I was very happy to read this yesterday. It made my grocery shopping ever so much easier! I ran amok at the grocery store. Well, amok for me, but probably not for all y’all. And as I begin this post [late on Friday night], there is a pan full of twice-baked potatoes in the oven for the second baking.
[It is now Saturday morning. Very early Saturday morning.] I am feeding the elders tonight. Whether they get half of those potatoes, or half a pan of lasagna, or something else entirely, remains to be seen.
I had a bad case of the fidgets yesterday. So I napped. A lot. And I baked. (Quite a bit.) I did not, however, eat my feelings, preferring to pour them into the keyboard. And I did not indulge in retail therapy, preferring to pick up my knitting and make some progress on the sweater which began as Jessica’s/Grace’s/Eve’s and will now be Celeste’s. The skirt fits her like a charm, and more to the point, it suits her.
I was afraid the colors would be too subdued for her personality, which appears to be at least as feisty as my own. I do need to tweak the underskirt a bit, however. It is just that much too long. But now I can use my sewing machine to shorten it at the top in a matter of minutes.
I caught up on all my Bloglines. NonSequitur is excessively funny these days. Joe (the dad) and Victoria (the sister of Brenda, who ran the bait shop and had a crush on him a year or so ago) appear to be smitten with one another. She is doing her darnedest to run the show. I have no delusions that I am running the show with NintendoMan. And we are both far more wary than Joe in the comic strip. I am not sure if this is a case of life imitating art, or the other way around, but I am enjoying it [both the comic strip, and my own adventures in Datingland].
I browsed the November issue of Gourmet (again). I ate half of the leftover glazed carrots. I cut a reasonable portion off the rotisserie chicken and tumped the rest of it into the crockpot, where it has simmered overnight. Soon I will go into the kitchen and decant it into the colander over my stockpot. And while the meat cools sufficiently for me to pick it off the bones, I will peel the rest of the potatoes, rinse and slice the leeks, and prepare a ginormous batch of leek and potato soup.
The chicken will become pot pie, chicken salad for sandwiches, and extra protein in my ramen. (I can usually get half a dozen meals, sometimes more, from a rotisserie chicken.)
While I was out, I found suitable birthday cards for the Bitties. Sadly, they do not make cards for people in my situation. Maybe I should come up with a new line: Middle-Aged Crazy. Or Flirting with the Oldies. Or something. It is truly (if wonderfully) weird to be thinking about holding hands, at our age.
I realized one day last week that I have no idea what normal male behavior is. My girlfriends assure me there is no such thing, while my guyfriends [if I were to ask them] would counter that they make perfect sense, while it is we who are difficult to understand. FirstHubby was probably fairly normal, but that was long ago in a galaxy far away, and I was more than half a bubble off level at the time. The children’s father, even when he was healthy, was not a normal male. I do not say that in a critical sense; he was a thoroughly delightful human being and a dear companion who fit into none of the convenient stereotypes of masculinity that prevailed when I was younger.
Most days I have no idea what to make of NintendoMan. He is refreshingly candid; I am coming to trust that he means what he says. [I might appreciate this less were it not for the last man I dated, who was careful not to lie to me and also careful not to give a hint of what he was thinking or feeling.] He makes me laugh; he makes me think, and boy howdy, does he make me blush!
Which is not to imply that he says or does anything untoward; it’s just that when his forthrightness collides with my painstakingly-découpaged layers of neo-Victorian respectability, hilarity is the natural but disconcerting result. It appears to be doing wonders for my complexion.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!