The time has come for trying on recital dresses. I realize that my recital is less than three weeks away; however, if I start the process too soon, I end up gaining like 50 pounds and then whatever dress I bought doesn't fit.

For reals. It's like my body's way of telling me to wait.

So, anyway, last weekend we were out and I went to Dillard's and tried on some things, but it seemed like they really had an overload in the "Golden Girls on a cruise" section. Not that I object to dressing like Dorothy Zbornak (who is, after all, my hero), but I had a different sort of look in mind for this affair. In addition, all of the dresses that were available in my size that have sleeves were periwinkle blue, and that is just unacceptable. There are very few colors that make me look as sickly as periwinkle blue does.

Unsuccessful there. So I came home and looked on amazon.com, because there had been some dresses that I liked but just didn't like the color or they didn't have my size or what have you. I found one that I had tried one in the store that was just a smidge small, so I ordered it up a size and not in periwinkle blue, and then this other one.

I have no reason for why I ordered the other one. I just thought I ought to have two, for comparison. I really, truly expected to return it.

They were scheduled to arrive yesterday, by 8 p.m. They were delivered at 7:42 p.m. Way to wait until I've taken my bra off and gotten comfortable, Fed-Ex. Plus, I was so excited it was making me snack. I also blame Fed-Ex for any weight I may have gained during my evening.

They arrived in this little teeny bag that was covered in road dirt, so, gross, but when I took them out of the bag, I was really happy to see that they were clean and also reasonably un-wrinkly, which is kind of shocking.

I tried on the cheaper one that I'd tried on in the store in periwinkle. The grey was much better, but it still wasn't a love connection. It has...SHOULDER PADS. Yes, that's right. No matter how far away I run from those bad boys, they keep coming back. It gets a little more frightening every time. Plus, who doesn't want to look like a linebacker for those special social occasions?

Then, I tried on the purple dress. I was a little scared because it doesn't look like my style at all and it has a big sparkly brooch-type thing on the front. Plus, it cost $60.00 more than the other dress, so there you go. Yikes.

Yep. It looks pretty great. I purposely am not allowing anyone to take a picture because it will make me more nervous and I won't ever want to go out in public again. I'm not great with pictures of me.

At any rate, the trek is over, and I have a dress. Relatively easily and cheaply, too. I mean, it's not cheap, but gowns always cost like $200, so I feel like any amount less than that is a good deal.

Plus, it makes me look like I have a little bit of booty, which is good, considering it's flatter than a pancake back there.

Next step: Not singing like turd. Too bad Dorothy can't help me with that one. But she can help with cupcakes...

from pinterest.com

So my lovely Subaru is mine no more. It was starting to exhibit some of the difficulties that go with age, so we decided to let it go while it was still worth something and go for a newer car.

Yes, that's right, I now have a fancy new...well, not new but a low-mileage late-model...Honda!

I realize that doesn't sound very exciting, but this is what it looks like:

from motorstown.com

Yep. It's quite fancy and sporty looking...it doesn't look exactly like that one because it doesn't have tinted windows and it has a moonroof, but close.

Anyway, I have never had a fancy car. My husband has always had the fancy ones because I really like to have a dependable car. Something sensible. But when we knew it was time for a replacement, a Honda is not what we were looking at. Not at all, because around here, usually they've been owned by a twenty-year-old who rips his car to shreds before wrecking it and getting a new one.

I was looking at a used Nissan Juke. Not necessarily the same kind of car as this one, but it had good reviews and low miles and the price was right. But when we arrived at the place and they had this car, it was like angels were singing and there was a beam of light on the Honda.

Of course, it was also 9,000 degrees outside, so maybe I was just suffering from heatstroke, but you never can tell.

Anyway, the Nissan had a big old gash on one side (which, for some reason, wasn't shown in the pictures on the dealer's website...big shocker), so it was out of the running. They had some newer Subaru station wagons, but I thought it might be nice to try something a little bit smaller with better gas mileage.

And we fell in like. I think my husband fell in love, but I don't fall in love with cars like that. I still miss my Subaru. After all, we had a history together.

I do really, really like him, though. Yep, it's a him. Most definitely. When we get a new automobile, we always name it because that way they feel like we care, and that way they'll never leave us stranded (call it crazy, but we've never had a car break down on us). My husband's car is named Pat and our camper is named Atreyu.

Yeah. We're cool like that.

Anyway, this car just screamed his name to me (not unlike the scene in The NeverEnding Story where Bastian screams his Mother's name..it just happened quietly in my head). He is named after the suavest character I can remember from late 1980s/early 1990s TV: Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Well, just Jean-Luc.

from trekcor.com

Smooooooooooth.

So that's my new car. Jean-Luc.

I'm going to try writing a post at a normal hour, rather than the usual 5 a.m. The problem is that I have spent so much time today talking to people that obviously have nothing better to do than to keep me on the phone for five hours that my brain is turning into mush.

Not really mush. More like Jell-O. I hate Jell-O.

Anyway, I thought I'd let people know some of the things with which I can and cannot help them.

I can help you to schedule an appointment with a doctor that works in our office. I cannot help you to schedule an appointment with a doctor that does not work in our office; nor can I tell you why that particular doctor doesn't practice with us. I think that may just have to remain one of nature's unsolved mysteries.

I can help you to pay your bill or explain to you what your insurance company covered. I cannot remove all of the charges from your bill because you were at another doctor's office last month and had to have a hip replaced. I can totally sympathize with you and tell you I'm sorry you had to deal with that, but that's not really anything to do with our office. Sorry.

And, finally, I can tell you where our restroom is located. I will not, nor should I have to, in any circumstance, go in there with you and explain that your bodily fluids should go INSIDE the toilet, not on the floor or in the sink.

Thanks, people. Thanks a lot. 

There's a new lesson that I'm always learning. I mean, I keep learning it and forgetting it, and then re-learning it, but I'm putting it down on paper (virtual paper) this time to increase the odds of me remembering: There is always someone crazier than me.

Sometimes, I think I may be the craziest thing this side of the Mississippi (I just really wanted to have the word Mississippi in here so I could spell it, because they really spent a lot of time teaching us that word and then, unless we live there, we never use it). Then, I meet someone who blows my mind with his craziness (or her craziness...I think crazy is an equal-opportunity employer).

So, let me repeat: There is always someone crazier than me, and here are several reasons. Because there are more than one and I would hate to forget.

First, I do not own a tinfoil hat to keep the government and/or aliens from reading my brain waves. I am not saying that this method is ineffective, nor am I saying that the government and/or people on other planets don't want a sneak peek at what I've got going on up there. I just don't happen to be creative with the foil. It's too expensive and I like to save it for baking.

Also, I speak freely on my telephone. No one is trying to invade my mind through my phone, and I am positive the government does not want to tap my phone. I mean, they're welcome to, but I think they're going to get really bored, really quickly, because 99% of my phone calls involve my Mom telling me what she had for lunch.

Finally, I do not have any alien devices implanted anywhere on my body, nor do I have a tracking device which allows the government to follow my movements. Whichever alien is in charge of me is going to be constantly begging the other aliens to switch, because I don't do anything interesting enough to be observable. Except for this blog, which is readable by anybody anyway, so that kind of kills that. And if the government can't think of anything better to do with my tax dollars than to secretly implant a tracking device in some hidden part of my body (and if it really does go into a person's butt, I feel sorry for the guy who got that job, too) and then watch me go from home to work to home to work to home, that is very, very sad, and I can give them a bajillion ideas on how to spend my money in more fun ways. For instance, there is a really big pothole on the road leading uptown that I would like fixed. Do that, guys. I'm really very boring. 

So, yes, I need to remember that there are crazier folks than moi on the planet. There are also less crazy people with perfect hair who work out and don't sweat and only drink red wine for the health benefits and never freak out about anything and never, ever use the F word.

I am not one of them, either. Thank goodness.

It would be lovely if every day was a Friday. I would be so much happier then. You know, you wake up, think, "Just one more day!" and then go into work, knowing that the next morning you (probably) get to sleep in and maybe even lounge around in pajamas for an hour or so before you have to get to work on less worky stuff like cleaning and grocery shopping.

Which are still kind of work, but I like that kind of work so much better than the kind of work where I have to go into my office and deal with change. I really hate change.

And tonight, I believe we are having bacon cheeseburgers for dinner, so at least when I save up all of my calories and walk on the treadmill this morning, it'll be for something good. Or at least a small something good.

Did I mention that this is the second week in a row that I've gotten up at 4:50 in the a.m. to walk on my treadmill before work? I lost a whole half a pound last week.

A WHOLE HALF A POUND.

(In case you can't read my sarcasm, I'm informing you that, as of now, any weight loss in units of less than a pound when I've been trying pretty hard is ALWAYS going to be stated sarcastically with a little bit of anger and a whole lot of I'm-on-the-verge-of-throwing-in-the-towel-ness.)

At any rate, it's Friday, and I have a new shirt to wear to go into my office and deal with the mess. Ugh.

But it's Friday.

from www.wikipedia.org

Oh, and bacon.

Today is the best day ever. Or at least the best day this week. Why? IT'S JAM MAKING DAY!

I'm pretty excited about that. I don't usually make jam unless I get a ton of free fruit, or there's good fruit on sale at our grocery store, which has kind of been a produce wasteland so far this summer. I'm really particular about the way I want the fruit to look if I'm going to bother making jam at all. It just can't all be overripe, and I think our grocery store must be the last fruit drop off area in the state, because most of what we get is already ripe or even a little over by the time we buy it. So, good for freezing, not ideal for canning. For me, anyway.

My grandma had this whole thing about making sure to use ugly fruit and some underripe fruit to get the whole spectrum of flavor. I don't know if that part's true, but jam sure does set a lot better with some underripe fruit in there. And the ugly fruit is sometimes the nicest on the inside.

However, I was at the store yesterday, minding my own business, when BAM! I saw that plums were on sale AND that they were not all ripe AND that there were some ugly ones in there.

That's the jam trifecta. It's on now.

I'm only making one batch, for us, because there wasn't enough there to do two, but I'm sure there will be more jam-making this summer. I can feel it. I will also be making marmalade in the fall, when the stupid store gets some decent citrus fruit in because the pathetic excuses they've had for oranges have just been making my brain hurt lately. I haven't had good marmalade in a year or so, because I haven't made any.

And I only like my own, so there.

Just came to the realization that I wrote a whole page about jam and fruit selection. That is not sad at all. Really, it's not.

Maybe it is. But just a little. JAM JUST MAKES ME SO HAPPY I CAN HARDLY STAND IT AND I HAVE TO USE THE CAPS LOCK.

Do you ever feel like everybody had a meeting behind your back and decided on something without letting you know?

That's how I'm feeling right now. About soccer.

I'm not trying to say that I disapprove; in fact, I think it's healthy for the U.S. to develop new interests. Soccer is a very fun, healthy sport that people of all ages can play and watch, and I think it's a fine idea.

But when did it happen?

This whole World Cup thing is freaking me out a little. It's like one night, while I was asleep, the entire country tiptoed into a secret cave somewhere (obviously, it had to be a very big cave, so I'm voting for someplace like Carlsbad Caverns...plus, that makes it spookier), and decided that our country was going to like soccer this year.

I could've sworn that nobody cared before. This is weird.

I would like to say that next time everybody decides to like something, they should maybe let me know, so I can get in on the excitement, too. I don't dislike soccer, I just don't like watching it on TV all that much. The only sports I really like to watch on TV are football and tennis, and only tennis because of the noises and faces the players make. It's hilarious. I love baseball, but I really only like to watch it live, and basketball is really more fun to play than watch. At least, for me.

So, yeah, I feel left out, United States. I wouldn't have been opposed. I would've totally concurred with the decision to like soccer now. Totally.

But now you've hurt my feelings. You owe me a sandwich. Like this kind of sandwich, with peanut butter and bananas and bacon (I've never tried it before, but I feel like if it's good enough for Elvis, it's good enough for me).

from treataday.com

Well, it's opera season again. I love it so much, but only partially because of the actual operas. I love writing the articles about the operas, and I also love people-watching.

There, it's out in the open. I love watching other people walk around in their fancy outfits. Is that weird?

Probably. But it's also super fun.

The first opera I attended this season, my Dad got to sit with me up in the fancy seats, and we got to do a ton of watching while we waited to go in. We were not disappointed. There was a 50-something lady in a tube top with the worst sunburn I've ever seen, a lady in a full-on track suit that had high-water pants and a hot pink stripe all down the sides. There were also many fun hats, including a top hat and a derby-type hat, which was, indeed, worn at a suitably jaunty angle.

Very nice.

This past week, my husband was with me and we got to see the best Victorian-typey outfits ever, complete with bustles and teeny little hats. This was made even cooler by the raininess of the evening. I sure hope those costumes weren't a rental, because I'm pretty sure they got soaked.

Anyhow, I'm hoping to see something like this during the course of the summer, partly because I love Ursula and partly because, well, it would just be fun. Santa Fe, don't disappoint me.

Well, the final wad o' packing came out of my husband's leg last night. While I was happy for him, I couldn't help but be a little nervous, as neither of us has seen this sort of thing before and I didn't know what to expect.

Okay, I did know what to expect but I was freaked out that something strange and terrible would happen. Like, removing the packing would release some inner torrent of pus and we wouldn't be able to hold it back and it would be like a tsunami in our bathroom.

Needless to say, that did not happen.

It actually (apparently) looks great this morning. Now, I only know that secondhand, from him, but I'm pretty sure it's true because I can usually tell when he's lying about stuff. Also, he is aware that I will smack the crap out of him if he fibs about this.

I can tell I've been too worried for too long because, apparently, I was sleepwalking and talking last night, and that's always what I do when I'm trying to work stuff out in my head. I did not, however, move anything around or do anything ridiculous. I guess I just stood up and stared at the wall and told my husband I was looking for bandages.

So, yeah, pretty clear what that one's about.

At any rate, I'm feeling much happier and less worried now that the wound appears to be closing, and that is something to celebrate. 

Anyway, as it's quickly approaching, happy Fourth of July! I hope everybody out there gets the day off and gets to spend it in whatever way he or she desires. I will be spending it doing what I love best: Dusting and laundry.

I am so much cooler than I ever thought I'd be. Childhood me must be out there somewhere just jumping for joy at that last sentence.

It's only Tuesday, but I feel like I've put in enough work this week. I feel like maybe we should just shut this down and go to the beach or the forest or, heck, even the mall.

Let's all just do that, except none of you should go where I'm going. I need my alone time.

Also, I feel like getting dressed this morning is going to be an extreme sport, like skydiving or snowboarding, except with less adrenaline and more self-criticism. Maybe more whining, too, but since I've never actually participated in an extreme sport, I can't really say for sure.

At the very least, concentrating is going to be hard for me because today, for the very first time in THREE WEEKS, my husband has been cleared by his doctor to return to work! This means that he's going to be receiving my phone calls asking him how he's doing every fifteen minutes, and I don't think either one of us is going to have much time for anything else. Really.

In addition to my bad attitude, lack of anything to wear, and nervous excitement, I have also become fixated on a certain Danishy item that is in my fridge, which I cannot have, and I can't get away from it in my brain.

So how can I be expected to get anything done today?

I'm declaring a holiday. I'm allowed to do that, because I am a citizen of this country, and I have certain inalienable rights, one of which happens to be declaring personal holidays, at will, anytime I want. It's in the Constitution.

Go on, look for it.  I dare you. Don't you trust me? If you know your Constitution as well as I do, you will notice the part that grants me the right to freedom.


Freedom from annoying work tasks and having to wear pants.

That is my interpretation.

Deal.

And now be haunted by the Danish.

from burston.co.uk