The Civilest War Ever

My neighbor is 83 years old and just about the sweetest thing alive on this street.

Wait. This blog is misleading already. That's not her, above or anything. Nor I for that matter.

And, Hazel, maybe she's not "sweet". She's a firecracker. A pistol. A real hoot. She travels abroad and has two jobs. Two. She was out shoveling in the thousands of feet of snow this past winter when Matt and I had hired someone to plow. (For the record, if you add up our ages, She's STILL old enough to be our combined mother.)

I love Hazel something fierce.

But this is, after all, my blog... and so... there is this one thing.

She calls my daughter "AnnaLee".

I know what you're thinking. Shame on me. This nice lady who is so kind to us and loves AnnaLee to death... let it be. Not a big deal. And it's not, seriously. I mean - who cares if she thinks my daughter's name is "Pineapple", right?

Well.

I mentioned that she's the active sort, yeah? Every day she's at the casino, or working, or packing up an RV with eight others and heading 3000 miles away for a vacation. And she brings with her, photos of my daughter... Adeline.

When she comes home and we visit, she never fails to tell me how she showed all the ladies, or her granddaughters or the whole family, the photos of AnnaLee and told them all about her.

I think there are about 2000 people who believe I named my child AnnaLee. Maybe this would be okay if I liked the name AnnaLee. I don't.

It makes me think of several things, not necessarily in this order:


1) Puff the Magic Dragon. That's right, who frollicked in the autumn mist in a land called hona lee. The land wasn't called anna lee, but apparently my synapses find it close enough.

2) Sara Lee. Okay... tasty.

3) Antebellum south. Fly me a big fat confederate flag flying in the front yard! I named my kid AnnaLee! I might as well get her a job picking cotton.

As you might imagine, if you know me. This discrepancy has lodged a tiny little splinter of dissatisfaction in my brain. I mean, not huge, but... well... if you know me, then you know me. Any time I see a car in Hazel's driveway I try to think of a way to be available to visit with her guest. You know, ever so casually slip in an introduction.

"Oh, and this must be Ann-"

"-Adeline!, Yes, the famous Adeline!"

And in my mind, confederate soldiers shave their mutton chops, and all is well with the world.

An Open Letter to the Mosquitoes who Find me Delicious

Mosquitoes, Gnats, Noseeums, et bloodsuckers all:

While I can appreciate the need to sustain your short and (albeit) relatively insignificant life by exchanging your irritating, itchy, venom for my hemoglobin; I'd like to point out that there are far more desirable parts for you to feast on than my right eyelid.

I am, of course, speaking here from a strictly parasitic point of view.

From my own point of view, which is somewhat limited due to the swelling of my right eyelid, I would appreciate you keeping your stings to more cosmetically appealing areas such as but not strictly limited to: ankles. Left preferably, as I scratch right handed.

Thank you very much.

Impromptu Intertaining

Perhaps you've heard me mentioning the little soiree I'm having tomorrow. It is, in fact, a barbecue. And yes, you've been reading right - it's at 7:30 am.
Unsure of how to spin the tale of how this came to be - I'll just say that the powers that be in the Media Machine have decreed that there should be barbecue footage and due to scheduling conflicts, I will be rotissing my first chicken early tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately, and to the dismay of said Media Machine, none of our friends will be able to join us for an outdoor hullabaloo. At 7:30 in the morning. On a Thursday. Before work. Yeah.

Bravely, and alone, I set out to plan our "party" today.

First I should say that I have no idea how to use a rotisserie. Not to mention, this grill... it intimidates me. The lid? Just a guess, but I'm gonna say it weighs roughly 748 pounds. BUT, I managed to figure out how to light the whole thing and let it burn for a half hour like the delivery guys said. Step one. Check.

Step two, finding a recipe. The book that came with the grill only has a recipe for turkey. Strike. I looked on-line and found something seemingly easy. However, it did mention the not so smallish detail of tying up my bird.

I stuck my nose in The Joy of Cooking and followed the instructions for a "Simple Truss" and bondaged my chicken as best I could. However, based on a few different Law and Order episodes, I have a feeling my chicken will manage to strangle and somehow frame me before the day is done.


Now, perhaps because it's supposed to be obvious, but more likely it has something to do with the fact that there was no chicken recipe in that book (only mention of a turkey) there were no instructions on how to put poultry ON the rotisserie thingy.

I think my birdie is too small. Or my grill is too large. Far too large.

Regardless. My spices are prepared for the crack of dawn.

I bought a plant for the table.

And now that I'm home from Bed Bath and Beyond where I had to buy a turkey baster and meat thermometer, I've begun preparing some of the requisite barbecue side dishes and snacks. For... two? I guess?

My brow has barely unfurrowed all day... it's been just that confusing.