Coming Up: The box contains puzzles of endless jest and contourless complexity, seeping into yummies and roiling tumid bladders. Medical invasions loom! Will our heroine. staggered as she is from the ashen sewer of yeurgahuh yogiyayagherelin fend off these advances? Will Comcast cast its nets yet again upon our helpless hapless internetters? Will Our secret starship's unrecorded medical scans reveal the true origins of Prince Florimund amid this year's latest fashion fads and manias? Will the metaphorical bag drop and fall before the literal bag bungees itself first? And what happened to Ahhhhhndrew??
Grab a red lobster baggie to thrown in your buxomest backpack, fill up your bladder and delve into the very innards of those perplexing puzzles!
Yummy Yips and the Case of the Yeurgahuh Yogurt NPR said it was so easy!
This weekend, I failed in my initial attempts to make yogurt... Or so I thought. The recipe seemed so simple - heat milk to a given temp, let it fall back to a different given temp, add yogurt, sit that mix somewhere warm in a jar or several for 8-12 hours. Eventually remember it is there and perishable and hopefully throw it in the fridge before too many days have elapsed. Ta da! Yogurt! As an avid consumer of full-fat plain (and thus shockingly difficult to find) yogurt (and/or yoghurt, yoghourt, or yo-yo-ma-gert), the ability to home brew a batch seemed appealing. Of course, I put it off for some time due to not having the correct quantity of milk, not having any starter yogurt, not recalling the location of my capriciously purchased food thermometer, and/or not having any available containers. But on Sunday I started up some yogurt and set it in the oven to incubate while I frolicked with the fairies through the tulip traffic.
Having recently utilized most of my storage jars for leftovers and farraginous food prep, I had to ad lib, and poured my proto-yogurt into several different little mason jars.When I got home on Sunday evening, I didn't dare sample, just throwing the yogurt jars in the fridge and hoping for the best.
While I had been informed that my yogurt may be varying degrees of tartness, I was not prepared for the rather off-putting aftertaste that my first two jars exuded upon Monday sampling. It was hard to place, but "Tart" was not the word for it. "Yeurgahuh?" was a better word. Almost ok in its initial scamper across the tongue, but suddenly curdling mid-palate and writhing in an agony of gut-churning contradictions. A waft of the sewery stench of a cheap cigar was best as I could identify in the heat of ungustatory passion. Determined not to waste my milk/yogurt, I drowned a bowl in cinnamon and flavoring, but nothing could shake that yeurgahuh yogurty yuck and the rescue cinnamon and fruit were abandoned to the abbadon of our handy dishwasher.
After some fretting, I declared that four cups of wasted milk had cost me only a dollar and a few minutes of my time; further, that not being consigned to slurp through yeurgahuh yogurt for another unbearable week was priceless. I tossed the first two jars, but left the third. There was a familiar - almost savory - something to the flavor that seemed redeemable if removed from its initial context. I kept the jar, in case culinary inspiration hit like a mac truck on a bender.
I threw the discharged jars in the dishwasher, left the unopened jar in the back of the fridge, and bought some commercial yogurt (er yoghurt) on the way home from work on Tuesday. Upon unloading the dishwasher, some untraceable happenstance rejuvenated the redolence of that yergahuh! Spreading?? Oh no! Not the curse of the yeurgahuh yogurty yuck!! It's worse than durian!
Prepanic, I donned my pensive posture and started to think what that smell might resemble if my tastebuds were not anticipating the tingle of a tart yogurt... It all seemed so obvious after the fact. As it turns out, the lids to my mason jars retain scent quite pointedly. Particularly the scents of garlic, parsley, peppers, cilantro and onion. And, while this is a lovely scent when baking up with a little oil on a hot stove, that particular sachet does not mix splendidly with tart yogurt, cinnamon, chocolate, and banana.
Ennervated with discovery, I sampled the remaining not-so-vile vial of yogurt. This had been incubated in a brand-new mason jar. Tart, yes, mildly so. A bit runny. Most definitely in want of a grecian strain. But smoke-free and silkily seductive to the taste.
Moral being: special jars for yogurt. Reserve the smelly jars for their original onioney purpose. Do not despair of your yogurt making chops prematurely! And, it's probably still easier just to buy the damned stuff so long as Haggen's carries the one brand that makes plain full fat yo-yo-ma-ma-ghurt.
The Maundering Mexi-Burger Date Night and Our Annual Comcast Cavil Grumble grumble munch munch
As we pass through several anniversaries - wedding, lease, Andrew's first day at work (4/15) - we've reached a very special commemoration: the week where I despairingly and flailingly search for anything but Comcast for my internet services. Let me not mince words: I hate Comcast in that codependent visceral way of an addict in full rock-bottom delirium. I dislike everything they stand for and make no bones about that being irrational and primal in its aversion. Comcast - with its excessively recondite and labyrinthine pricing schemes, promotional deals, and spotty customer service - is the oleaginous used-car salesman of the internet as far as I'm concerned.
I want internet and only internet. I want semi-fast internet. I don't need wharp speed. I just need a connection that works reliably. I want to know the price upfront. I want that price to be consistent and reliable. I don't want to have to talk to my services provider unless absolutely necessary.
What I don't want includes: (1) multi-phased pricing, (2) bundles (I've got my own robes and blankies, thank you, and if I wanted television you can be sure I'd be going with digital satellite), (3) "deals" that sound great until you read the five reams of small print, (4) multiple promotional offers sent to my email and my phone, (5) annual fake-out price increases to bump me up to a new bundle deal blow out (that is initially cheaper than what I'm paying for crappy internet at the time), (6) having to call Comcast and actually talk to a clueless but motivated sales rep salivating over commissions.
I don't haggle. I don't want to haggle. I'm glad Andrew's a little more willing, but all this crap is such a waste of time. If I knew of any other service that did a halfway decent job in my neighborhood, I'd drop Comcast. It's that simple. I can't imagine they aren't aware of that.
This is the week that we got our first ridiculously high post-12-month-contract bill. The same day, Andrew got a call from some sales guy offering "an upgrade" who lost his commission by being wholly inflexible when Andrew indicated that he might need time to consider it and review the fine print a little more closely before committing. I suspect we'll end up ushered into some horrid "upgrade" or other, after several hours of eliminating the rust-coating and velour dice. No, no, really I don't need to watch Game of Thrones two hours before it's even been filmed. Really. You're already extorting Netflix to make it actually play at home... most of the time. That's enough.
In the meantime, I'll do my annual harried hie and hoe through all other available internet alternatives in a desperate attempt to break free. It will likely turn up nothing (as always), but doesn't hurt to look. Other than my heart at the prospect of being tied to Comcast once again and shilled into their weird pricing shuffle.
May I say that I found it particularly amusing that I couldn't actually load my xfinity user account for a long time last night and subsequently couldn't actually navigate the upgrades page because... my internet was too slow for the site??
In merrier (marryer, bwahaha) news, Andrew has his car back again after having dropped it off at the shop on Monday. He took it in for some whinging noises and concerns about the muffler. He now has the power window fixed. I guess the whinnies of what is either the alternator or the a/c will get far worse before there is a problem, some other thing is on order, and the shop he went to doesn't do muffler work. But considering that his driver side window hasn't worked (at all) for eons, I call it a win.
To celebrate thematically, we attempted to go to Boomer's Drive Inn for dinner. It was, of course, stuffed like a T-day turkey, so we followed the usual post-Boomers route: Fiamma Burger to Casa Que Pasa. Had Casa been slightly more crowded, we might have tried Avenue Bread, except that was obviously closed, so I guess we would have had to improvise or eat mud! Lots of mud around yesterday with the pluvial PNW resurgence, so plenty of delectable delicacies for the sploshing.
Fortunately, we managed to find a nook in Casa unoccupied by the rowdy restaurant riff-raff where we could almost even hear each other. Since there's a certain distance and mumbling involved in enjoying one's viands, we mostly admired the scads of community posters on the adjoining wall. My favorite was the one advertising Metal Yoga, which is a thing in Bellingham (I looked it up afterwards and it is basically yoga class in a bar to moderately heavy metal music. 4:30 at the Shakedown if anyone's interested!
And now I am at work, phoning it in just a little bit more in my sartorial snazz today. I left my work pants at the office when I changed for a post-work pilates class, so I figured instead of continuing to wear new pants into the office, I'd just come in my workout clothes so that I could make the appropriate swap there. Of course, I then decided that actually my workout clothes are great forwork and I doubt I shall ever fully endue myself in the trappings of professionalism again. Give me a few more weeks and I'll be trudging to court in flannel onesies and adorable penguin slippers.
Andrew is more dressed for work (his work, meaning he gets to wear Carharts and one of fifty shades of EI t-shirts he owns), although I have no idea if he's actually there. He was contacted by an old friend a few weeks ago. Said friend was planning to be in the area "around the 16th". Andrew seems to have taken this as "I will take the day off on the 16... no maybe the 17th... no maybe the 18th..." as the friend's scheduling answers remain equivocal. We know he got in. We know that he was talking about "plans" with the family yesterday. We know that he texted Andrew at 10:00 p.m. yesterday asking if it was too late to call. After that I couldn't say.
His google calendar has not been updated, so I can only assume he did go to work and will be doing a "road ride" this evening. But things have a way of changing. Those capricious little frolicking fates!
Five a Bag and The Freaky Friday You're sticking what where??
Count this as my usual and my special edition #fivedayquest (I have been drafted by +Moggy Bee invoking the almighty google plus tag to which no sporting gentlewoman can turn unseeing oiellades). To the right (or, starburst as I'm sure they say in nautical terms... or is that Starbucks... mmmm Starbucks... odeon of unchic ubiquitously reliable coffee) splays my dayjob daypack. I have yet to doff the student's penchant for backpack as carrying device. Andrew prefers messenger bags, but this is largely a cyclist's bias. My mom prefers two bulging purses because her boytoy once made a "comment" about backpacks making their elder carriers look like hobos. Or because she really does have an amorous adoration for purses and coats of all colors, stripes, and straps. I stick with the double strap hiking pack to supplement my quotidian questing for equity and fairness in bests interests of children the wide world strewn.
My current backpack is usually underutilized and woefully unbalanced. I wore my prior Brenthaven bag into the ground over roughly twenty years of use. When the holes got big enough to be a problem, I finally and reluctantly upgraded. This pack is undeniably superior, but I've yet to break myself in with the new configuration of available pockets and zippers. As such, (1) I tend to lose anything placed within its inner chambers in a flurry of zippers and riffling, (2) I gravitate towards the front pocket for far more storage than is logical. In the very front, I tend to keep my tablet, any leftovers intended to supplement lunch or jars emptied of such prandial-delights, and other odds and ends. The back area has a special compartment for laptops. I use it once a month, maybe. I mostly keep my running shoes and workout gear in the back compartment, but being uber-light-weight by design, they do little to fill out the unevenness. My backpack is front-heavier than the buxomest of Barbies, and has more pratfalls in it than Chaplin and Keaton combined.
When I need to consolidate, my purse does fit quite nicely in the back compartment, although this doesn't ballast the back sufficiently wither. Nor do the inevitable hoard of reusable shopping sacks that wend their way into the back compartment (usually en route to an Odyssean "I should put these in the car" journey of never quite putting them back in the car).
And to the left (or Starship-Troopersian in nautical terms, I believe), is home sweet home. My big blue bouncy ball! Being a person at odds with chairs of all sorts, I'm glad to have something that I can sit on during those occasions which call for sitting (and since our dinner table barely breaches my mid-thigh (oh my!), this is something of a necessity for culinary endeavors. The bouncing around keeps me occupied and sufficiently distracted from more mischievous impulses. I do also use the ball for its rowdier athletic purposes (like basketball! No, not really, just golf).
Now that I'm far beyond the boundaries of the "read more" shield of casual browsing and botting, I'm getting my very own ultrasound today. As I'm quick to point out to anyone who doesn't know the current looby lady orange barracuda saga, no no this is not one of those ultrasounds. It's more of a "well we've pumped you full of hormones for several months, so lets see what that's been doing to your internal incubators. Is my womb, peradventure, making yogurt, for instance? Baby peeps (hopefully the chocolate covered kind - that radioactive sugar coating makes me nauseous) for Easter? Ooooh Cadbury eggs? Or, well, endometrial lining (all the rage at Paris fashion week this year).
I'm scheduled to undergo this internal inventory mid-afternoon today. My instructions inform me that I must arrive with a sloshingly full bladder. For a procedure that is slated to take an hour. This is likely to be the first of several uncomfortable aspects, but probably the one on which I'm most likely to fixate. I am regrettably not allowed to bring "video recording or photography" equipment. Or children!
The greatest sadness of all, of course, is that while black and white keepsake pictures will be given for obstetrical exams, I don't get one for mine, even if it is "Endovaginal (with dopplers if needed to assess for torsion)" Dopplers? Torsion? What am I, the Millenium Falcon? Random aside, the Doppler effect was first proposed by Christian Doppler in Prague, our future honeymoon destination. If I were schizophrenic, still knee deep in Infinite Jest, or on way more than half-caff coffee I'd make something of that. But yes I do actually know what dopplers mean in this context, lest my sciency or parturiently-gifted friends feel the need to intervene at my feeble stabs and flails at humor.
But also actually, yes, yes I am a starcraft. I am sure this test will confirm that. And explain a lot.
Back to the photos. I mentioned to my father how very jealous I was that I too did not get a photo of my innards for wanton and abundant overshare. He suggested that I demand one and then photoshop a picture of Prince Florimund into it! To that image, I'm adding Prince Florimund (lest ye forget, that's Andrew's and my imaginary child-replacement sphinx cat) should be wearing a hawaiian shirt and a floral headpiece with a gucci bag resized for kitty.And, yes, I would definitely share that on facebook.
Happy Friday all! You're welcome for leaving you with that image and the contemporaneous goose-pimples!
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| I spare you the really terrifying photos I could have concocted |
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