock, and a few rounds on Firestarter, and committed to a gift project [baby afghan] with my Sisters of the Wool.

Killer of fondue pots. LittleBit and I had fondue for dinner the other day. I dumped the fondue-in-a-bag into the pot and plugged it in. Nothing. I don’t know if it’s a problem with the fondue pot per se, with the cord, with the extension cord, or just a random act of unkindness from the Good Housekeeping Fairy.



I ended up nuking the cheese, a minute at a time, until it was dippable. When we are in the mood for fondue, nothing else will do.

Want a sure-fire way to totally confuse your tastebuds? Nuke leftover fondue with leftover queso until gooey, and then stir in leftover bread pieces until you end up with inside-out toasted cheese sandwiches. [Perhaps the edible equivalent of Napoleon III in Mexico?] This is what Fourthborn would call “fon-goo”.

One anthem, to go, with a side order of Puffs.
This came on the radio the other day when I was driving in to work. At first I thought how applicable it is for this new adventure that awaits me; if all goes well, I will be moving several miles west of here.

And then I realized how applicable it is for someone else I know, for sadder reasons. Even though she hates country music. [Time to get in touch with your inner cowgirl. I’ll be happy to fire up the branding iron, unless you think an Elastrator would be better.]

Lifting my mug of 2% in honor of any of us who have ever had to start over, for whatever reason. Shoulders back, heads up, and when in doubt, eat chocolate!

“Because [we] can...”