Right Place, Right Time

Today I learned that I can do more with my car than drive and add gas. I can also open the hood.

This is not a great accomplishment for most people, but for those of us who have the manual dexterity of warthogs and have not previously had the occasion to try opening the hood, it's a milestone to be noted in the baby book.

Truth be told, I could have lived just as happily without knowing I had this ability. But this was my morning to deliver meals to shut-ins, and as I was dropping off the final lunch I noticed vapor coming from under the edges of the hood. Because I have an almost paralyzing fear of car fires (I saw a Buick on fire next to the highway when I was six or seven, and I have never forgotten that IT CAN HAPPEN) I did what any rational person would do: I got back in the car and drove as quickly as I could on the six blocks back to the House on the Corner. I opened the hood, felt the tiny thrill of achievement at that success, and bent in for a deep sniff to see if the smoke was animal, mineral, or vegetable.

Then I called Husband.

Have I mentioned what a good guy he is? Even though he is a CPA, and this is less than an optimal time of the year to rescue stranded motorists (even those who may be related to him by--his own--marriage), he  was there within minutes. When I described the sequence of events, he gently reminded me that those fire demonstrations in fourth grade were not kidding, and that if this ever happens again I should (1) probably not drive the car, (2) definitely leave the hood closed in case it actually was a fire, and (3) for heaven's sake don't be an idiot and put your face right down into the smoke. At that point he arranged for transport to the car hospital.

The mechanic hasn't called back with a verdict on whether Pearl needs minor repair or major surgery, but I was in the right place at the right time. I was at the end of the route and  near home, at a moment Husband could come to the rescue.

The shut-ins all got their lunch, and I got a reminder that I have the best Valentine ever.

Cakes I Have Baked

There was a time in my life when I made some pretty darned good birthday cakes. Really, I did. Even though I had no culinary or artistic talent whatsoever, I tried to give the birthday boy exactly what he wanted for his special day, whether that something was chocolate icing with confetti at age three, or  Winnie the Pooh at age five....

I free-handed this icing. My 38-year-old self was much more awesome than I thought at the time.

 ...or a foot kicking a soccer ball at age eight.

Licorice string laces on the soccer boot.

Eventually the Boys  were not living within geographical reach of my oven, so I outsourced the cakes to brothers and friends and the food services at their dorms. But I went to fairly extreme lengths to make sure birthday was synonymous with cake. There was the year that we were camping during Boy#1's birthday, so I had a grocery store bakery decorate a cake for him. This doesn't sound complicated until you consider that this was pre-cellphones so all arrangements had to be made from the pay phone at the entrance to the campground.

Today is Boy#2's birthday. He is half a nation away, and hunkered down in his apartment under threat of ice inundation at the university where he is a graduate student. He's a smart, well-adjusted adult so I'm sure he's not suffering because his mother didn't bake him a birthday cake.

But his mother is suffering, just a little, and missing the beautiful-eyed boy who is now 26 years old.

Happy birthday, Two. I wish I could bake a cake for you.

Cool Job

This is the view out of my office window this morning.

I know you're tired of me talking about SNOW with more SNOW and an extra side dish of SNOW, but that seems to be our life in Small Town right now. It snowed last night!

Now I know that by the standards of Wisconsin last night's snowfall wasn't much. We didn't need those orange flags on eight-foot poles that warn snowplows of curbside mailboxes. (You Wisconsin people are a hardy breed, and I salute you.) This was only a couple of inches of feathery flakes, easily brushed off of cars and not deep enough that the Snow Day Princess even considered pulling out the megaphone to cancel classes.

But it is enough snow that the guy on snow-clearing duty in the parking lot outside my window is having a really, really good time. He has pushed this snow all over the lot! He has piled it here, then transported it over there. He has endlessly beep-beep-beep-backed up then vrrrroooom-whined-scraped-forward that two inches of snow until he has completely DOMINATED the parking lot clearing.

I believe this may be the same guy who mows the strip of grass under my window each and every day of the summer, making phone conversations a series of "What? I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" and "Is your speaker turned all the way up?" from my end.

He works on the days when the weather is in the single digits, and on the days when the weather is in the triple digits, and on all the days in between, so I'm glad he enjoys the toys that help clear the parking lot and manicure the grass.

Thanks, guy. Make all the noise you want.

Friday Orts and a Blurb

I have almost nothing to say; it may be that all of my thoughts have been frozen before they reach the part of the brain that generates thoughts. Our wacky weather is exploring the part of the thermometer below the bulb, and it is COLD.

*****
This weather means that the parking lots at Small College continue to be snow-covered several days after the actual snowfall, resulting in the extension of Park Like An Idiot Day through the entire week. Holy cow, do people park like idiots when they don't have the visual clues of painted lines to herd them into spaces. Yesterday I saw a student park his car AGAINST THE ANGLE in the angle parking. (Is that what you would call it? He had the hood of his car perpendicular to the car in the next space.) Fortunately, I have not lost my Appalled Mom Stare and I  used it on him. He backed out and parked again, this time parallel to the next car.

Appalled Mom Stare FTW.

*****
The de-stuff-ification of the House on the Corner continues apace, with 16 bags/boxes now gone. It's turning out to be a profitable endeavor--the fuzzy picture with today's post shows the coins found in just one day of cleaning out stuff. Eighty-three cents, baby, and 84 bags still to go. 

*****

Just so you know, Boy#1 and I could have done this. We chose not to.

*****
And the blurb of the day:

My latest binge-watching seems to have focused on British detectives, and in that vein I've started to watch Sherlock. I am now seeing what all the fuss is about. Great characters, terrific chemistry, excellent plot lines. In fact, at the risk of being labeled a heretic, I'd rather see a new episode of Sherlock than of Downton Abbey. Last night I found myself catching up on the very earliest episodes of the series rather than watching figure skating. At this rate they're going to take away my Olympic fangirl card.

We all know that the guy who plays Sherlock Holmes was also in 12 Years a Slave but did you know that the guy who plays Dr. Watson played Bilbo Baggins in the Hobbit movies? No, I didn't either.

What a wonderful world we live in when a Southern plantation owner and Bilbo Baggins can make a movie together. I recommend Sherlock but I would pay good money to see one with those two characters in the leads.

Snow Day

Hey! Guess what! Not half an hour after I posted the poor-me-please-feel-pity post that was yesterday's message to the internet, the boss walked into my office and conceded that with snow waves breaking over us like a frozen version of the Banzai Pipeline, we should probably send people home. I am also people, so home I went.

The rest of the day I spent Doing Things and Thinking Thoughts. Here are the things I did:

1. Baked Snow Day Bread. There is nothing like the yeasty smell of homemade bread to make everything seem right with the world. I may not be working but look at all those little microscopic animals in that dough lifting it right out of the pan.

2. Blocked several finished knitting projects, including a just-completed shawl (which, if I can bring myself to part with it, will be the grand prize in the De-stuff-ify With MomQueenBee activity we're all doing together) and a cowl that's been done but not blocked for about three years.

3. Had a nice long phone conversation with Boy#3, who is a teacher and was having his own snow day. 

Me: So how is your day going?
Three: Pretty rough. I picked out a movie to watch, piled up all the blankets on the couch, made some cocoa, got my popcorn, then on the third sip I burned my mouth on the cocoa."

Then he laughed and laughed.

4. Fed my newly-acquired addiction to BBC crime dramas on Netflix, this time with Inspector Lynley. This find is slightly north of okay--not nearly as good as Prime Suspect but quite a bit better than Grand Hotel, a BBC product that tries very hard to be Downton Abbey but is not.

Here are the thoughts I thought:

1. Are these college kids insane? WHERE ARE YOUR HATS, COLLEGE KIDS?

2. No, really, where are your hats? Your mothers would be appalled to see you out there when the temperature is FIVE DEGREES and your heads are uncovered.

3. Those students should really put on hats. And gloves.

And then I turned my attention back to bread baking and British detectives.

Aaaaaahhhh, snow days.

We Are Here! We Are Here! We Are Here!

Okay, I'll say it before you do.

"Wow, MomQueenBee, you look TERRIBLE today. Your hair is all messed up, there are bags under your eyes, you have a shocking lack of lipstick, and you probably take the worst selfies in the world. But what is this...is that your Snow Day Sweater? And is that your OFFICE in the background?"

Why, yes! Yes, that is my Snow Day Sweater. This sweater is at least 30 years old, since it's a hand-me-down from Much Older Sister and I have a picture of her wearing it as she holds her baby son, who is now 32 years old and has five babies of his own. (Well, he shares them with his wife.) The sweater is indestructible acrylic, though, and quite warm so it's what I wear during a Snowpocalypse, which is what we are having in Small Town today.

However (and this is a big 'however') Small College is open. Yes, you heard me right. The place that direct deposits my paycheck for doing a job I truly, truly love is open, so I was up at 5:30 a.m. to let everyone know that they would have the opportunity to LEARN today! Wooooo!

Shockingly, many students (and even more faculty members) were not as thrilled as you would think they would be, even when I pointed out that they were getting full value for their tuition dollars. Staying at home in pajamas drinking hot cocoa binge-watching Damages on Netflix blah blah blah something more and I forget what else seemed to trump the joys of learning.

So in this selfie you are seeing the slings and arrows of the wrath of academia hailing down on the messenger, as reflected in the haggard expression and lack of lips. But you are also seeing my OFFICE behind me, dang it.

Like the Who's down in Whoville, I am here, I am here, I am here.

Game Highlights and Birthday Wishes

I am, of course, a Kansas City Chiefs fan. That makes it mighty hard to root for the Denver Broncos, even if I'm a Peyton Manning fan so I wasn't devastated by the results of last night's "game" which was a game only in the sense that there were teams on the field and a coin toss by a large furry animal before it started. This "game" was over after one play.

But I do love the Super Bowl in that it's one of two times during the year I prop a plate on my lap in front of the television and eat pizza guilt-free. (The other time is March Madness finals.)

It isn't that I don't eat pizza, especially now that the empty nest means that toppings can include MUSHROOMS and BLACK OLIVES and other delicacies the Boys would not describe as edible. All of the other 87 times I eat pizza each year, though, it arrives with a hearty dish of guilt on the side. (So much crust! So much cheese! So much deliciousness! I shouldn't be eating this! Nom nom nom!)

The mushrooms on last night's super supreme, though, are dedicated to Boy#4. He is the person in our clan who most dislikes fungus on his food (his phrase), so I thought of him with each delicious bite.

I also thought of him because today he is 22 years old. Twenty-two! How could he be celebrating this many years, when it was just yesterday that I waddled into the hospital and discovered his head was lodged right beneath my sternum, generating a delivery-room crowd that probably violated all sorts of occupancy codes as they watched a fantastic obstetrician manipulate this 9 lb. 8 oz. hunk of baby into a better position for joining the outside world. (One of the residents was standing on a chair to get a better view. No, I'm not kidding.)

Anyway, happy birthday, Four. Except for your aversion to mushrooms you have been an ideal child in almost every way. I'm glad I'm your mom.