One lovely thing about my job thing is getting to talk to billions of people every day. People who assume that no one else ever has any pain, and that theirs is automatically the worst pain ever experienced by mankind.

Where I work, I see a lot of that.

When you come in to our office, don't assume that everything we do to you is the worst thing we do. Actually, the most painful thing we do, as far as I know (which isn't very far, mind you...I'm kind of an idiot), isn't even something that the dentists do, usually. The most painful thing, in my opinion, is when the hygienists have to scale your teeth and dig around below the gums. Never had it done, but yikes. It sounds just awful.

Oh, and no one who is over the age of 10 is cute. Keep that in mind. Your boyfriend/girlfriend/partner/spouse and/or your parents may think so, but no one else does. So when you approach me and whine to me about how bad your day is in baby talk, I don't find it adorable. I just want to leap over my desk (that's right, leap) and smack the cute right off of your face.

So, yeah, probably don't do that. I'm a pretty big girl, and I can do some damage.

Might be a tad grumpy. Could be either the lack of sleep or the heavy crafting, I can't tell. Either way, adults who think I'm going to want to coddle them and listen to whiny babytalk have another thing coming. Not going to happen. I might even think up some new form of passive-aggressive revenge that will blow their minds. Watch out.

I may need more coffee this morning.

I have now officially made it through Yom Kippur services! Actually, I liked the services very much and in general liked the whole Jewish experience a lot, but I figured I probably would, since I've watched so many Mel Brooks movies.

Seriously. That is the extent of my experience with Jewish culture, which is really sad, but I now know a lot more things about what's happening in the temple (except I still slip up and say 'church' about half of the time...I need to work on that).

I now know what a Torah is, and I know how to say, "Happy New Year" in Hebrew, and I know that you never, ever go sit in that one lady's chair, even if the conductor tells you to, because she gets really mad and sits behind you muttering until you vacate her seat, even if the whole thing was only five minutes.

Really. On Yom Kippur morning when we've already been there for like two hours, this lady left to go to the bathroom and was gone for a long time, so when it was about five minutes until it would be time for me to walk back to the podium, the conductor had me go sit in that lady's seat, which was vacant and right by the podium, so it would be a little bit of a shorter walk when it was time.

Didn't go over well. A few minutes later, the lady comes back and says, "WHY ARE YOU IN MY CHAIR???" Pretty much as if I'd kicked her in the head or stolen her cough drops or something. Really. She then sat down in one of the ten thousand empty chairs in the row behind her row and proceeded to have a major freak-out about it, muttering repeatedly to anyone who'd listen about how I'd taken her chair.

This just made it very hard for me not to laugh, which isn't a good idea, because it's a very serious service. Geez.

It was a great experience, though. The people are so complimentary and they make you feel as though you don't suck, which is awesome, because I tend to be a tad bit over-critical with myself. Maybe. A little. 

AND they give you little cups of Manischewitz after the service, which is pretty much like drinking the frozen grape juice concentrate straight. A tad bit sweet, there. I always wondered why it wasn't in with the other wine in the supermarket, and now I know...if you tried to drink too much of that stuff, you'd probably pass out from high blood sugar before you even got a buzz.

So, yeah, my day was pretty exciting. Back to the real world, though. With only four hours of sleep, because one of the songs from yesterday was playing in my head over and over and over and driving me bananas. Oh, and I think confirming calls are going to sound great today. Just putting that out there. I sound like I spent the last three days smoking cigarettes in my car with the windows rolled up.

Aw yeah. That's me for you, super smooth.

I know I shouldn't eat doughnuts for breakfast. I know that they are just crap and when I start off my day with crap, I basically ensure that my stomach feels gross for the rest of the day.

But it's pumpkin.

We don't have a doughnut store in our town (except the delicious ones available at our local Smith's...you know, the ones in the case that are always covered with flies? Yeah, mmmhmmmm) so now that I am having rehearsals in Santa Fe, where there's a convenient Dunkin Donuts, my husband almost always picks me up some doughnuts, one to eat in the car and one for breakfast the next day, for which I am truly thankful (although I'm pretty sure he does not get the appeal of the pink doughnut, which is the king of all doughnuts, in case you didn't know). This time, he brought me the required pink doughnutty goodness and also a pumpkin cake doughnut.

Thus my dilemma.

How am I supposed to save it for later? You have to eat it with coffee to maximize its deliciousness. I can't have coffee later...I only have coffee at breakfast on performing days. Yeesh.

I guess it'll have to be a doughnut for breakfast. With milk and coffee. Milk's good for you, right? Wait...I just realized something else...PUMPKIN doughnut...pumpkin is a vegetable. Or a fruit...it's a gourd and I know that's good for you.

I just justified eating that doughnut for breakfast. You're welcome.

Because of my obsession with orderliness, I write down a lot of things that I have done or I need to do, and I have these lists in several places. For instance, in a notebook that I keep at my piano, I write down when I practice every day, how my top note was, and what pieces I practiced, in addition to any new exercises I worked on. I also make a note of my practice on my calendar, just to have a visual in case there are certain patterns occurring or anything like that. I also have a daily reminder in my iPad calendar. I really don't need those, since I do it every day anyway, and it's not the sort of thing I'm likely to forget, but I just do it because it makes me feel better to really know.

I'm also keeping a massive list of inventory for the arts and crafts fair, and I've devised a tagging system that will help me to know what sort of crafts sell and which ones don't do well. That way, next year, I can have more marketable inventory and less crap that no one wants. Oh, and did I mention I keep three different lists with that info? Yeah, complete overkill and unnecessary, but if my house burns down I want to be prepared.

The problem is that sometimes I don't make a list and then I agonize over whether or not I should make one for a particular activity. For instance, today is a crafty day and I'll try to bulk up my inventory. However, I forgot to make a daily agenda, and now I'm wasting time deciding whether I should spend the time making myself a schedule of things I have to make so I can be on time with my merchandise, or just go along as I have been, making what I feel like looks best with whatever yarn I happen to pull out of the bin, but worrying about whether I should've made a schedule, and if I am, in fact, on time with my non-existent schedule.

Yikes. What a conundrum. 

I definitely feel the flakiness in my brain today. Maybe I need more coffee. Stopping the obsessing isn't an option, so maybe I'll go with the list. Yeah, that'll fix it. A good list can fix anything. Hooray! 

Wow. Amazing how even the thought of making a list makes me feel much happier....that is not sad at all. Not at all.

Last night, an event that was really unusual took place: my husband called the cops on a drunk driver. Or, should I say, what he thought was a drunk driver. First off, this guy was really annoying me, but I never pick up the phone, because I'm too afraid to be wrong and screw up somebody's day. That's not really the case with my husband, as he tends to think that if he doesn't do it, who will? 

And, I guess, in this case, he was right, which is actually the unusual part because as we all know, I am always right. Except this time.

There. I said it. He was right and I was wrong. Moving on.

We went to get an ice cream cone at McDonald's and this guy was behind us, with his radio turned up super loud, being really obnoxious. I thought it was a teenager, but upon further inspection, it turned out to be a guy in his 40s. Ugh. So my husband is watching the guy, kind of laughing at him, because he's pretty much acting like the poster child for male menopause, when he sees the guy take a a swig out of a beer bottle.

Now, this is the part where I doubted his judgment. I thought, "What if it's just a soft drink in a brown bottle?" but my husband was sure. So when we finished getting our ice cream, which was handed to us by a girl who ever-so-eloquently said, "Some people just don't know how to learn!", we drove off and waited for the guy to leave McDs, while dialing the police.

We ended up following the guy for a while because the lady on the phone was too busy talking to her sister on her cell while taking the police calls to actually dispatch a cop quickly, so she had us follow him to make sure we didn't lose him. After a while, though, he was driving so fast and passing people where there was a double yellow line that we decided to just hang up and be done, even though my husband hadn't gotten the chance to say "10-4" or "niner" yet.

All was not lost, however, because when we pulled up to the one stoplight in our little community, the cops had him pulled over by the side of the road, and eventually he was arrested, and (yes, we did go back to watch) he had a bunch of little kids in the back seat of his car. That part was very sad, but there's no way anyone who drives like that should be transporting little kids. For reals. Plus, the guy was wearing those gangsta-type shorts that are worn so low and are so long that they really look like capri pants to me, which makes me laugh, and it's probably not a good idea to laugh at that type of guy. He'd probably punch me in the face or shoot me or something. Or he'd laugh at my stylish pajama pants (in my defense, I never actually got out of the car in public, so my pj pants were perfectly acceptable). Apparently, the guy wasn't just drinking out of an IBC root beer bottle.

So my husband was right and I was wrong. There, again.

This is a plea to all of you out there who make the choice to home-school your kids: Please make sure to socialize your children with other children and not just you and his siblings!

At this time of year, I do a lot of All-State audition coaching, and one thing that stands out to me is the home-school kids who have obviously not spent a great deal of time with anyone other than parents and siblings. The lack of social skills in some of these kids is outstanding (not to mention the lack of penmanship and spelling skills, although I think that's universal and not just them...come on, guys...spelling IS important). Recently, I actually had an eighteen-year-old boy refer to his mother as "mommy" and ask her (as she sat in on the lessons I had with him and his siblings) if the song I picked was okay. He even tried to sit next to her and lean his head on her, like a little kid, but she nipped that one in the bud. Thank heavens.

Really? Seriously? Did that actually happen?

Sadly, yes.

This is not to say that all home-schoolers are like that. I've taught a ton of them and some are very well-adjusted and have lots of friends and interests and don't have huge mommy issues. I'm pretty sure that's the goal of all parents, but you can't just remove a kid from all situations with other kids and have him turn out okay. I swear, I've known a lot of kids who have been home-schooled and deprived of the company of other, non-related kids, and not one of them was normal. And by normal, I mean possessing the social skills necessary to make it through life without needing a blankie in the tenth grade (that one happened, too).

Please. Please. Don't make your kid into some sort of hyper-educated weirdo with no idea of how to navigate in the real world, because there is going to come a time when he is forced out there, and the consequences will be mighty unpleasant for everyone who is involved.

Or he will just move to my town and become a scientist, and then we'll all be in trouble.

My house is disgusting. It needs to be cleaned. Today. Right this minute, in fact. So why am I sitting at my computer?

Well, mostly because it's 6 a.m., and I'm pretty sure I should at least wait until my husband leaves for work before I free the beast. That's what cleaning is like at my house.

It's not that cleaning makes me grumpy; in fact, I like it, but I don't ever do anything requiring dusting or strong chemicals starting 3 days before singing for people, since my allergies will kick in with a vengeance after disturbing the dust that seems like it settles on all of my crap approximately five seconds after I finish dusting. Therefore, I haven't been able to do my weekly stuff and I'm FOUR DAYS overdue. Four days.

Argh.

Having finished all of the appley goodness, I am now in full-on craft mode, and I resent anything that gets in the way of my crochet time. Housecleaning definitely gets in the way. So does work, and so does everything else. I realize that I have a crafting date tonight with my sister, so that will at least mean a good solid hour or two of time, but I think maybe there's a conspiracy to make fewer hours happen each day, so I effectively have only 23 or even 22 hours in which to eat, sleep, eat some more, craft, work, sing, go for my stupid walk, eat some more, especially pineapple popsicles, which are flipping awesome, and then craft some more. And then have a snack.

I really think this has happened, because there is no way I've gotten eight hours of sleep at any time in the recent past. Maybe seven, on occasion, but not eight. This then causes me to write long, rambling blog posts about mundane aspects of my everyday life. What the cuss. That's completely insane, right?

Nope. It's definitely a less-time conspiracy. Started by the same people who conspired to make unicorns go extinct and to give cake so many calories and to make soda so delicious, even though it's horrible for you (and your teeth). Yep. It's real. No doubt about it.

I'm a believer. Those turds need to be stopped.

Yesterday was Rosh Hashanah, thus no blog, but it was a really interesting experience singing in a synagogue. However, not as different from a church as I would've thought. I mean, there was no talk of hell, so that was good, and no fire and brimstone, so that was good too. Basically, in feeling, it was a lot like the church we go to (when we go), although there were some obvious theological differences.

However, there were, of course, some shenanigans, which I will now share with you.

First, let me just say that the services are LONG. We haven't even gotten to Yom Kippur yet, so I'm sure after that I will really complain. The evening one wasn't too bad, but the one in the morning was over three hours long. I mean, people did get to hear some pretty super singing, haha, but still. I had to pee, one of my neighbors had breath that smelled like onions and kitty litter, and someone was cutting the cheese for the last hour, so I thought I might die. I did not, just in case you were wondering.

At the evening service, a lady passed out in the middle of my big solo. From where I was standing, I couldn't really see the action, but I have been in services where they do praying and laying-on-of-hands (which is fine and I'm not mocking it, but it makes me very uncomfortable...probably because of the germ transmission but I don't really know why), so I thought that's what was going on and just continued with my singing. Only afterward did I find out that the lady's heart had stopped or something like that and she was all pale and passed out and all the guys standing up and talking were just arguing about what to do with her, because she refused an ambulance. She was back in the morning, though, and she was fine, so I guess it ended up okay. Oh, and I learned that there's no hands-laying-on in this particular temple. Phew.

Also, as I left my seat to go up, I knocked over my prayer book and almost knocked over my stand. Yep...clumsy. So now every time I have to move, the conductor lady either comes over and shifts my stand or has the lady next to me do it. I told her, I can sing, but I stink at anything that involves movement. I'm surprised I haven't tripped and fallen on my face, but I guess I'll try to save that for Yom Kippur.

So that's what I was doing yesterday. It still makes me giggle inside to get paid to sing. Coolest job ever, and maybe someday I'll be able to just do that, although it's highly unlikely, given the instability and no regular paychecks and whatnot, but I got to do it yesterday, and that's what counts. Plus, the conductor took us out to lunch and bought us wine, so it was pretty much my dream lunch. Wine and bread and dessert and coffee. So, yeah, great day.

There are pretty much two kinds of people in the world: People who think everything's their fault, and people who think nothing's their fault. Oh, and my Dad, who is actually fairly balanced so he doesn't enter into the equation (but he doesn't read my blog anyway, so he doesn't count).

Anyhoo, I encounter a lot of the "it's not my fault" people in the course of my life and jobs and what have you. I am one of the "it is my fault, completely, and I'm going to obsess about it until I annoy the crap out of everyone around me" people, so you'd think I would just accept their blame and everyone would be happy about it, right?

Oh, heck no.

See, it's not my fault that you (and/or your kid) need work done and you can't afford it and you knew about that before you had the (unnecessary) work done and then decided not to pay for it. I had absolutely nothing to do with that. I also had nothing to do with the fact that you signed up for a year of lessons and then all of a sudden decided not to come back and not to call and let me know, regardless of the fact that you signed an agreement to give me four weeks of notice.

Yeah, not my fault.

So when you call me and either yell at me about it, or tell me your problems and try to gain my sympathy, neither is going to happen. Just not at all. See, I don't do those kinds of things. If I can't afford for work to be done, I either put it on a credit card, if it's an emergency and I have no choice, or I don't do the work, or if I couldn't do either, I'd explain my situation up-front and see if payment plans were available. And as for not honoring agreements for things I've signed up for? No way. Just no fricking way (I love how spell-check always changes the word fricking into the word frisking...that is great).

And if I seem a little self-righteous, as though I never make mistakes, it's because I don't. So you read me totally right, there. You should probably bow down to me right now, or maybe make me a cake. Whatever.

Happy Friday.

Apparently, yesterday was, "I'm going to call and yell at the receptionist" day, and no one remembered to tell me so I could wear my fancy hat. I knew something was up when I'd been yelled at by three different people within an hour of going in to work, and then when I talked to the person in the other office at the end of the day, it appeared that she had endured the same kind of crap.

I'm calling shenanigans.

Please don't call me and be mean because you can't get in to see the person you want to see within the next five minutes...we work using the same principle as a line: If someone gets there before you, they get to pick a time before you. It's that simple. Oh, and P.S., I don't set the prices, nor do I give my bosses permission when they'd like to take a day off. They get to do that. I guess it's one of the perks of being a boss. Oh, and P.P.S., people who treat receptionists like crap are douchebags.

I have to admit that bad receptionists probably deserve a little bit of poo, especially when they have a personal issue and they take it out on customers, but since I don't do that, I don't think that really applies here. In addition, yesterday wasn't even a day I was originally scheduled to work...I was just filling in, so that butt-kicking should've been delivered to a completely different person. Really, I should say those butt-kickings. Plural. There were many.

I think we need a special answering system that says, "Press one if you'd like to speak with a receptionist. Press two if you'd like to be a jackass." Then, we could all rotate taking line two, and at least we'd be prepared for the onslaught of crap.

In addition, I was supposed to craft with my sister yesterday, and I didn't get to, and that was very disappointing. However, I did have enchiladas for dinner and I finished a scarf and a hat yesterday and got started on another shrug, so I'm almost ahead for the arts and crafts fair. I suppose yesterday wasn't all bad, after all.

Those guys were jerks, though (yep, they were all men). I have so much pooping to do in people's mailboxes, I don't even know where I'm going to start. Maybe I'd better think up a new form of revenge, since I don't think I could ever actually bring myself to poop in someone's mailbox. It seems like it would be awfully uncomfortable and require a lot of extra effort on my part. Maybe I'll just send them some junk mail. Perhaps catalogs full of sweatshirts with pictures of kittens printed on them. Yeah. That'll do it.

The best thing about paying attention to things all of the time is that you notice the behavior that other people think goes unnoticed. So I get to see a lot of people pulling out wedgies, picking noses, and scratching themselves in undignified areas.

I'm pretty sure that's why I'm laughing all of the time. People do some messed up stuff.

The last time I went to the grocery store, I saw a lady in the cereal aisle who thought she was alone, scratching down in the back of her pants. Not adjusting. Scratching. She was going all out, which was hilarious, and then she turned and saw me standing there, which was even funnier, so I had to leave that aisle and walk elsewhere because I didn't want her to see me laughing at her. Goodness knows I've done my share of scratching, but I'd never scratch my butt in a public place without a way to wash my hands immediately after, unless I had some sort of worm problem, which, fingers crossed, I've not had to contend with anytime recently.

The last time I went with my dad and sister to Santa Fe, though I did see something that made me want the person to see the mockery. This kid was riding a bicycle on a main street and talking on his cell phone, which is idiotic in the first place. He's stopped at a light and is messing around, trying to be cool, and he falls. Magnificently. It was AMAZING. I made sure to keep my face aimed in his direction so he could see me laughing at his douchebaggery. I'm sure that was comforting to him in his moment of extreme uncoolness. That totally made my day.

Ah, other people are so funny. Not me, though. Never me. I never do anything that's even remotely stupid. Ever. I swear.

Every person has his or her own way of coping with stresses, but I have my own unique way to get through the day: Crop dusting.

That's right, if I feel a rumbly in my tumbly and I'm in a location where there are other people about, I try to think of a creative way to make my day (and, hopefully, everyone else's day) a little brighter.

What is crop dusting, you may ask? Well, I learned about this hilarious form of entertainment several years ago, in a bar, and ever since, I've used it as much as possible. Basically, when a person has to cut the cheese, he or she walks to another location, preferably one where there are other people, takes care of business, then walks away. It doesn't really work if everyone hears that it's that person breaking wind, but if she's in a noisy environment, or the output is too quiet to be heard, it's outstanding. No one knows who the culprit was, and that person gets to laugh as the realization of what just took place registers on all of those smiling faces.

Ha ha ha....farts are nature's punchline.

Anyhow, I like to take advantage of a situation where I have a window that leads to a hall, and several people who walk down said hall at set times each day. Yep, sometimes I get to go out into the hall and leave a gift there for a certain person. A certain person who goes and fouls up the bathroom a billion times a day. It makes it a little funnier for me, because I've had to get smacked in the face by what she leaves behind (a billion times), so I'd say it evens up a score. A bit.

When the timing works, which is about 3/4 of the time, it's priceless. Watching someone walk directly into that is hilarious. I realize this whole post makes it seem like I may be a ten-year-old boy, but I'm not. Well, maybe I am. Or maybe the whole thing's just a lie I made up to fill up a blog post. Maybe everything I write about in this blog is a lie, and you just want to believe it because it makes you feel superior because I'm a wee bit insane.

Or maybe, just maybe, you know deep down in your heart that farts are hilarious, no matter what age you are. I think they could, maybe, save the world.

I always feel better about the tasks I have to complete when I have a list. Not so this time. I decided to make my list last night because I was feeling like I have way more work than there are actual hours in a day, and I realized that, in this instance, I was correct.

Crap.

I'm pretty good when it comes to things like estimating driving time and stuff like that, but when it comes to estimating the amount of time I have to spend on a project, I suck.

Oh, and did I mention I'm working two extra days this week? Yeah, that ended up being the worst timing imaginable. So I have decided that it's probably a good idea for me to work on a pause button. For everyone else AND time, but not for me, so I can get my crap done.

But it has to allow me to watch stuff on Netflix or listen to my iPod while I work, because if I'm doing busy work and I don't have something entertaining to do, I may die. That's going to be the tricky part, I think.

That and the fact that I don't have any science skills, whatsoever. Other than that, though, I'm good.

We (meaning me and my craftastic family) have decided to open up a craft booth at the upcoming arts and crafts shindig here in town. Well, we decided and then SOME of us waffled, but I think we can do it. Wait, strike that...we WILL do it.

How do I know? Because, despite all of our differences, I have inherited my mother's tendency to go all out for something I want to do, even if it means I'm going to be in serious pain.

Heck yes.

I remember my mom, scrubbing the bathtub when company was coming over, and I could tell from the way her hands were shaking and she was dropping things that her hands were going out on her. Didn't matter. If she had to hold the rag between her teeth, that bathtub was going to be sanitized for company. Same basic principle.

It's going to be awesome, though. Even if have to drag all of them along, kicking and screaming. We can do this, you guys!

Seriously.

For reals.

And, yes, the world will come to an end if we don't, so it just has to happen. Even Dad needs to participate in this. Got it? Who died and made me boss? I made myself boss, primarily because I'm the biggest and the loudest. So suck it.

Oh, and if one of my hands falls off, will someone help me glue it back on? Because that's not stopping me...I've got my crazy going, and once that gets started, there's no turning back.

Why is it that every time I go clothes shopping and I venture into the fitting room (I admit it, sometimes I am guilty of buying something without having first tried it on in the store) I witness a situation that presents me with a moral dilemma?

Case in point: Monday evening. We went to Dillard's to return my husband's flip-flops that the salesman had convinced him would stretch out and fit him better. Yeah, that wasn't going to happen, but you know how sometimes you want it to happen so much, you let yourself believe? So that's what spouses are for: To help you see that salespeople are full of crap.

Anyhoo, I went to the women's section to look at the clearance. I love the clearance. I think I could probably spend an entire day looking at it, maybe purchasing nothing, but at least digging through to make sure I don't miss anything. I feel really accomplished when I leave Dillard's with a $50 shirt that I only paid $5 for, even though I know that they probably still made a small profit on it. Ah, well. Someday, clothes will be free.

I got some stuff and went into the dressing room to try it on. As I'm doing so, I'm also listening in on a conversation that is happening between a customer and a saleslady by the three-way mirror of doom (yes, you can enjoy the fatness of your butt, in bright lights and in front of everyone else). The lady is saying, "I don't know...it's really a new style for me, but it's on sale. I don't want to spend too much, because I'm not going to be this size for much longer...I just started a diet."

As I shook with laughter, because we all know that's a load of crap, I hear the saleslady respond, "Oh, but that color and shape are so good on you. You should definitely pick up a couple." I step outside my door to go get some different stuff to try on, and I witness a terrible sight.

The lady, who is probably about 50 pounds heavier than me and probably 6 inches shorter, is wearing a tube top and a pair of short shorts. Both are about two sizes too small. Why do they even make those things in larger sizes? I wouldn't wear short shorts. Ever. Under any circumstances. I would rather go pantsless. Yikes.

So I feel like maybe it's my duty to tell the lady that, no, those do not look good, and also that I saw some nice loose sweatery things on sale in the back. However, I feel that it's none of my business, so I keep my trap shut.

Fast forward to checkout. I'm approaching the counter when tube top lady gets there and lays down (gasp) short shorts in every color and a bunch of tube tops. All in a size smaller than the one I'm getting, so I know they're going to be nice and snug. Then she says, "It's so awesome to find things that are such a perfect fit, on sale! I mean, usually, my size is all sold out by the time I get here!" Oh, no. What do I say? I could let her know...she IS a fellow chubby lady, and I DO like to help out my fellow man and all...

Of course, I don't say anything helpful at all. I simply smile and say, "That purple looks really nice on you, too."

I am not a good person.

Still canning. Yesterday was pretty successful EXCEPT for one new recipe.

So, I have my old faithful things...things that I've done a billion times that always come out, like marmalade and plain fruit jams. The grape jelly from recently was a little softer than I'd like, but I think that could've just been from being slightly off with the measuring...no big deal, though. It's still pretty firm and definitely usable.

Yesterday, though, I made a very complicated recipe that turned out, well, weird.

It sounded so good. Apples with Red Hot Cinnamon Sauce. Sounds good, right? Like a candied apple, but in slices and in a jar.

Nope.

It is vinegary and very spicy. It is beautiful in the jar, but I don't like the taste at all. My husband likes it, which is weird, since he doesn't usually like that sort of thing, but otherwise, I just don't know. Fortunately, since it's in quart jars, it seems like there's less of it. Quart jars are just the most ridiculous thing ever for jam canners to have. Who needs a quart of jam? And then you make a whole batch and it only produces two jars. I hate that.

On the flip side, however, I made caramel apple jam and it is truly the best new recipe I've tried all year. ALL YEAR. For reals. I have tried more new recipes this year than I even want to think about, and this one, for sure, is just freaking outstanding. Maybe I'll make another batch today....

Nope. I am doing pies today. Just pies. 

Trying new things is very hard on my psyche, especially when I don't know if they'll be good or not and then they don't come out right. I hate screwing up.

I think I just need more coffee.

I'm pretty sure this month is just going to be all about the canning, whether I like it or not. Not that I don't love canning...it's great. It's just that I'm trying a new batch of recipes and some of them don't come out perfectly. Or else, they come out right and it's just not what I thought it'd be.

Pear butter, for instance. Mine never got all smushed together and completely smooth, but it was still awesome. Not worth the work, but still awesome. I can't decide if I want to just scrap the butter and go for jam. I found a recipe for caramel apple jam today, so we'll see. I may just do that and repeat it 500 times.

I have so many apples in my garage right now, plus a whole tree of my own to get started on, that I'm starting to panic. Yikes.

What the heck am I doing sitting here typing about it?

Maybe I should type about people who come to rehearsals with intestinal viruses (DON'T), or people who try to dress like they're in their 20s when in reality they're pushing 50 (DON'T), or even people who decide it's okay to have breath that smells like tuna fish and kitty litter mixed together, and then decide that it's okay to blow said breath in my face (QUADRUPLE DON'T).

But I won't. That would be petty and unkind. Which, of course, are two attributes that I could never, ever possess.

Ha ha ha. Lies.